Private Once More, With Feeling

[The Pomojema]

THE POMOJEMA
THE UNKNOWN REGIONS​

The good ship Pomojema had ritual chambers aplenty. One such played host to a circle of worthies. The usual suspects, of course (Sith, Dark Jedi, Nightsisters), but also fallen Jal Shey, Slaine, Raskava, a blood-prophet Presager of Hatokei, a tongue-eating priestess of Atoa, just a rogues' gallery of Darksiders. All at the top of their game, and all here to learn. Such was the Pomojema.

The circle had just finished a three-hour session, both learning about the nuances of bringing someone else back to life, and practising it on enemies taken in battle. Now, as the final exercise of the day, they were to join forces to rip a tired old soul out of the Netherworld and bind it to a clone body. It wasn't the first time this particular soul had been recalled to life. It might object; it might be willing; with a circle like this at work, what the soul wanted was entirely irrelevant.

The Pomojema had a major advantage in cases like this. Everyone who came aboard passively sacrificed a very small portion of their Force energies to a collective pool that had been designed to cast a Netherworld beacon. The particular soul that beacon was meant for had been rescued ages ago, but the mechanism remained, and could be reawakened and re-targeted at will.

"Thanks to our associate from the Presagers, we have reason to believe the target soul is at Ember Rekali's castle in the Field of Blades," said the masked woman who'd conducted the workshop. "Adjust the ritual to focus on the Field of Blades; it'll significantly increase our likelihood of a successful transfer. And...begin."

Ijaat Mereel

 

[Ijaat Mereel]

As the aged warrior sat out overlooking the Field, something in him tugged, but he ignored it. Memory flowed like wine at a party in this place for him. Faces bleeding into one another and his own vestiges. Maybe he knew them in life. Maybe he didn't. What was left was the time here, to reminisce, train, and practice. He had always admired the Rekali and their members in life, especially Ember. To have spent what amounted to centuries of "life" with the other chieftain and arguably less and more Mando than he himself was a gift he would cherish if this were not a literal hellscape.

Standing, Ijaat hefted his beskad blade from the ground as the next wave advanced towards him. Adopting an easy ready stance, he stepped forward into the press of bodies with a grace and strength that surpassed what he had known even in life, his skill only growing thanks to the time and tutelage with what he would now call a brother, if not a friend. Outsiders of his culture wouldn't understand the difference, but those who knew... Well... They knew what the difference meant in no uncertain terms...

Again came that tugging, from both dead center behind the eyes and the naval at once, and his footing slipped, a faceless Sith spirit tearing into his shoulder with a mace and causing a grimace as the riposte in answer from him beheaded the spectre. Parrying another blow from behind with a raised and rearwarding blade, he screamed as reality seemed to shift two inches to the left and tug at him again, his vision blurring and showing two places at once overlapping.

Not karking again! NO!

The Pomojema

 

[The Pomojema]

Yes, karking again.

The clone body twitched. It was laid out on an authentic stone altar from Malachor, dusted with Sith ashes for memory. Icons had been painted on the ceiling, to focus the ritual by being the first thing the body saw upon opening its eyes. The icons were both Sith and Mandalorian, and suggested creation, craftsmanship, labor.

"Lord Moran," said the masked woman. "Now."

A secondary position had been established, about ten feet behind the clone's head. Azel Moran, master smith of the Aksifas and the Pomojema's most senior metallurgical alchemist, had been induced to bring up an anvil and hammer. One rang against the other. A deep, pure tone permeated the room. It repeated every three heartbeats in a perfect rhythm.

 

[Ijaat Mereel]

As the first peal of the hammer sounded upon anvil, Ijaat seemed to glitch. The image of him faded into an aura of a screaming spirit, of something barely holding to the plain of the Field, before it righted. With a shake and hiss his appearance sharpened from fuzzy jags to who he was again. Teh resultant shift in reality and the Force seemed to repel the spectres of the Field, and drop Ijaat to his knees. He could see the glyphs swimming before his eyes, despite blinking to banish them.

Even with the memory distortion the Netherworld caused, he knew their meaning. The body on the Malachor stone would grit it's teeth, eyes clenching shut from open as the presence within it fought, resisted with every ounce of a considerable will. Already, he knew the outcome of the ritual. With who was behind it, there was no other possibility.

