Private Dark Harvest

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Theed Gardens
Interacting with: Fenn Stag
Items: x x x x x

The wisteria shifted softly, its lilac tassels bowing with each winter breeze. Sibylla stood beneath the vast vining canopy, wrapped in a hooded cloak lined with soft fur, feeling the chill needling at her slightly pink cheeks.

It was cold. Winter. She loved snow, but hated being cold. But there was a necessity in winter, just as much as there was in spring.

It was the cycle of life.

A soft hum fell from her lips as the Intrim Queen waited. It was an unorthodox meeting, yes. Perhaps even unwise. But curiosity had a way of prying her out from behind walls, and instinct insisted that this step needed taking. Not just to satisfy her own curiosity but as much as to determine what was Fenn's next step?

Her guards were stationed close enough to intervene but far enough to grant her what she required. Privacy. Autonomy. The space to let words fall without too many ears catching them. And while their previous conversation had been had in the midst of the chaos of a fashion show at a bar, the intimacy of the discussion, even while on high alert, did not fly far from Sibylla's thoughts.

So, what had caused Fenn Stag to betray his retainer? To what purpose? So many questions percolated in her mind and even then, one didn't know if they would all be answered.

But at least the door was open to the conversation.

 

[Fenn Stag]

He was constantly watched. He knew that.
​

The incumbent royalty of Naboo had asked- not summoned, to a more secluded area of Naboo. He knew what she wanted. A line of questioning. He’d come several days ago and received payment and thanks. Blood money for a betrayal of the highest order.

Not that Mauve was only betrayed by one person alone.

He was unarmored still, and had taken to wearing traditional Naboo clothing for their meeting. His hands were together as he approached, his boots crunching the compacted snow beneath his feet. He didn’t appear to be cold- an insulating layer underneath the clothing kept him toasty warm. A slight electrical current ran through a wire harness, warming him up slightly.

His eyes flicked to the guards, the threats. The corners, the shadows of where they were. He came to rest just out of arm’s reach of her. He looked down at her. They were not far apart in age, as he discovered. Just a few years at most.

She had much responsibility. Much more than he could fathom.

And he had much more weight, anger. Much more than she could fathom.

The Queen and the Killer.

He bowed, courtly manners now on his mind.

“Thank you for having me, your majesty.” He said, rising to a stand. He wasn’t unsure of the proper title- highness or majesty. He could not recall the difference. But he tried at the least.

And so he waited. He offered nothing else presently except silence. He wanted the silence to be his words at the outset- he had no idea what she wanted. He wanted her to tell him, and the silence gave her plenty of opportunity. It wasn’t tense, but as always-

It was unnerving.

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Theed Gardens
Interacting with: Fenn Stag
Items: x x x x x

Sibylla lifted her gaze at the sound of boots crunching through the snow, the wisteria above her swaying softly as if acknowledging Fenn's arrival. Her fingers stayed tucked inside her sleeves for warmth, though the posture made her look far more composed than she felt. The guards lingered at their discreet posts, but the moment still drew close around just the two of them, a private pocket carved out of winter.

He wore no armor again, reminding her of the galant attire he had worn at the fashion show, only this time, it was within the drape of traditional Naboo garb. Truth be told, out of the shadows and hololights of the fashion show, as soon as Fenn came to a stop before her, she could see it.

How young he was.

Perhaps, not much older than she. But even then, the stark angles of his face and the deep set of his eyes, those blue eyes, told her far more clearly of the depths and horrors he had walked through. For nothing could soften the tension coiled beneath his composure, for he carried it like a second spine, sharply set beneath the quiet.

"Good morning, Fenn," she began, the smile gentle on her lips even as she quietly let her concerned gaze drift over him. And while she was aware of his capabilities and the reason he was here to begin with, she honestly just wanted to check up on him. Something was different.

The smile brightened as he thanked her, and she gave a slight nod, "Of course, no trouble. I wanted to speak with you as well," she admitted, even as the silence filled the din afterward. Unnearving, yes, but not unexpected.

Sibylla could handle unnerving. She could handle truth. It was the unknown that truly affected her.

After a thoughtful beat, she ventured quietly, "Fenn, how are you doing? Are you alright?"

It was a genuine question out of concern for his well-being, because at the root of it, perhaps understanding him would illuminate the rest. Why had he turned on Mauve after praising her for giving him direction? Why would a man who claimed Miss du Vain had offered him purpose choose betrayal instead?

 

[Fenn Stag]

​

"You've asked me that many times. I still won't have a good answer for you."

