Private Dead Memories

[Fenn Stag]

Naboo, Spaceport
Local Time 1412 Hours
Overcast, Light Rain


​

A lot of things bothered Fenn, but none so much as blissful silence. Not the silence before a battle, not the silence in searching for a hunt, not the silence of unanswered questions in a tense conversation. Not the silence in his mind he so desperately held onto when it was there- no, blissful, silence brought about by peace and tranquility bothered him so. Mostly due to the fact that it was there that his mind wandered, returned to dark places and tried to make sense of the fractured state of it. And moreoften than not, the voices, the horrors and the misery came back. The loneliness, the bitterness. As if seeing happy things alone would drive Fenn mad. The very idea of happiness and peace was a foreign concept, an alien notion to the man. It was not something he could comprehend. He had been at war his entire life, and more accurately, before he was even alive. Thousands of clone brethren of his, tossed into the maelstrom of war. The only difference between him and them, however, was the lucky aspect to not be damned with advanced aging. By now, he assumed, most of the clones from the first generation of the Republic's war machine were nearing their elderly ages- if not already.

Yet, he remained a young man, a perfect clone, a template for an army to stand for decades. He was one of the few unaltered when the Republic fell to itself, and as far as he knew, either the last, or next to it.

So, Fenn had been at war with the galaxy since he first walked out of the growing vats. A motherless, fatherless weapon of war turned loose. Cold and hungry, he stole, fought for meager scraps to eat until he was taken as a foundling. If not for the passing of a Mandalorian patrol, Fenn would've suffered a fate like most orphans and forgotten children of wars:

Starvation and being forgotten.

That fact was not lost on him, his thankfulness in his attempts to do better, to make something of himself. But with the galaxy's cruel march, each iteration of things he tried to make sense of, taken away. Protectors, the Enclave, friends, family. All dead, scattered to the wind. And so he made himself useful if he could not find a purpose. Which, the Black Sun made great use of his skills-

Which, brought him to Naboo. Even in the fledgling Republic, machinations of grandeur were met with reality. One such reality was a nobleman who had collected more gambling debts than he should've and fled to the world, thinking that the Black Sun would not dare set foot there to collect. Which, was partially true- for a number of weeks. Until Fenn came knocking. He was without armor, without weaponry. And yet, he made short work of the security staff and the nobleman's attempts to avoid paying the debt. Quite literally shaking it out of him. A number of family jewels, a heap of credits, and an ancient Jedi text describing lightsaber combat. The last was for Fenn's edification and study more than an interest to the Black Sun.

After all, the greatest foe of his people was the Jedi. The galaxy's finest warriors meeting head-on. He relished his opportunities to fight them, to cross blades with the Force-chosen warrior-monks. Every opportunity was a gift, and each opportunity to learn about his enemy, was something to behold. The book, the credits, the jewelry all sat in an unassuming bag next to him. Why next to him? Fenn was not welcome on this planet, much like he was not welcome in a great many places. But a false passport here, a fake identification, an identity of another. Fenn Broker, engineering specialist and hunting tour enthusiast. A good cover story for his appearance, and his grit, along with the mechanical arm. Close inspection by those in the know would mark it as Beskar- but you had to know what you were looking for.

He didn't wear his armor, opting to wear clothing typical of many spacers. He was incognito, he was silent and he was....

Stuck in a spaceport terminal, waiting for the shuttle to take him off-world to the nearest spaceport to pickup his ship that he left there. He took a deep breath, checking the timepiece on his wrist. Thirty-seven minutes until the shuttle arrived. Thirty-seven minutes of blending in, pretending to not hate the serenity and the beautiful landscape beyond the panes of large glass, pretending to not be bored out of his mind, and pretending not to be paranoid that someone was watching him, or worse, going to recognize him. He was not alone, the spaceport for a large tourism planet awash with people. Grand Army troopers strolled past, onto new assignments, merchants, traders, hunters, tourists, political aides and the like.

And not one batted an eye at him, much less even noticed him. In a way, he was thankful.

In another way....

Aiden Porte

 

[Aiden Porte]

Fenn Stag​

Aiden Porte had not intended to linger in the spaceport. A supply ship was just sent to Ukatis. Aiden oversaw the departure and afterwards he chose to pass the time standing near one of the tall windows, watching droplets race each other down the transparent steel. Naboo's overcast sky usually soothed him. Today, it only sharpened his senses.