But he would not go quietly like a good lapdop, bound to service or no.

Let me rest... I have earned my place here in the Manda...

The Pomojema

 

[Ashin Cardé Varanin]

Ashin removed the mask of Anger.

"No, Master Mereel," she said, speaking in a way that he would hear both in this place and in the Netherworld. "I have a use for you. But I would never do you the disrespect of enslaving you. You have one task, and one year of life. If you go off and get yourself killed before that year is out, I will only recall you if your task is unfinished. If you wish to extend that arrangement, return here and be renewed for another year, and indefinitely as you see fit. You will not find better mercy from me."

Azel Moran's hammer rang on.

 

[Ijaat Mereel]

With a sudden echo, the hammer would freeze as the body opened it's eyes. Eyes that echoed it's very first body's own hawk-like glare would lock to Ashin's. Lesser adherents to the ritual would find random orifices bleeding from sudden strain to maintain their focus and part of things. With a will and intent that almost severed their ritual in an instant through sheer deadly intent, the Iron Father would show why the former Empress would expend the energy and resources to revive him time and time again. But this time, the gravely voice that scraped out of the clone's throat was demanding, almost imperious. It brooked no argument and held all the weight and authority of a Clan Chief barking orders to a verd'ika as he addressed Ashin.

Ember had taught him many things in the distorted timeline that was his existence in the Nether. Not the least of which was to stop pitying himself and accept what he was.

"Then she also gets another chance... My madness should not be her hell..."

The Pomojema

 

[Ashin Cardé Varanin]

Azel Moran's face twisted with anger, but put his hammer down at Ashin's unspoken request. She focused on the freshly resurrected Ijaat Mereel

"Her?" There could only be one he meant, and the idea filled Ashin with trepidation. She'd just had this ritual chamber cleaned. She took her time scrutinizing each disparate member of her circle: exceeds expectations, meets expectations, needs development. She judged the circle could continue. "Very well; it'll be a useful exercise. But Master Mereel...you will be responsible for her behavior on my ship."

There were other bodies in storage for exercises like this: empty-mind clones and traitor students and enemy prisoners, both Jedi and Sith. Ashin called up the list and found, lo and behold, someone who looked the part. The body would be unthawed from carbonite and brought in immediately.

"This is your task, Master Mereel," she said, and came forward to hand him a scroll. The scroll read as follows.


Mereel:

My resurrections are finite. My next death will almost certainly be my last. I have three daughters and several grandchildren, and I find myself consumed by the notion of crafting a legacy. I did not resurrect you simply to work metal to my specifications. I resurrected you to help me determine what some elements of that bequest will be. This private work is what I will leave behind other than the scars on twenty thousand worlds. There is nothing I take more seriously.

Ashin Varanin

 

[Ijaat Mereel]

As he read the scroll, one might have expected him to. throw it away in disgust. To recoil from it as if from a snake. But he merely held it, reading it a few times. A sense of family washed over him as he thought of his death rescuing young Darius Mereel . And an old but tinged sadness thinking of Runi Kuryida . Of the Legacy he had left behind. In some parts, as in his son, he was content. In others, like with her... He felt guilt and a lack. And so he rolled the scroll back up as adherents brought him some semblance of clothing he shrugged into.

With a nod to the hammer wielder that showed a dip of the head in low respect for like ability, the master goran nodded to Ashin.

"It will be done. Gladly, in fact. You were once, distantly, one of the ade. I will see this task through with honor. And I will see that she behaves as best as she ever has. There will be much resistance. Vizsla ended her horribly..."

The Pomojema

 

[Ashin Cardé Varanin]

"I was," she said privately, between the two of them, as the ritual preparations shifted. "Ordo adopted me. I rode a Besalisk down from orbit. Just one more identity and life and set of oaths that made me, and that I broke and discarded. The one loyalty I never betrayed is the oath to my wife, who'll likely outlive me for ages. This...quest for legacy is as much for her as for our family. I appreciate you recognizing the significance of what I'm attempting."