He was not alright. He figured he never would be. But he stood there quietly, contemplating, his hawk-like eyes flicking to and fro before settling back on her. He angled his head upwards and to the right, just slightly. Inquisitive, cautious and full of doubts. He was unsure of her as she was of him. But she called him here, to speak, to exchange words, ideas, thoughts. But he really knew why she called him here. It was not to wax poetic about his sins and forgiveness. It was to ascertain why he did what he did to Mauve. Why he was a turncoat, a traitor to Mauve.

"You want to know why."

Immediately, his reaction was a slight twinge of anger. She was rich, influential, beautiful. He was poor, damned, and scarred. Was she asking for altruistic reasons? The Republic had already paid him quite a sum- he figured, in most circles, that was thanks enough. Not even the King of Naboo wanted to ask why. So why did she? Immediately his thoughts fled to selfish reasons on her end- using Fenn as a tool, a weapon. Bringing him here to secure her position through force and violence. The thing he was good at. What he was born to do, trained to do, and made to do, and kept doing.

That thought crossed his mind quickly, and in a hurry.

But then, a sad realization hit him:

Maybe she did care. Maybe she was one of the few nice people that he'd met in the galaxy that cared about his well-being. And maybe she just wanted to know. But it was unfair of him to assume. But on the safe side, on the side of caution- he assumed she was more looking at him like a freak, a monster, a leashed animal.

His eyes twinged, twitching. Control.

He was in control.

​

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Theed Gardens
Interacting with: Fenn Stag
Items: x x x x x

Sibylla listened as Fenn spoke, her breath holding for a quiet moment for when he said she had asked him many times and still would still not get a good answer. The words landed with a muted weight in that familiar that tugged at something inside her. She understood that kind of admission. The kind that wasn't refusal so much as a wound still too raw to name.

And when he cut to stating plainly that, you want to know why, Sibylla felt that truth ripple between them, catching the edge of anger in his tone. But she didn't step back. She didn't flinch. She let him feel the space as his own.

Instead, there was thoughtfulness in her gaze, but no judgment. Only a patient kind of understanding.

"It need not be a good answer, nor a perfect one," she murmured. "Only an honest one...and if you find you are uncertain how you feel at all… well, that too is an answer. I have had days much the same."

Sibylla let her gaze drift to the garden beside them, to the winter-worn trees and the wisteria shifting in the cold breeze. She let the stillness settle before returning her attention fully to his face. She took in the slight lift of his head, the set of his stance, the twitch at the corner of his eye, the tension that threaded through that spoke of both vigilance and doubt. There was no doubt about it, Fenn was studying her as much as he was bracing himself.

"I will confess that I do wish to understand why," she said softly, her tone a more gentle inquiry than demand. "Yet even that is of less importance than knowing whether you are truly alright… or whether you are in need of help."

It was his underlying behavior that called to her, not the one that bled, that he was a danger, no, although she certainly felt that tension as one who would be standing next to a Tusk Cat, fully aware it could attack any moment, as much as be unbothered.

But the one that reminded her of those she'd seen assisting military and refugee medical tents. The kind that spoke of an injury that ran deeper. She'd sensed it in how he spoke and what he told her back on Nar Shaddaa, and that in feeling lost he had found some sort of home by serving Mauve. Acceptance. Purpose.

Sibylla had seen her fair share of traitors and disloyal attendants or Senators who'd acted in ways that would be for their own profit and gain. No different than some ambitious nobility as well within the Great Houses.

But Fenn seemed different.

"Whatever the circumstances, you are in control in this moment. I am simply asking whether you wish to share what happened. On your terms."

 

[Fenn Stag]

Stand Unshaken
Sibylla Abrantes
​

Another long, deep breath in through his nose. Something she said angered him, or perhaps stirred something unpleasant in him. She did not know how she felt, nor could her days spent withering in her palaces, never cold, never tired, never hungry. Her worst day was politics. His worst day was death and destruction unfathomable to her.

He let the stillness grow, the only movement the flowing of his cloak- fine material, his bounty money well spent in the shops around Naboo. Wealth did not suit him, it fit him physically but his very presence betrayed the fine linens. Nothing about him was noble, posh, put together. However good he looked, neatly combed his hair, styled in the manner of the nobles and wealthy elite- he simply did not belong in that life. So that's why her words, perhaps etched at him. Jealousy of a life spent in comfort, wealth, ease.

He struggled every day he was alive.

"What is wrong with me, you cannot fix."

