Lorn had seen death more times than he could count. He carried the ghosts of too many friends, too many brothers, whispering to him in his dreams. But this wasn't death. This was theft.
For one blessed heartbeat, as Ala's hands released from the altar, Lorn thought it meant freedom. He believed his strength, his love, had pulled her back, that the Force, broken and cruel as it was, had decided for once to let him keep someone precious. But then came the chill, then her words. "Lorn… behind you…" He spun, saber ready to be drawn, but found nothing. No enemy to strike down, no visible threat. Only a shadow, like a wave of ink, slithering under him and directly to her. Her boots were turning black, not scorched or painted, but consumed by the darkness.
"No," he whispered, choking on the word. He reached for her legs, his hands sliding through that oily darkness as if it were both air and ash.
"Ala!" he shouted, his voice cracking.
"Stay with me!" But she was already touching his face, calm, still undeniably Ala. That same serenity had always pulled him back from every ledge, every battlefield, every scream-filled night.
"It will be alright. You will be alright," she lied, her voice a desperate attempt to protect him.
"No, don't, don't do this. I cant..." His voice broke fully then, cracking like a child's. "
You don't get to do this. I can't lose you too."
Then she pulled him down, her lips pressing softly to the corner of his mouth. It wasn't hungry or desperate, but a kiss of terrible finality. His breath caught as if it had nowhere left to go. His arms wrapped around her waist as the black climbed her ribs, her shoulders, that maddening tangle of curls.
"Tell Isla I will be back…"
"No, Ala, don't say goodbye. Don't say it that way."
She started to speak again, the words that should have broken him fully:
"I love…" But they never reached him. The shadow devoured her mouth, her eyes, her voice. Lorn screamed, a raw, animal sound, as her face faded into something else. Her body remained hers, yet her posture, her breath, her very presence, shifted like a puppet jerked awake by invisible strings.
The room trembled, the altar stilled. Then Ala's eyes, his Ala's eyes, opened. There was a purple haze, an alien brilliance within them, before a voice, not hers, asked,
"Where is he?"
Lorn stared at her like she was a ghost wrapped in the skin of the woman he loved. There was a beat of pure silence. His chest rose once, as if trying to breathe around a lungful of knives. Then he stood. He lit his saber. The golden blade roared to life, filling the chamber with its savage hum. In that fierce light, his face was not that of a Jedi, nor a Commander. It was the face of a man already broken, being torn apart again.
"Give her back," he growled, his voice low and shaking.
"You hear me?" He stepped toward her, toward the thing wearing her skin.
"Whatever you are, whatever ancient evil you once were, you don't get to wear her like a cloak. You don't get to touch her skin, or breathe through her lips, or speak with her voice." His saber wavered in his grip, not from fear, but from the sheer force of his rage.
"She is mine." His voice cracked again, but this time with fury, not grief.
"You want a host?" He threw his arms wide, chest heaving, saber lowered.
"Take me. Leave her. Take me instead." He would burn the galaxy to ash to keep Ala from becoming one more ghost.
"I swear by every name the Jedi forgot, every soul I failed, and every star I bled beneath, I will drag you into the void myself if you don't let her go."
And then, with one trembling hand, he reached for her cheek, his voice a whisper, a prayer, a plea:
"Ala… come back to me."
Michael Angellus