Because something, someone, cut sharply against the gentle hum of the Force.

It wasn't the churn of fear from tourists, nor the distracted currents of travelers thinking about schedules. It was a tension wound, tight and singular, a harsh edge threaded with old violence and restless vigilance. A presence that did not belong to Naboo's calm.

Aiden's breath stilled.

He remembered that signature. Not precisely its name, not its face, but its weight. Nar Shaddaa. A particular event was intended to gather more information about the kidnapped chancellor, but it only revealed more questions than answers.

There he was, not as he saw him last time, but in another way.

His gaze drifted across the terminal as though casually surveying the room, though each sweep of his eyes rode on deliberate threads of the Force.

The Jedi Knight didn't intervene, not yet.

 

[Fenn Stag]

Aiden Porte


Their eyes met, Predator to Defender.

Killer to Guardian.

​

He blinked only once before he rose to a slow stand. Even when moving slowly, he really didn't. He was simply a quick person, each movement sharp, methodical, deliberate to the point of obsession. Whether it was training, habit, birth or experience it was hard to say. Perhaps some sick amalgamation of them all that made him nearly impossible to not appear like he was about to, trying to, or planning to hurt you. He stepped towards the window, standing tall next to the Jedi. His left arm was visible to him- fully, not hidden. It was an impressive mechanical design, matching his physique, each of the beskar weave plates flexing and bending. A truly impressive mechanical design by some of Mandalore's best.

Earlier violence played in his mind, hazy visages appearing rippling through the force as his brief foray into violence on Naboo echoed in his mind and around him. While not killing anyone, he had violently subdued a great many of them and hatefully so. Murder darkened the waters of the force, but violence itself made it murky alone.

And around Fenn, the force was oily shadows, an ocean dark two feet down out of the sun. He was rather unpleasant to be around. He crossed his arms, his eyes also watching the rain pitter-patter against the window.

"I'm not here to hurt anyone."

Anymore.

"Hello, Jedi."

 

[Aiden Porte]

Fenn Stag
​

"I'm not here to hurt anyone."

Aiden took a deep breath, not defensive or in preparation. Just grounding himself in the moment. While his words had reached Aiden, there was something else that had reached him as well. That genuine concern for another, Aiden's own empathy reaching out. He placed his hands behind his back as he simply nodded his head.

"That's good to know, Fenn. Welcome to Naboo."

The Jedi Knight glanced towards the window pane as rain steadily rolled down, lightly obscuring the view of the outside.

"Are you okay?" The simple question steady, true and genuine.

 

[Fenn Stag]

Aiden Porte
​

"Are you okay?"

Am I, okay?
​

The words hung over Fenn's mind. Three simple words, a simple, poignant and genuine question. Despite not being afflicted (or gifted, depending on who you asked) by the Force, he had a good understanding of when the people of the galaxy were being genuine. He was such a man. He had no reason to hide his emotions, hide any cards from Fenn. He didn't know much about the man other than what he could dig up publicly on him. Jedi, skilled warrior, son of Kahne Porte.

And, for what Fenn could surmise on his accounts, he hadn't yet appointed the position of Master upon himself for reasons unknown. If Fenn had to guess, it was because that he simply did not want to be removed from the duties of a Jedi Knight. Fenn was a student, a scholar in one subject only:

His enemies.

And despite whatever niceties the Mandalorian Empire proclaimed, signing cowardly, vile treaties with their ancient foes and recent enemies, he would never trust fully a Jedi, like them, or do anything but keep them at arm's length. They were the cause for a great many misery in the galaxy, much like their dark-sided cousins. To Fenn, to most of the galaxy infact, the Jedi were mystical warriors battling over religion, skies and entire planets cracking under their powers.

But more importantly, as a Mandalorian, they were his ancient foe. The greatest enemy a Mandalorian could face and overcome. So when Fenn looked over at Aiden and said he wasn't going to hurt him, wasn't going to cause trouble- he meant it. Mostly due to there was a lack of sport in it, a lack of reason. He was not a Mandalorian in the usual way, that lived for the fight alone. The fight had to be worth his time.