He had no idea how right he was. In his mind- there was no chemical solution to a spiritual problem. He did not understand his own affliction. Thus far, no one had. He took one step towards her, fast, sharp. Not threateningly fast, not how he'd move towards an enemy, a victim. No, just a step. But he moved fast, always. He closed the distance between them, in that single step to better speak.

"You haven't met anyone like me, have you, Sibylla? From the darker corners of the galaxy, the uglier truths of it." He turned his head slightly.

"Or perhaps a Mandalorian who wasn't waxing poetic and prancing about titles, singing songs and making merry with the enemy." A sharp exhale from his nose. A scoff, if anything. The idea that the Mandalorians she was used to were of the same caliber he was trained by and fought with seemed evident. Fenn was not often an elitist, but there was little doubt in his mind and through his posture that the Enclave and Protectors were vastly better to what was offered to his people as of late, Empire or not.

"Or a killer."

He let that last word linger in the air, the debt he incurred from his violence to his soul settling into the air. "You will have your answers to what you wish to know. Who am I to deny royalty?" A slight curve of his lip. A cruel joke- perhaps a jest aimed at her, or the idea of royalty itself. Fenn had an odd sense of humor, and usually it seemed to be at the expense of others, or musings that were darker in taste.

"Before I begin, why do you think I did it?"

His voice was softer then. Curious. Less callous. Less accusative. Softer than he had been with anyone before.

​

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Fenn Stag

Sibylla did not answer Fenn at once. She let his words settle, let the weight of them press against her ribs as she steadied her breathing. When he stepped closer, her heart leapt despite herself, a flutter rising to her throat before she could still it. She drew in a slow breath, allowing her shoulders to ease, willing calm back into place even as awareness prickled along her skin -- but she did not step away.

"No. I have not met anyone like you," she began quietly, eyes lifting to meet his, "But that lack of knowledge doesn't imply that we cannot have a conversation."

She took another breath and then let it out quietly, as she understood what he meant by emphasizing her interm royal status.

"I think," she continued with that quiet conversational tone, "that perhaps it may be because you were shaped by a life that never allowed for easy choices."

And while her tawny gaze did now waver, her voice did soften.

"I think when the world narrows to its ugliest truths, one does what one must in order to endure." A small pause, thoughtful rather than accusatory. "And perhaps, in that moment, betrayal felt less like a choice… and more like an inevitability."

She drew another breath, the winter air cool against her lungs.

"But that is only my understanding and that is shaped by listening, not by living what you have lived," she added gently. "I do not wish to decide your reasons for you."

Tawny eyes met Fenn's directly but not in challenge, but in genuine concern.

"I would rather hear them from you, Fenn, in your own words."

 

[Fenn Stag]

A life rebuilding a past he never knew
Sibylla Abrantes
​

“Conversations.” He said, letting the idea of that word linger in the air. “Satiating curiosity, gaining insight, or are you trying to see if I won’t come after you in the middle of the night?” He turned his head. “Mandalorian conversations are simple. Or they were, at one point. They were not long-winded. I care little for those who speak too long. It irritates me.” He said, glancing around the garden again.

“I’m a clone, which, you may already know. A clone of Preliat Mantis . Perfected. Made whole by the work of the best scientists in the galaxy. Tell me, my lady, what was it like to have a mother? A father? A brother? A home? Your own room?” He said, turning his head to the snow-glistened garden. He seemed sad for a moment, especially due to the fact there were no flowers for him to enjoy.

“My choices were rarely my own. Looking back, I might not have never picked up the title of Mandalorian if I knew where it would lead me.” He looked down at his hand, his remaining organic one at that.

“The Black Sun gave me refuge. I was cast aside and unwanted. The Protectors and the Enclave faltered. Fell apart at the seams. The Crusaders the same. The Empire came but- without boring you of the politics and semantics, I too, am unwelcome and unwanted. And mostly due to my own volition.” He turned his head.

“So where to go, when your people are scattered to the winds? Gone! Your reason for being, a soldier to be of the Republic- gone?” Another moment of silence. He gave her time to process his words and thoughts. He seemed to know that she was introspective and formulating things in her mind, and his brief pauses were intentional and somewhat a courtesy.

“You look. You search and search until-“ A finger went up.

“Someone, or something, takes you in. But as I went on, the Black Sun did not care about me. And my soul, damned as it is, can only stomach so much wickedness. But as I realized they didn’t care about me, I realized what they cared about.”

“Only what I could do.”

