last hero
ANOBIS
For days and nights without pause, the rain applauded against the world. A relentless thrumming echo, not far, never silent. Winds drove hard into the mountain face, whistling through the cavern carved into its stone. The passages twisted and wound, admitting only the faintest sliver of light from the mouth. Inside, the air clung damp and heavy, a wetness that choked the lungs. Rhyse knew such conditions well. So did the Imperials. Their march never faltered, no matter the ground, no matter the storm. He must stay the course.
Through them, Rhyse moved like a streak of blue. A violent blur tearing at their lines, striking and vanishing, pressing the fight again and again. It was all he had left. The Jedi dwindled to death, to betrayal, to disappearance. It hardly mattered. The loss gnawed at him all the same.
But in moments like this, when he forced himself into stillness, the world softened. The cavern faded. The rain, the wind, the stone -- all dissolved into silence. In their place rose a field of light. Endless. Luminous blossoms swelled from the ground in hues of pale blue, growing brighter, opening like flowers in bloom. Rhyse sat cross-legged, hovering weightless. His arms and legs glowed with the same smooth, featureless light. The rest of him, though unseen, he imagined to be no different.
Here, at last, was peace. A peace he had never found out there in the wider galaxy. Never among the bodies, never beneath the banners of war. Even before, there had always been something clawing at him; a hunger, a fire. Not desire, he would tell himself, but just recognition. Though of late, that fire had only grown, fed by the rot spreading across the stars. Yet he kept it at bay. He was a Jedi. A Jedi protects. It was his role, his sacred duty.
Still, even in meditation his lip curled with a sneer.
Action. It was time for action. Gather what remained and strike at the heart of the Empire. At the Imperial Centre, as they now called it. A message to the Alliance: not all the Jedi had abandoned them. He would see the Emperor fall, his Dark Side Elite cut down, the evil ripped out root and stem. They must go, they must die.
A chill crept up his spine, but the thought would not leave him.
Archais had not been enough. Two, three, four foes at once. Let them come, let them all come. He was content to meet them all, cut them all down. No quarter, no mercy. Sith, if that was even their name, clung to life with hatred, dragging themselves back from the edge to spite the galaxy. He would cast them over it, into the abyss -- the nether itself. It was all they deserved for all they had done, for all they would continue to do.
And the Jedi. The so-called Jedi. Deserters, cowards. The memory of Coruscant cracked his focus, with half his friends slaughtered in droves, helpless in the face of the Imperial onslaught. Their faces still hung before him, mouths slack, eyes like dead fish. The other half vanished into the void, spitting on the corpses they left behind. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed. Rage shuddered through the palace of light he had built.
A fissure split the ground. From it bled red and black, with an essence of rot curling upward, twisting. It had no scent, yet it stank of corruption. It did not move, not so much as inch, merely sitting and lingering there at the edge of his vision. So far as his mind would stretch. Though it forced his heart to sink all the same, plummeting. Was it fear, Rhyse wondered, recalling something so primal he swore he had not felt in such a long, long time. It did not matter. It burrowed into his very soul.
With a sharp gasp, Rhyse was ripped back into the cave. He fell onto the stone, hard. His lightsaber clattering at his side.
For days and nights without pause, the rain applauded against the world. A relentless thrumming echo, not far, never silent. Winds drove hard into the mountain face, whistling through the cavern carved into its stone. The passages twisted and wound, admitting only the faintest sliver of light from the mouth. Inside, the air clung damp and heavy, a wetness that choked the lungs. Rhyse knew such conditions well. So did the Imperials. Their march never faltered, no matter the ground, no matter the storm. He must stay the course.
Through them, Rhyse moved like a streak of blue. A violent blur tearing at their lines, striking and vanishing, pressing the fight again and again. It was all he had left. The Jedi dwindled to death, to betrayal, to disappearance. It hardly mattered. The loss gnawed at him all the same.
But in moments like this, when he forced himself into stillness, the world softened. The cavern faded. The rain, the wind, the stone -- all dissolved into silence. In their place rose a field of light. Endless. Luminous blossoms swelled from the ground in hues of pale blue, growing brighter, opening like flowers in bloom. Rhyse sat cross-legged, hovering weightless. His arms and legs glowed with the same smooth, featureless light. The rest of him, though unseen, he imagined to be no different.
Here, at last, was peace. A peace he had never found out there in the wider galaxy. Never among the bodies, never beneath the banners of war. Even before, there had always been something clawing at him; a hunger, a fire. Not desire, he would tell himself, but just recognition. Though of late, that fire had only grown, fed by the rot spreading across the stars. Yet he kept it at bay. He was a Jedi. A Jedi protects. It was his role, his sacred duty.
Still, even in meditation his lip curled with a sneer.
Action. It was time for action. Gather what remained and strike at the heart of the Empire. At the Imperial Centre, as they now called it. A message to the Alliance: not all the Jedi had abandoned them. He would see the Emperor fall, his Dark Side Elite cut down, the evil ripped out root and stem. They must go, they must die.
A chill crept up his spine, but the thought would not leave him.
Archais had not been enough. Two, three, four foes at once. Let them come, let them all come. He was content to meet them all, cut them all down. No quarter, no mercy. Sith, if that was even their name, clung to life with hatred, dragging themselves back from the edge to spite the galaxy. He would cast them over it, into the abyss -- the nether itself. It was all they deserved for all they had done, for all they would continue to do.
And the Jedi. The so-called Jedi. Deserters, cowards. The memory of Coruscant cracked his focus, with half his friends slaughtered in droves, helpless in the face of the Imperial onslaught. Their faces still hung before him, mouths slack, eyes like dead fish. The other half vanished into the void, spitting on the corpses they left behind. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed. Rage shuddered through the palace of light he had built.
A fissure split the ground. From it bled red and black, with an essence of rot curling upward, twisting. It had no scent, yet it stank of corruption. It did not move, not so much as inch, merely sitting and lingering there at the edge of his vision. So far as his mind would stretch. Though it forced his heart to sink all the same, plummeting. Was it fear, Rhyse wondered, recalling something so primal he swore he had not felt in such a long, long time. It did not matter. It burrowed into his very soul.
With a sharp gasp, Rhyse was ripped back into the cave. He fell onto the stone, hard. His lightsaber clattering at his side.