So why was Fenn here, if he was looking for the 'right' fight? He had just put a beating on several people to extract money for the Black Sun. It was not terribly worthy of a fight. Terribly horrible of a cause, really. His eyes flicked to match where Aiden was looking, watching.

"I am in the employ of the most cruel of the galaxy. My people are fractured and scattered amongst the stars, the Mandalorian Empire is weak-" He turned to stare down at Aiden. Fenn wasn't much taller than Aiden, but it was enough to make the physicality he had even more prominent. Especially when Fenn wasn't wearing any armor- his body was cruelly muscled, perfected by both experience and by genetics and training to give him the physique built only for killing, war, and murder.

"The life of a Mandalorian is one of perpetual suffering."

He said, perhaps speaking moreso about himself rather than anything else.

 

[Aiden Porte]

Fenn Stag​

There was no challenge in his posture, no attempt to dominate the space. Just calm openness, firm but unafraid. A Jedi, standing before someone raised to see him as the greatest of foes, and refusing to be anything but himself.

"You say your people are scattered," Aiden said, softer. "You say your life is suffering. But that doesn't explain you, Fenn."

His head tilted ever so slightly.

"So tell me, why did you walk away?"

Aiden's voice lowered, steady as a heartbeat.

"What is it you're really searching for?"

 

[Fenn Stag]

Aiden Porte
​

"You misunderstand if you think I walked away. It is more accurate to say that I am more or less, in exile."

Not enforced. Not a whisper of damnation from the mouths of the spiritualists among the Mandalorians, declaring him Dar'Manda, soulless. A fate worse than death.

"And I do not say my people are scattered- they are." He corrected Aiden. It was not a harsh retort, but a simple statement of fact. A horrible reality among the Mandalorians that they were infact, not together anymore. And perhaps hadn't been in several decades. Since Fenn was alive, there was one faction or another, and now, two Mandalores. One with merit to lead, one without. Aether Verd claimed the title without the support of the clans- all of them. Most notably Clan Fett. It was deeply upsetting to many of the Mandalorians who bled for the Crusades to see the Verd clan so falsely claim themselves to be an Empire-

Though, as Fenn saw it, it was a house built on matchsticks. Not much inspired hope in the young man.

But perhaps, that was a fault of his own, and not necessarily the fault of the Mandalorian Empire.

"The man who claims to be our Sole Ruler- a concept foreign to a man such as yourself..." He crossed his arms, taking a deep breath. "Makes friends, plays nice, attends garden parties, jousting tournaments with those that have razed our planet, pillaged, plundered, massacred us. I have buried more friends and seen more dead comrades at the hands of Sith and Jedi than anything else." He looked down at his mechanical arm, taking a deep breath.

He flexed his fingers, the mechanical marvel whirring slightly.

"Even I am not without scars of participating in the wars and affairs of Republics, Jedi, Alliances."

He turned his head over to Aiden.

"I seek nothing, Knight Porte. I have nothing to seek for."

 

[Aiden Porte]

Fenn Stag​

Aiden absorbed every word without interruption, not because he agreed, but because Fenn spoke like a man who'd had his truths carved into him, not chosen them. The kind of truths that bled when touched. The kind the galaxy rarely bothered to understand.

Exile. Not by decree. Not by shame. But by inevitability. The Force around Fenn was tight, compressed inward like a star collapsing under its own gravity. No direction. No anchor. No horizon. Only momentum, forward, because stopping meant remembering. Aiden let the silence settle for a moment after Fenn finished, letting the weight of the Mandalorian's words pass through him instead of deflecting them.

Then he spoke.

"It isn't foreign to me," he said quietly. "The idea of a people desperate enough to call one person their savior, even when that person has forgotten what their people actually need."

He stepped closer, enough that the rain tapping against the window behind them echoed faintly between their words.

"I know what it looks like when warriors run out of wars," Aiden continued. "When leaders forget their dead. When the only ones who remember are the ones who carry the scars."

His eyes dipped briefly to the mechanical arm, then rose again, not judging, not pitying, simply acknowledging.

"You speak of the Sith and Jedi as if they are the same blade cutting you from opposite sides. And I won't insult you by denying it outright. Warriors are not the only ones who leave graves behind."