​

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Interacting with: Fenn Stag

Sibylla listened without interrupting, each word settling into place. When he spoke of suspicion and irritation, she did not bristle. When he spoke of being made rather than born, of never knowing home or belonging, something in her expression softened.

She drew a slow breath.

"I do not ask questions to measure whether you are a threat," she said gently. "If I feared you, I would not be standing here. Curiosity brought me, yes… but so did concern."

SIbylla let her eyes follow his to the garden.

"I cannot pretend to understand what it is to be created rather than raised," she continued quietly. "And while I know what it is to have a family... every family is different. While I did feel the warmth of their encouragement and affection, I also know what it is to feel trapped by the expectations that come with that gift...both truths can exist at once."

She turned toward him fully then, her expression softening with concern.

"To be taken in only for what you can do," she said softly, "and not for who you are… that hollows a person...it teaches them that worth is conditional. Temporary."

Sibylla thought to herself of the many years where she believed she had to play the perfect daughter because that was what was expected of her, and how in the end she came to doubt if the very things that she enjoyed doing were of her own volition or if they were merely because she was trying to please someone else.

In no way was this anything similar to what Fenn had lived through, and Sibylla wasn't going to compare that to his life at all. However, something he said struck at her.

"But I hear something else in what you are telling me," Sibylla added. "You left because there was still a line you would not cross, because even after everything, there were things you could not stomach becoming."

The fact he was able to be cognizant of it made her respect Fenn for it. There was no judgement in her tone. No damnation. Just honesty.

"That tells me your soul is not damned, Fenn. Only wounded... and exhausted."

She took a breath and then added as she looked up at him.

"And there are places a wounded and exhausted soul can still find refuge in. To heal."

 

[Fenn Stag]

NEVER LEFT ALIVE



​

"My soul."

The word seemed to cause a revulsion in Fenn, as if recognizing a deeper state of his stressors, his vices, his corruption. Knowing and unknowing. He ran his fingertips together, from his remaining human arm. His body was built by years of training and perfected cloning- each muscle fiber intact, strengthened. As much of a marvel of engineering and development of fitness regimens and training as he was genetically. He squeezed his fist eventually, after a moment, either gathering the strength to speak, or the will, or perhaps thinking of what to say.

"Stained and beyond redeeming."

He cleared the hair from his face- what normally was framed by hair and dark warpaint, was a stern face that had rarely smiled. He let his hair fall back above his ears, but kept it out of his face, to give the Queen a better view of the man she was speaking with.

"Of all the things I've done, do you believe there is refuge? Where am I supposed to go to hide from myself?" He looked over at her. Another breath through his nose, composing himself.

"The transfer of life for profit was my final straw. Most have a cursory view, a fleeting hatred of the idea of slavery. But I think I, and many men like me, have a different view. Born into it, I was made for someone else's purpose. I cannot fathom the cruelty that is required to keep a life for the money they will bring." There was a pause. Then, venom in the air. Clearly, his mood soured. And his eyes flicked over to her.

"Much like a Republic creating a clone army to wage it's wars. Expendable lives." There it was. That dagger- that knife that hung above them, finally crashing between them. It was obvious that Fenn did not personally blame her for it- she was after all, not one of the ones pressing the button or approving the funding. But still, his hatred of it was apparent and needed to be said. For what it was worth, in Fenn's view of things-

Even the Sith and Empires did not use clones to fill the ranks of their armies.

"And your friend- Mauve. And her Sith tryst, that harlot- chief among them of the guilty. Can you imagine, my guilt, my shame. Serving directly to those that would trade your life away for profit. No, I think it was a matter of time before I was cast aside. Criminals have no loyalty. My services could be sold, rented, or worse, I'd be part of a plot. And after the kidnapping of the Chancellor, there was no way that I, despite my many flaws, could remain. Sooner or later, Mauve's position would be tenuous more than it was before, and they'd turn on her. And ultimately, me."

He deeply inhaled again. He pulled the fine cloak he was wearing over himself, covering his prosthetic arm. Hiding it. Even he knew how it made people feel.

"So. I used the many channels you types of people have to ask for help. But instead- I offered help. And soon enough, Commandos and bravery came descending on the Black Sun. In the coming hours, I've no doubt a substantial bounty will be placed on me for my betrayal."

There was a quiet reservation about him, as if he was resolved in the notion that he was going to be hunted for a while. Just an annoyance, something that came with the life he led, not so much something to be concerned or worried about.