The altar was cleaned and re-dusted with Malachor ash; the sigils were scrubbed from the ceiling and replaced with mando'a markings that spoke to destruction, pain, and fury. Not to prompt them, but as a calling, an affinity.

"Join us in the circle, Master Mereel, if you see fit. You as well, Lord Moran."

 

[Ijaat Mereel]

He stepped forward silently, after a long and considering look at Ashin and a scrubbed hand across his hair. The request had been simple, natural. His meditation in the Field of Blades had shown him many things, but the regret of how she had ended was a major one. It had been entirely his fault and failure, a mind unhinged by Sith machinations left to fester and nuture another's own maddened rage. It should have never happened that way. Not even close. But now that it was made, he almost hesitated.

The look that passed between Ashin Cardé Varanin and Ijaat was only seconds, but any with half a mind would sense that something and more had happened in that instant. A bond beyond the prior had been made in that moment. Ijaat had seen the woman beneath the sorcery and ritual, the velvet beneath the steel, as his father had once said. And as he broke that gaze and stepped to the circle, he felt a kinship with the former Empress that few besides the Rekali and Runi had ever borne with him. Maybe Koda Fett or Gilamar Skirata , once upon a time, had earned that respect. But they were fading in his mind now, faint memories compared to the task at hand.

With a soft hand, Ijaat walked to the slab, eyeing where the body would lay. Taking up a ritual dagger that had been included with the clothing offered, he pricked his finger. The symbol was something that sprang to mind as they prepared, and he traced the airr in front of him with a bleeding finger for permission from Ashin. A combined form of Mando'a that spoke to healing, continuity, and legacy. And oddly enough, the base sigil being the glyphs for beskar and will. A symbol that he would, with said permission, place where the center of the chest of the body would be. Not to ease the transition, but to remind the entity of its purpose.

Let anyone in the room who assumed him a knuckle-dragging blacksmith now be woefully gobsmacked and robbed of such a misconception.

 

[The Pomojema]

The freshly thawed body was brought in: a mind-wiped prisoner, a Sith Knight, lean and scarred. That body, laid out on the ashy altar, took center stage in the ritual circle.

They rallied. Virtually all students on the Pomojema were senior Knights or fresh Masters, or the equivalent in other traditions. These were adults, professionals, learning to stretch themselves beyond their limits. They sank their strength into it with Ashin, Ijaat, and Azel Moran as the three focal points, the strongest Force-sensitives present. The ritual needed that additional power because Mia Monroe 's location in the Underworld was unknown (albeit targeted by some hasty Presager blood ritual), because she had been dead longer, and because her soul was inherently chaotic.

The ritual began.

"Call her," said Ashin to Ijaat.

 

[Ijaat Mereel]

That smile, danger and mischief to his stoic grump, lit in his mind as Asin spoke to him. Raising his hand, he drew the symbol upon the chest of the body, and licked his lips slowly. He thought of his friend, one of the few to know him from before his infamy, and let the sadness of her loss wash over him. The feeling of them standing on the soil of a volcano, taking in what was the only true home he had ever known. The Protectors, the only real family hee'd ever been blessed with, and her a part of them, even only nominally.

With a voice wracked in memory and hope, his command rang out.

"Hear me and listen, Mia. Olaror norac at ni. Olaror norac at gar aliit bal oyay"

Each word rang stronger, louder, and he stood straighter, focusing on the sigil he had drawn on the body, focusing on the eyes of the one he intended to bring back. And inwardly, hoping for another chance to do right by his friend.

Spoiler

Come back to me. Come back to your family and life.

Mia Monroe | The Pomojema | Ashin Cardé Varanin

 

[Mia Monroe]

The Netherworld presented nothing but pure unadulterated pain, forcing her to relive it, over and over again. Death, resurrection, madness, war, death. Over and over. She spat aside a mouthful of blood into the dirt and she had done a million times before, looking at the beskad in her hand. Her hand flickered between the slender fingers she knew, and the great hand of a familiar whiphid.