Now his tone shifted, firmer, grounded, but still calm.

"But you are wrong about one thing." He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "You have nothing because you stopped seeking. Not because the galaxy stole it from you."

Fenn was taller, heavier, built for war. But Aiden didn't bend under the posture, didn't avert his eyes. This was not a Jedi lecturing a Mandalorian. This was one warrior speaking to another, one who chose a different path.

"You live," Aiden said, "As if survival is the same thing as purpose, It's not."

He let the Force flow through the moment, not pressing, not probing, but reminding Fenn of the simple fact that someone stood before him unarmed and unafraid.

"You can lie to me about not seeking anything," Aiden said gently. "But don't lie to yourself."

 

[Fenn Stag]

Aiden Porte
​

Silence. Tense, uneasy silence. The Force moved around him, swirling, dark oily shadows. He was like a storm above an ocean- hate unending, always feeding itself. Hate, anger, wrath, pain, misery, loneliness. A man broken by the galaxy, by birth, born only for war.

"The Republic has a clone army. The Republic of old did as well. And the one before them. The Alliance at least did not send their slaves to die against the walls of darkness they plunged themselves."

He turned his head.

"What good is your perspective, light, dark, when all you have to do is look around a map. How many wars were waged for Jedi and Sith? What does it matter? My home, my people burned at the hands of Jedi and Sith alike. Jedi slaughtered and kill just as much as Sith. At least the Sith have the gumption to admit their ferocity and bloodlust. The Jedi hide behind Republics and Alliances." He turned to look at the Jedi, finally. Not moving his head. Like a hawk, circling a field.

"The Galaxy did not steal it from me. Your kind did. The Force users of the galaxy. Verd, Empire, Jedi. All wielders of the same tool. Tell me, Jedi, why I should think any different of the Jedi? Are there wars not waged in your names? Are there not fields of dead to serve as evidence of your passing? Again, I say-"

Another tense silence. Aiden's reach through the force met a wall. Of birthright and of willpower. An immovable object, the wall against which light broke.

"I know my many faults, Knight Porte. But I also know my truths, realities that cannot be changed by word or by perspective, but simply the objective facts. And the fact is, I have nothing to seek for. I simply am surviving. And I will do so until fate guides me, or I die and be forgotten. And the galaxy will still rotate and turn with or without me. I accept this. Perhaps that is what is foreign to you the most. Simply not caring."

 

[Aiden Porte]

Fenn Stag​

Aiden did not recoil from the storm.

Most people would have. Most sensitives would have instinctively pulled their presence inward, shielded themselves, recoiled from the caustic, churning hate that boiled off Fenn like heat from durasteel fresh from the forge. But Aiden did not retreat. He let the storm break over him, around him, washed through, but not shaken.

He had stood in the presence of Sith Lords whose rage twisted the air. He had sat with grieving children whose pain swallowed rooms whole. He had felt despair, betrayal, fear, guilt, fury, all the thousand shards of sentient hearts splintered by war.

But Fenn's presence, it wasn't darkness. It was a wound, a wound so old it no longer bled but ached, endlessly.

Aiden inhaled slowly, grounding himself. Not pushing against the Mandalorian's wall. Not trying to force light into a place that had long since learned to survive in the dark.

Simply being there.

When Fenn spoke, rage in truth, truth in rage, Aiden listened with the same steady patience that had guided him through countless lost souls on worlds less kind than Naboo.

And when silence returned, thick as smoke, he finally answered.

"You're right."

The words came without resistance. Without the instinctive defensiveness of a Jedi accused. Aiden's tone was not submissive, only honest.

"Yes. Wars have been fought in our names. Jedi and Sith both. Yes, our failures have carved scars onto worlds and people who did not deserve them. And maybe… Mandalore has burned under banners of both. But you confuse acknowledgment with surrender."

His voice remained quiet, but the weight behind it did not diminish.

"You've decided the galaxy cannot change. That people cannot choose differently. That you cannot be more than what was done to you. That the only truth worth holding is pain. Pain is truth, Fenn. But it isn't the only one."

The Force swirled softly around Aiden, not bright, not blinding. Just calm. Present. A single quiet light in the eye of a storm.

"You say we stole your future," Aiden continued. "That Force users shaped every tragedy that brought you here."