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Fenn Stag

Sibylla was quiet for a long moment after he spoke. The garden seemed to hold its breath with her, wisteria stilled by winter, snow muted beneath their feet. His revulsion at the word soul lingered with her, the way his hand curled as if trying to contain something that refused to be shaped or soothed.

She did not look away when he bared himself like that. When he spoke of stain and irredeemability, of hiding from himself, her expression did not harden. If anything, it softened further, grief and understanding threading together.

"I do not believe a soul can be ruined beyond refuge," she said at last, quietly. "I believe it can be buried beneath guilt, pain, and necessity until it forgets what it once was.... but forgetting is not the same as being lost."

When he spoke of slavery, of being born into a purpose that was never his own, her breath caught. Not in offense, but in recognition of the weight of what he carried. His words about the Republic, about clones, landed heavily, and she did not deflect them; she did not deny the truth of his anger, nor the cruelty of systems built on expendable lives.

"You are right to hate it," she said softly. "To refuse it. That refusal matters. It always has."

At the mention of Mauve, of Black Sun and profit drawn from suffering, Sibylla's jaw set, not in judgment of him, but in sorrow for the position he had been forced into. The inevitability he described rang painfully true. Criminal loyalty was a mirage. He had seen the turn coming long before it arrived.

When he spoke of offering help instead of begging for it, of knowing the bounty that would follow, she studied him anew. Not a monster. Not a weapon. A man who had chosen consequence over complicity, fully aware of the cost.

"That choice," she said quietly, "does not belong to someone without conscience."

She took a small breath, steadying herself before continuing.

"You asked where one goes to hide from oneself. I do not think hiding is the answer. I think what you are searching for is a place where you are not only what you have done."

Those hazel eyes looked up at him with an unguarded earnestness.

"Have you ever considered going to the Jedi Temple?" she asked gently. "I do not claim to understand all that they are or all that they know. But perhaps they may be able to help you in ways others have not....from my experience, they would not offer judgment, only guidance and maybe healing if you wished it."

 

[Fenn Stag]

What was I to do?


​

The mere mention of the word Jedi caused Fenn to noticeably shift. Perhaps not anger, perhaps fear more so. Fear and a harsh memory associated with the word. His prosthetic arm- that beskar and durasteel engineering marvel, twitched. Or perhaps he did simply remembering how he came by it.

"Millions."

He said, resolving to sit on a nearby bench. Or perhaps he was driven to take a rest. Just sit down. It'd been quite some time since Fenn just... sat down.

"Over time immemorial, since the Mandalorians bothered to write down their names and deeds- the Jedi have been our foe. Millions of us dead, untold killed by us in our wars with the Jedi. But, perhaps you're right. They're well known for their... kindness, at least."

He looked down at his hands, unfurling his mechanical hand a few times, moving individual fingers.

"You're both unusually beautiful and unusually kind. Why?"

He said it with the authenticity of a man who did not know why someone would be kind to him. He had never known kindness. He had never known anything but the harsh life he was given. Never loved, never been given a kind word or kind hand without subterfuge he was all-too aware of. In another life, Fenn might've married and been a happy man. Kids. Wife. Not knowing war. Escaping the clone hellscape. He was thoughtful and handsome, tall and broad of shoulder. A 'catch', in some eyes.

But-

his own demons, choices, and the ever-evolving cruelty he was subjected to, born into, and made into. made him what he was. A weapon, an instrument of war. More of a rifle than a man. And the brief glimpses of belonging, happiness, through the Enclave, Protectors, and others... destroyed. By war, by time, by absence, violence, betrayal. Fenn had never known peace, never known long-standing family or belonging. Constantly on the move and constantly, in some cases, on the run, it was no wonder that not a short time ago, he was about to put a gun in his mouth.

And here was now, at yet another crossroad. But this time it felt different- he made his own choice. It wasn't made for him.

"I will always be what I've done."

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Fenn Stag

"I cannot pretend to understand what that must have felt like," Sibylla replied in a quiet and soft tone, her eyes cast out towards the garden as a soft winter gust sent leaves and soft flurries over the hedges and cobblestones. "Nor what it means to inherit a history written in blood and loss on that scale. I would not insult you by claiming that I do."

"But I do know something of feuds," Sibylla continued. "Of histories so old that the reason they began has long since faded, leaving only the instruction to hate. I have seen Houses pass that bitterness from one generation to the next, until it becomes habit rather than conviction."

Her gaze drifted briefly to the garden, bare branches etched against the pale sky.