She shook her head hard, rising from her knee to face her attacker, a twisted form of Ra Vizsla, Mand'alor. She blinked, he changed, the towering form of Velok, Sith Lord. Another blink and Galeth took their place, her heart shattered for the umpteenth time. "No, not you. Please not you. I can't…"

Her voice trailed off, as the twisted form looked past her as a familiar voice reached her. "Ijaat?" The momentary lapse cost her Ra/Vizsla/Galeth lunged at her, its form flickering with each movement, cleaving flesh from bone as she was thrown back. The netherworld released her, throwing her through time and space as her spirit slammed into a new body.

Mia woke, screaming.

The force swelled around her in turmoil as she rolled from the slab, coming to land on one knee, the floor cracking and groaning beneath her. She lifted her gaze to settle on Ijaat. "Tion'jor?" One word, one question. Energy continued to build inside her, preparing for something. An attack? Or maybe she wanted to rip a hole in the ship to take her and everyone else on board back to the hell she deserved.

Ijaat Mereel Ashin Cardé Varanin

 

[Ashin Cardé Varanin]

<Because he asked,> said Ashin in rusty mando'a. <Who among us hasn't owed a debt to a spirit of madness?>

She broke from the circle, moving in across the buckled floor toward the altar, and dismissed them with a few words. The exercise was complete. What could be learned, had been, and their encirclement could only increase the risks at hand. In very short order, Ashin and Ijaat were alone with their newest arrival.

<You are on my ship, Mia Monroe. I am Ashin Varanin. We met at Lake Krul once on the day I killed your friend to resurrect him, but if we've met beyond that, I don't recall. My memory isn't what it was.>

 

[Ijaat Mereel]

Ijaat stood, silent and robed for a moment. The spirit in the body was his friend, and as the body moved, so too was it Mia. For a moment he saw other faces swim before him. Vilaz Munin . Anija. Arrbi. So many others. They flickered, flared and faded. Friend or foe, they had shaped the Iron Father into who and what he was. Even Strider danced a specter in front of him in the yawning seconds that stretched what felt like hours. Slowly, he stepped forward, dipping his head to his friend in apology.

"I asked such to right a wrong. Your end was my fault, my madness the catalyst for all we wrought in wrong."

Standing straight, he lifted his head and offered his palms to Mia. It was a gesture that would transcend culture or language. He awaited her judgement, her call. Before he settled into that posture, he spoke just once more.

"In doing so, I hope we both can heal beyond the rage that consumed us both..."

Now he waited, utterly at the mercy of a madwoman who might run to hug her old friend, or strike him down as the architect of her demise. Either would be justice. Either would be welcome.

Mia Monroe | Ashin Cardé Varanin | The Pomojema

 

[Mia Monroe]

As Ashin spoke, memory flickered some hers, some less so. "I know who you are." she replied not taking her eyes off Ijaat she would deal with Ashin in a moment. "My end?" Mia laughed, it was cold, humourless and filled with rage, rage that pulsed as she drew herself to her full height, a hand extending to seize Ijaat's throat in the force, lifting him from his feet.

"You arrogant shabuir." She spat. "You think your actions had anything to do with my demise? That your one moment of weakness has any real significance in my life? You were a tool to be used by a woman consumed with insanity and darkness. I dug my grave, I drove Galeth away, I drove my daughter away, I brought civil war to Mandalore. I shattered our people. The planet? The planet was nothing." A flick of her wrist and she released him in the force, throwing him against the far wall.

"My wrongs, are not yours to right."

She turned her attention to Ashin. "How long has it been?"

How much time had she lost, were Galeth and Cory gone? Did she have anything left in this world. Mia was deeply afraid of the answer.

Ijaat Mereel Ashin Cardé Varanin

 

[Ijaat Mereel]

Theme

The choke and fling hit him, but he barely reacted to it. Perhaps a widening of the eyes in rage at first, and then a smoothing to regret at the misunderstood words, but little else. It was a penance deserved and not shirked. As he landed, he stood and brushed off his clothing, picking at debris like critiquing a drycleaner, and merely shook his head to clear stars, and nodded to Ashin to wait. Stepping forward, his voice rang out. Iron. Derisive.