He didn't argue it. He didn't deny it. "Maybe that's true." Then his gaze lifted, clear, steady, unflinching. "But you're standing before me right now, alive, choosing your path. And that choice is yours. Not the Republic's. Not the Jedi's. Not the Sith's. You survived slavery. War. Exile. Betrayal. Loss. And you say you don't care."

Aiden shook his head once.

"I don't believe you."

His next words were softer, too soft for attack, too gentle for accusation. They were simply a truth spoken aloud.

"Men who don't care don't carry the weight you do." Aiden gave him space then, letting the words settle instead of pressing further.

And finally, with the faintest exhale, almost sadness.

"You think you have nothing to seek for because you stopped letting yourself imagine that anything might still be worth finding. And that, Fenn… is the one thing about you that is not fate. Only choice."

 

[Fenn Stag]

Aiden Porte
​

""And where would I go, Jedi? What's left for me?"

He said it as much as a statement as a question. Perhaps he meant both.

MURDERER

LIAR; NOUN; YOU

DAMNED, YOU'VE DAMNED US, DAMNED US

TRAITOR

TURNCOAT YOU DON'T LIE YOU JUST NEVER SPEAK TRUTHS

For a brief moment in the force, there was a screeching, terrible wave of anger, hate, malice, violence. Like the sharpest whistle, a train moving by the pair of them. Fenn was not one man in the force, he was two, maybe three. All fighting, all screeching. But it was old, the taint that he suffered- old, foul wretchedness. Sith sorcery and machinations from eons ago, still writhing around the galaxy. Oily shadows grasping at the corners of his mind. The galaxy was vast and full of dark secrets, things that should have remained buried. Fenn was exposed to one of them. And for just that moment-

Aiden could sense it. Could feel it. The Dark Harvest was not just a virus. It was not just an infection- thanks to Fenn's DNA, was able to develop a vaccine for. No, it was much worse than that. It was a taint. A cancer of the force festering on Fenn. And it had found a great host. Aiden could maybe even see it for those terrifying few seconds- a shadow, oily, dark, and wisps of it flaying about the air, tendrils of darkness lashing out from being exposed to the light.

Fenn was fighting for control at every moment. It must have been exhausting. Every waking moment, Fenn fought the entity inside of him. Pushed back the tides of it alone, without help, and worst of all, without understanding. And yet he fought.

He blinked, shaking his head. The Jedi didn't need to see that, he thought to himself. Questions would be raised, doubts of sanity. He was sane.

He knew where his mind was.

He couldn't take control of him anymore.

Fenn was in control.

Fenn was in control.

Fenn was in control.

Fenn was in control.

Fenn was always in control.

Fenn will always be in control.

Fenn was never in control.

Fenn was not in control.

I am in control.
​

His head hurt, and he couldn't help but squint his eyes and let out a small wry sound of pain from his throat. Guttural and painful. Just enough to be audible, but not enough to be concerning. He was Ori'Ramikad. He took a deep breath, gathering himself before speaking again.

"I often believe that mostly I live out of spite. I stand under the light of the Black Sun. That much, I suspect, you already knew."

His words were not without weight. They lacked pride. They lacked purpose. He did not claim his status in the Black Sun as a brag, a boast. It was almost as if it was an admission of guilt.

"You see, Jedi. There aren't many places for men like me in the galaxy. I am a killer. What else am I to do, than what I was created to do?"

 

[Aiden Porte]

Fenn Stag​

"You live out of spite," Aiden repeated slowly, his tone reflective. "That means something still burns in you. Even if it's only the refusal to die."

"You say you were created to kill. That's true, in a way. But that's not all you are." His voice deepened, steady, grounded, unyielding in its calm. "You've seen what killing buys. You've seen how fast it's spent. If that's all that defined you, you would have died a long time ago. But you didn't."

Aiden tilted his head slightly, watching Fenn's eyes beneath the shadow of his brow.

"You adapted. You endured. You learned to fight smarter. To live quieter. To choose your battles." A faint smile ghosted across his mouth, not condescending, respectful. "That's not the work of a weapon, Fenn. That's the work of a man trying to be more than what he was made for."

Aiden took a deep breath as he folded his arms.