"I was taught who was beyond saving. Who was an enemy simply because they always had been or how they appeared to be...and there came a moment when I realized I could either carry that forward… or stop with myself."

She turned to look at him with a quiet but certain determination over her heartshaped face.

"I chose to stop."

A pause and then another soft breath.

"What followed surprised me. In choosing to look beyond reputation, rumor, and physical impressions, beyond what generations before me insisted was a lost cause, I found something else entirely. Understanding what truly lies underneath the flaws and merits. Who they really were at their core, and eventually, recognizing them for who they were, that led to a friendship."

She inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the difference without diminishing it. This was the reason why Sibylla was able to talk to Fenn, to have a conversation with him, and not judge him on the onset by how he may present himself or by his past, but because she tries her best to understand and come to know the person first and foremost. It was the same approach she used with all she met: from Lysander, Dominique, Acier, Aurelian, Aether, Corazona, Adelle, Bastila, and Aiden.

She did her best to allow that, and their actions after meeting them define her opinion of them. Their intent. Their purpose. What truly drove them.

"It is not the same as what you and your brothers have endured. I would never claim it is. But the truth beneath it is similar. At some point, the choice becomes yours. Whether the cycle continues, or whether it ends with you."

She recalled how he spoke of always being what he had done; she did not rush to contradict him but instead offered her version of clarity.

"So yes..." Sibylla said quietly. "...we are shaped by what we have done, the past can never be undone."

However, her voice gentled and she followed up with, "...but what we have done also teaches us how to act when we are given the chance to choose again -- it informs the next step, not the final one."

She met his eyes.

"You are standing at a crossroads because this time, the decision is yours. Not a mandate. Not a leash. Not an expectation pressed into you by someone else's purpose."

Shoulders rose as she took another breath, letting it settle as she gave an incline of her head as she came to her own understanding.

"It took me longer than I care to admit to realize that for myself. Duty and responsibility did not vanish when I did, but once I understood that the choices were mine, truly mine, they carried a different weight."

And while Sibylla's expression softened, her words were no less poignant.

"You will always carry what you have done, Fenn..but you are not required to let it decide who you become next."

 

[Fenn Stag]

Brewing Storm
​

The cycle ends with you.

LIAR, kILLER, MURDERER
NOMERCYFORTHEGUILTY
MERCYTOTHEGUILTYISCRUELTY TO THE INNOCENT
GUILTY ALL THE SAME
CROWN THYSELF WITH THE SINS AND SIT UPON YOUR THRONE OF BONE
​

Her eyes meeting his, a thousand bolts of lightning at once, a flash of light across darkness that had never known the sting of sunlight!

He was quiet for a while, after she spoke. He seemed to be taking it all in. And then, instead of waxing poetic, a deflective statement, or any other usual course of action, guilt and shame finally broken in Fenn. Flooded with memories, pain, rage and the poison in his veins and in his soul-

He fell to the nearby bench, hyperventilating and crying. The thing that broken Fenn was not war. It was not amputation, rage, loss. It was not the thousands of brothers and sisters that he'd seen come and go. It was not the people he'd killed. It was not the violence he did, the betrayal, the poverty he suffered.

It was kindness. Kindness was the thing that finally broke him. He began to cry. One of the angriest, most violent men in the galaxy, fell apart.

He leaned at the waist, cradling his head with both of his hands. Fingertips dug deep into his skull. He finally let it out. Years. Months. Weeks. He let it out, before composing himself. He looked up at the sky, then finally up to her. There it was- the reality that Fenn was still a young man, who'd done too much, seen too much, and suffered too much. His eyes met hers.

"I don't know what to do now. I used to always know. Now..."

He stammered, taking a deep breath.

"I've done things that would make you sick." He pointed his index finger at his head. "My thoughts, not my own, but the ones that are mine- they wreak havoc, hate, wage war. I am no better than the men I fight against, the people I've served. Every vile thing they've done, I've done. Every temptation, I've given into. What do you do with that?"

Another moment, before he broke into tears again. He grit his teeth, sucking in cold air to his lungs.

"What have I done?"

​

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Fenn Stag

Sibylla froze for the briefest instant when Fenn broke, not from fear, but from the fragile knowledge that this moment could not be mishandled. This was not something to be fixed, corrected, or comforted with words too quickly spoken.

When he collapsed onto the bench, breath shattering and shoulders folding inward on themselves, she felt it like a pull in her own chest. The sound of his crying cut through the winter quiet more sharply than any raised voice ever could.

She did not rush him.