"You think you the only one wounded? You the only one who lost? I have died and come back a half dozen times since you used my broken mind for your own selfishness. Your own greed and hunger for power and vengeance. You, Mia Monroe, are damned by all our people. As am I. Outcast. Unworthy of the Manda. Rituals sang out around the diaspora by almost every voice to shun you and damn your name along with mine. Yet at least one voice never did. If all you will do is feel sorry for what you have lost, then I will send you back to your wallowing. If we are to speak of rights, then by any hand to claim your life it should be mine..."

A slightly softer tone that still brooked little pity, and cut like a knife. Each word was punctuated, clipped, like the earlier ringing of hammer on anvil. Gone was the soft familiar drawl of Concord Dawn that those close to him knew. Present was the clipped voice he used in battle. Decisive, with the tones of Adumar from his stay there in his youth courting his first love.

"They hunted down everyone that shared a scrap of blood or bread with us. The Protectors, such as they were at the time, were murdered to a one. Only those who were unknown or denounced us were saved. And even then, not always. My legacy, and yours, is as ash. It was his way to damn the ideals we fought for. To crush the unlike-minded to his plan. Your wrongs are yours to right, and I give you both the way and duty to do so, rather than scream into the void in obsolescence. It is your choice as to which to embrace. I have no more bond to you now than that of friendship past, and in that spirit I still stand here. I am sorry, but there is not time enough under the stars to undo his crusade for them."

Ashin Cardé Varanin | Mia Monroe

 

[Ashin Cardé Varanin]

Ashin switched to Basic as things escalated somewhat.

"I'm not certain when you died," she interjected coolly. "Perhaps thirty to forty years. If you can live with that and find some new path and purpose, good for you. If you can't, I'd appreciate no further damage to my ship."

There was a threat attached. She left it unspoken.

Ijaat Mereel Mia Monroe

 

[Mia Monroe]

"Wallowing?" Mia laughed the same cold laugh. "You think I wallowed? That I chose..." she trailed off, licking her lips as memories flicked through her mind. "Feth you."

She ran her fingers through her hair, closing her eyes processing. Cory had borne her name, if she'd survived? She be in her sixties. There was no repairing that, she would not bring turmoil on whatever peace he daughter may have found. As for Galeth, she recoiled from the Netherworld memory. Things between them were broken long before she had died...before Cory was born, Nemene Talith had seen that broken when she'd broken her.

As for everyone else? Ordo? Gilamar Skirata ? Verz? Siobhan Kerrigan ? She opened her eyes. "It had to be you." Tears were in her eyes now. "Of all the people, it had to be you to drag me from one hell into another. Everything I broke is irreparable. I am Dar'manda. What do you want from me Ijaat?"

She shot Ashin a look, acknowledging the unspoken threat, tempted for a moment to challenge her on it.

Ashin Cardé Varanin Ijaat Mereel

 

[Ijaat Mereel]

"Not everyone has an angle, Monroe. Sometimes they just want what's good for you. Ever since this lovely lady here inflicted the Force upon me and brought me back, I've felt your pain after your death. Like a festering wound that every step compressed and inflamed. I've tried to find love, friends, and purpose anew and failed. No one understands our old ways, the Mando'ade drift homeless... In all honesty, I regret not being able to be there with you, to be able to stand by you. It might have ended differently then. So maybe we can help each other find a new way. You tried once to rescue me, this is payback for the annoyance."

A bared teeth smile with a twinkle in his eyes was all the extra response her faltering rant and wobbly accusations got for a moment after that, then he spoke again. Warmer, the drawl creeping back as he relaxed at seeing signs of his friend still in that shattered mind. The next words were prodding, almost friendly, even if his eyes and stance were still guarded. He hoped, true, but he was no fool not to be at ready. Gentle swells of the Force surrounded him, eddying to whorl around Mia, soft applications of Jukre Tuning to help calm the bleed over of rage and loss from death and rebirth. He was used to the shock by now. She would feel it ten fold, given how she died and the time spent as a spirit. It wouldn't feel invasive, but solid and supportive. Like an oak more than a thorn.

"Beside all that. I'm selfish. I need someone to watch my back that I can trust. You're the only one I could think of from the old days I could recruit, besides maybe Vilaz Munin . And i'd sooner trust a ravenous mynock with a power cell."

Mia Monroe | Ashin Cardé Varanin