"I won't tell you to abandon the Black Sun," Aiden went on. "I won't pretend the galaxy will forgive you if you walk away. But if you start to believe that's all you are… you'll be giving the people who built you exactly what they wanted."

"You're not a weapon anymore," Aiden said softly. "Not unless you choose to be."

The silence that followed wasn't tense this time. It was heavy, quiet, uncertain, but not hopeless. Naboo's rain continued to fall, washing the world outside in grey light. And for a moment, Aiden thought Fenn looked less like a storm, and more like what remained after one.

"You could be more, if you wanted."

 

[Fenn Stag]

Aiden Porte
​

""What they wanted was a killer. A soldier. Perhaps I did just that already, Knight Porte. I was made, you know. Every facet of my being, made for war. Perfected from the perfect soldier, they said. Preliat- the template. Preliat Mantis. The Wolf. I was cast in his mold by the long ago Republic... Funny, that. Republics tending to use clone armies, slaves of their Senates and Masters. Not bred, not born, created for war."

A click of the tongue at the last point. The topic of a clone army was not sitting comfortably with him.

Fenn drank in the silence, blue eyes gazing out to the landscape covered by subtle grays and blues, rain droplets against the window pane. He enjoyed, for the first time, a brief sense of calm. The Jedi's trickery and touch of the force met a brick wall- Fenn's mental barriers, and birthright, prevented any influence from the force mentally speaking. Not a thought to be read, not a mind to be tampered with. Illusions and trickery fell short.

"What could I be, but what I am?"

He said, after a long silence. He turned to Aiden. He was less of the killer in that moment. And for a brief moment, the mask of Fenn slipped. A young man, scared of the future, afraid of his demons. Just a young man who had been through too much. Forgotten and abandoned by many. And what he lacked, he searched for but never found. He looked tired. He looked younger- a childlike sense of shame, guilt, sadness. It might've dawned on Aiden that Fenn never had a childhood- no mother, no father, no family until much later. And it was all taken.

 

[Aiden Porte]

Fenn Stag​

Aiden felt the shift the moment it happened, not in the Force, but in Fenn himself. The storm did not vanish. It simply…parted. Just enough to reveal what lay beneath. Aiden did not reach for the Force. Not now. He knew better. Fenn's mind was a fortress by design, genetic, cultural, willful. A blade meant to cut away intrusion. So instead, Aiden relied on something older than the Order, older than doctrine.

Presence.

He listened. Truly listened. To the words about Preliat Mantis. About being made. About Republics and clone armies and the convenient morality of Senates that never bled. The weight of it settled heavily in Aiden's chest, not as guilt, but responsibility.

When Fenn finally asked the question. 'What could I be, but what I am?' Aiden did not answer immediately.

He watched the rain streak the glass. Watched the reflection of a young man who had never been allowed to be young and then Aiden spoke.

"You were made for war," he said softly. "That much is true." It wasn't denial, as he wasn't ignorant to not know the truth. But, still, he knew better than most.

"But you were not made to end there." He turned fully toward Fenn now, blue eyes steady, unguarded. There was no fear in them. No judgment. Only a quiet, unwavering belief. "I've stood beside clones," Aiden continued. "Men bred from a template and told their lives were expendable so long as a Republic endured another day. I've watched them die thinking they were tools… and I've watched them live long enough to realize they were people. They were, they are my friends."

"You ask what you could be," he said. "I think the real question is what you're afraid to become if you stop surviving and start choosing."

He met Fenn's eyes again, unwavering.

"You are not just the mold you were cast in. You are the man who broke free of it long enough to ask that question at all."

 

[Fenn Stag]

LOOK AT ME.

Fenn was silent for a moment. Then, the energy around him shifted. Darkened, like blood. In the force, it was like the energy of a forest fire. A hurricane. Tornadoes- the emotions stirred, the energy produced. Destruction. Terror. Nothing good. Only malice. Only hate.

It amplified.

It resonated. Bounced off the walls. Each moment, tenser than the last.

Screams in the force, darkness. Pure, unfiltered darkness. Ancient hate, ancient energies. To the trained mind, Sith poisons and curses in their antiquity. Violence, unending, unearthed hatred.

And a losing fight.

Two beings, constantly wrestling. And one just got the upper hand in the match.