Instead, Sibylla slowly, deliberately, and carefully lifted her hand. She gave him time to see it coming, enough time to pull away if he wished. Then, with care, one bordered with the avid awareness of the powerful soldier Fenn was, she attempted to rest her palm against his shoulder. Not to restrain or to soothe, but to simply be present.

A quiet anchor in that turbulent storm.

She stayed like that while he wept. She knew that storm. The one where everything collided at once. Shame, memory, grief, fury, exhaustion. Her own had found its release in ivory keys and quiet rooms, in sobs swallowed by music and walls that would not judge her for falling apart.

She stood by him as he fall apart.

When he finally spoke again with his raw and fractured voice, she listened. Every word. Every confession. Every fear.

"I cannot tell you what to do with what you have done," Sibylla said gently. "And I will not offer absolution that is not mine to give."

Her hand remained where it was as a constant reassurance that she had not gone anywhere.

"But I can tell you this," she continued. "Everyone fights thoughts that frighten them. Thoughts that whisper disgrace, destruction, surrender. The difference is not in having them but in what one can do with them moving forward."

She drew in a slow breath, trying to calm her own racing heartbeat as much as his.

"I know people at the Jedi Temple who have helped me when my own thoughts became too loud, and while there is no guarantee, perhaps learning to understand those voices first, to untangle them, is a path to begin with. Not an ending.... just a first step."

Those hazel eyes settled upon this when Fenn looked at her again, eyes bright and red-rimmed with tears of one completely wrecked and lost.

"You do not have to decide anything beyond that today," she said softly. "And if you like, let them help you take that step. And then… if you are open to it, we can have another conversation."

She let that settle for a bit as a soft gust swept over the garden.

"After that, perhaps we can find a place where you are not merely surviving or being used, but where you can choose what it means to make a difference. By your standards, nor anyone else's."

And there, as she gave him the softest of encouraging smiles, her heart-shaped face expressing a genuine look of trying to, at the very least, assist in her own way.

"What you have done matters, but so does what you choose next."

 

[Fenn Stag]

A SLAVE TO THE WAR IN HIMSELF
​

Eyes shifted, clenched shut.

BITE

BITE

RIp

TEAR
BITE
BITE​

That old familiar STING


The air was cold, like breathing in razors.

The snow crunched underneath his feet as he shifted, coiling into himself as much as he could in the seated position he was in. He drew his arms to his chest, for comfort rather than warmth. Fenn had wrought destruction across the galaxy- defeated every foe, from Jedi Masters to Sith Lords. He'd slain kin, wrought havoc, stolen- every sin one could commit against man from violence, Fenn had done.

And despite all that, he had nothing to show for it. No trophy, no palace, no riches- just himself, a handful of memories, and dead friends and foes alike. So when Sibylla spoke of purpose, life, his own choices, it was not just foreign to him, it was alien. The idea alone- frightening to him. He was without equal in combat and in warfare thus far. Save for a strike from Master Noble- but even then, a one-armed Fenn still held his own against two Jedi. He had challenged, met and defeated foes in a Kaggath with no help.

He survived.

He lived.

And somewhere in that hellscape that he called a life, he stopped living. And he just kept on. No stopping. No grieving. No direction. Just the next thing. It finally broke him. It finally cracked the armor, figuratively and literally.

When she touched him, he flinched, recoiling at the very moment her fingertips touched him. No soft hand, no guiding hand, no outstretched hand of hope had touched Fenn. No companionship, no friendship, no lover. If there was ever a man made into a weapon, ever used against the enemies, it was Fenn. He was silent for a long while, the companionship she offered foreign. He drank it in, the presence of a warm, caring hand.

"I cannot sleep. Even in the darkest rooms, the quietest places. Pills, drink." His face twitched, just one side of it. Grimacing, sneering. Like someone else was talking, but no words uttered.

And what will she say?
BITE
BITE
RIP
TEAR
​

"He's always there. Waiting for me. I have to fight, every moment, of every day. Years, months. In my sleep, in my waking nightmares."

AND ONE DAY YOU'LL LOSE.
​

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Fenn Stag

Sibylla felt Fenn flinch the instant her fingers touched him, the way he recoiled echoing through her chest with the faintest of wonderings if she had done the right thing. But by then, Sibylla was committed, choosing to linger to provide that measure of support. And while she did not withdraw her hand, she did still it, easing the pressure until it was little more than the presence of her acknowledgement and support.

When Fenn spoke again, Sibylla found that her attention narrowed not just to his words, but to the way his body shifted. In the way his shoulders coiled inward, as if something unseen seemed to pull at him from just beneath the surface. And then the way he said it, he's always there, carried not as a metaphor but with a heavy, ominous weight.

SIbylla could feel her heart start to race, but she drew in a careful breath, reminding herself that her body, her response, was still her own. So she reached for that training that taught her how to listen without alarming, how to ask without prying, how to show she was open to conversation, and how to relay whatever Fenn was revealing mattered deeply. Whether it was memory or something more literal, she could not yet tell.

She hesitated for a few heartbeats, uncertain not because of the situation, but because she wasn't a healer and wouldn't pretend she had the right words for something like this.

And yet, she was not untouched by such experiences. She carried a fragment of the Goddess Vere within her, a presence that followed her into sleep and pulled her into unfamiliar worlds and moments she had never lived. Through it came emotions that were not hers by origin but felt deeply personal, grief and sorrow tied to Vere's separation from Set, settling in her chest with an ache she had learned to recognize.

It had been why she had approached Lady Corazona von Ascania for help and assistance on the matter of dreamwalking.

"...When you say he," she continued, carefully, "do you mean a memory… a part of yourself… or something that feels separate from you?"

Hazel eyes lifted to his as they observed and searched without pressure.

"You need not explain everything," she added softly. "Only as much as you are able. I wish merely to understand what it is you are contending with."

 

[Fenn Stag]

UNANSWERED, ABANDONED


"Evil, beyond your understanding. Beyond mine."

​

His eyes clenched again. He was in control. He was always in control.

"Fingers on my spine. Hands, splayed out, like spiderwebs, in my skull, my mind." He said, the imagery at the forefront of his mind. It was difficult to articulate- the hunger, the biting, the dance for power. The struggle, each and every day- every waking moment, in fact. He had no rest. He had no respite. He was never at peace. He was never at ease. Even her mention of her deity fell on deaf ears.

"The Dark Harvest, my lady." He said, gaining his composure. He was silent again, before speaking. Not quiet, not contemplative, silent. "It poisoned me, and from my blood, a vaccine was made. But-" He ran his hands along his knees, and despite the bitter cold and icy wind, he was heating up. Warm to the touch.

"Something remained. Something lingered. And it wants out. It wants to bite, to feed, to control."

He pinched his tired eyes.

"It's not me. It is, and it isn't. I can't explain it. A curse. A demon. I have no idea."

Sibylla Abrantes

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Fenn Stag

As Fenn continued to explain, Sibylla felt that sense of anxiety grow within her chest, trying to keep her thoughts carefully ordered even as unease curled beneath them. There was fear in what he described, yes, but more than that there was confusion. Fenn was a man trying to name something that did not wish to be named or perhaps had no actual way to name what it was.

And while Sibylla could not claim or presume to know every affliction that haunted the galaxy or the forms they took within those who carried them, it was evident that Fenn was truly tormented by whatever was afflicting him. There was no mistaking the strain etched into every line of his posture.

A vaccine made from him, but the vaccine did not help him as Subject Zero?

There was a vague recollection of what the Dark Harvest was from Sibylla's days in the academy and covering history since the Gulag Plague, but just to be sure, and as much as the sense of dread increased, Sibylla asked anyway.

"When you speak of the Dark Harvest.... and the vaccine they made from you," Sibylla asked gently, "was it an experiment? A ritual? Something done to you… or something you were made to take into yourself?"

Because it truly seemed whatever It was, it was the one giving all sorts of impulses to Fenn.

Knowing more about how Fenn came about with it may help pinpoint a direction to look towards for assistance.

 

[Fenn Stag]

FEEL THE WEIGHT OF THE SIN


​

He took another moment, to compose himself. The composure came back quickly, another deep breath. The killer in him, the professional, the soldier, the Super Commando, all that training, experience- took hold. Steadied him.

"Sith poison- part ritual, part virus. Turned people into monsters. It was... unlike anything I've seen. But from me, they were able to develop a vaccine. But me?" A single finger tapped his head.

"Something lingered. Remained." He circled his fingertip on his temple, thinking how to explain it. "Fevers. Dreams. Hallucinations. But voices. Used to be many, now it is... just one. Maybe two." He looked up, seeing movement beyond the bush. A face. His. It disappeared as quickly as it came. But concerned. Older. Bulkier, armored.

He was dead. Long dead.

That was the comfort he sought in whenever he came around.

"I know I am insane. I wasn't always like this."

Sibylla Abrantes