Fenn's eyes flicked, not moved, over to Aiden.

Not a hint of what was before.

Only what remained.

He was different. He stood differently. He looked different. He sized up Aiden.

"You think all these kind words can help him?"

And for the first time, the thing that had cursed Fenn for so long, seized Fenn's distraction to briefly take the wheel. He spoke in a voice that was not his own. Fenn had an accent- a softspoken way of speaking. Whatever, whoever this was- spoke like a snake, a wolf. As if it had never used a voice before, never inhabited the world outside of Fenn's mind.

"All this goodness in your heart and you can't see him for what he is."

His head twitched at the neck, veins and muscles in his neck bulging. The fight was back on.



​

 

[Aiden Porte]

Fenn Stag​

He felt the shift before his eyes finished reading it on Fenn's face. The Force around the man had gone from troubled water to something that wanted to swallow light itself, thick with old malice and the sour sting of curses that had been fed for a very long time. It was not simply anger. It was hunger wearing anger like a mask.

Aiden's posture changed anyway, but not into a guard stance. He grounded. He widened his awareness until the room felt larger than its walls, until he could feel the edges of Fenn's presence and the thing wrapped around it like wire.

He let his voice stay even.

"I am not trying to talk him into being better," Aiden said, his gaze steady on Fenn's eyes, not the twitching muscles in his neck. "I am trying to give him a handhold. A choice. That is all anyone ever gets in the end."

The thing in Fenn pressed forward again, tasting the words like blood in the water. Aiden felt the contempt roll off it, ancient and practiced, and for a heartbeat he understood exactly what it wanted: for him to rise to it. For him to draw steel. For him to prove its worldview correct.

Aiden did not oblige.

He stepped half a pace closer, slow enough that it was permission rather than challenge, and lifted his left hand slightly, palm open. Not to strike. To offer.

"You are not him," Aiden said, and there was no insult in it, only fact. "And you are not welcome to speak for him."

 

[Fenn Stag]

I AM IN CONTROL




His head turned and contorted. His skin moved unnaturally, bulging as if snakes were crawling underneath it. Blood came from under his eyes from the strain alone.

Another presence lingered in the air, not the hunger, not the rage, not the fight. A predator, encircling them both. Something more dangerous than Fenn or Aiden. Something more capable. More violent.

But it was encircling the pair. Watching. But not moving.

"He's coddled in this pity for long enough."

A strain of the eyes. Turning of the head. Blood dripped down his face. From under his eyelids. From his pores.

"Do you know what he's done? What he's failed to do? What he's said? You think him a victim of me-"

Whatever it was, it leaned forward.

"I am a victim of him. Sitting in his mind, while he fights me day in and day out. Watching him sit here, pander to you, to her, to all of these people. While he could be so much more. While I, could be so much more. So much more power- food."

He tapped his chest.

"Do you know how frustrating, how futile it all is? All this fighting. He just has to give in. And his life would be so much better. All this coddling to Jedi, Sith, criminals. And all he has to do-"

Blood-soaked teeth pulled into a smile. His eyes twitched again. More fighting. Straining. His arms, neck, twitched. Sweat and goosebumps at the same time. His entire body was fighting itself.

"Is give up."


​

 

[Aiden Porte]

Fenn Stag​

Aiden's brow furrowed as he shook his head, eyes fixed on Fenn with a steadiness that refused to flinch.

In the Force, the manifest was a serrated pressure behind the man's presence, whispering surrender like it was mercy. Aiden did not accept its framing. He felt Fenn's fight, raw and bleeding and real, and he anchored to that instead.

"No," Aiden said quietly, voice level. "Not him."

He did not ignite his saber. He did not rush. He stepped in just enough to place himself between Fenn and the circle of predatory attention in the room, letting his presence broaden like a shield without becoming a cage.

"Fenn," Aiden continued, softer now, aimed at the person beneath the strain. "Breathe with me."

He drew in a slow inhale and exhaled, steady, offering rhythm and calm through the Force like a handhold in a storm. The darkness surged, impatient, hungry, but Aiden held his ground. The Jedi Knights force aura reaching out, trying to maintain, trying to help.

"You do not get to take him," Aiden told the thing, tone flat with certainty. "Not while I am here. Not while he is still choosing."