The Rebel Faction

Chaos littered the streets. Fires sprouted up everywhere, and with no order to put them out they only spread. People were running through the streets. Other people were chasing the aforementioned people through the streets. Other people were chasing both. All of them were running from everyone else. It was as pure as chaos could ever get.

“Rally a few key people and there’s no end to what you can accomplish,” Xoverus grinned, turning to Werkzeug, “Do you not agree, apostle?”

A pure work of dark art, Werkzeug no longer had the physical capacity to make a verbal response, and instead simply nodded his deformed head. The vision of what was now Werkzeug had come to Jeremiah long ago in a dream, but the Dark Jedi Master had never believed he would have ever realized that dream until he had seen the former drunkard, wallowing in the alley. Alone.

Two enormous wings had sprouted from the minion’s spinal cord. Feet were now hooves, hands were now claws. The head, which had never been a pretty sight, was now viciously scarred and deformed beyond all recollection of the beast’s former humanity. Werkzeug was no longer a man. He was a demon. He was the Apostle, warlord over all of those under Xoverus’s influence.

Warlord. It was an honorary title and nothing more. In a land of pure chaos, there could be no system of order. There was only Xoverus, the people he had warped into monsters, and the prey of those very monsters. And it was spreading. This was the third city Xoverus had claimed in the name of ultimate chaos. There would be many more yet to come.

Ultimate chaos. It was the figurehead, the puppet with which Xoverus justified his campaign to those who served him. His real intent lay secret to all, even the Apostle. Xoverus’s power lay in corruption, not dominance. Humanity needed an ideal. One Dark Jedi’s vendetta against a Fallen Jedi didn’t exactly qualify as an ideal. These people died and killed for chaos. Xoverus made them for Zark Ekan.

Zark Ekan.


************

The bullet lay straight upon his palm. The palm did not quiver, and neither did the bullet. The bullet was a part of the palm, just as the palm was a part of the hand, the hand a part of the arm, and so on…finally until at last it came to the man itself, Zark Ekan. All this, he knew to be true, and yet he felt no ownership over the bullet whatsoever. Somehow, the bullet owned him.

The bullet left the palm, and yet the movement of the palm could not be registered to any who might be watching (which was no one). The glare reflected light into the Jedi…no, the Force User’s eye, and for a small moment Zark remembered what it had been like to have a twinkle in his eye. And then it was gone once more.

The bullet fell neatly into one of the six slots in the revolver that had somehow materialized out of nowhere. With an impossibly quick flick of the thumb, the cylinder rolled back into the frame of the weapon, and, with one last glint of light, the bullet disappeared.

Zark liked to think that each bullet he fired was a small piece of Roland, and that every kill he made was one step closer on a never-ending journey to avenge the man’s death. But the rational part of his mind, the part that he hated almost as much as the insane part, reminded him that not only was that the stupidest thing to think in the world, but Roland had never existed in the first place.

“Then how do you explain my ‘reincarnation’?” Zark asked himself.

How do you explain talking to yourself?

“I’m insane.”

Yes, well, that’s what I was getting at. You are insane, especially if you think Roland ever really existed.

“You don’t either.”

You’re insane.

“Touche.”

In one fluent motion, the revolver returned to its holster, and as Zark’s fingers left the hilt, they brushed past the hilt of another weapon. The hilt of his lightsaber. No, the hilt of a lightsaber. It wasn’t his anymore. He had long lost his right to honorably wield the instrument of the Jedi.

With a wave of his hand, the lightsaber went flying across the room, propelled by the Force. He would not be using it this time around. He owed at least that much to the people he had fooled. He owed it to Roland. He owed it to himself. He owed it to Heather.

You don’t owe anyone anything, you’re just trying to justify unjustifiable actions.

“You’d rather I accept the fact that I’m a killer? A murderer? You’d rather I just accept it and move on.”

We both know that isn’t going to happen.

“No…I have to see this through.”

We both know that’s bullshit, too. You hate him. That’s all it is. Hatred. Vengeance. Evil. Everything you’ve always fought against.

“You’re saying I shouldn’t hate him?”

I’m saying that under the teachings of the Jedi, you are not supposed to.

“The teachings of the Jedi are flawed.”

Correct.

“I am no Jedi.”

Correct.

“Then what am I?”

You are Fallen.

*****************

It hadn’t exactly been an easy thing to do, staying out of sight and tracking Zark’s hyperspace route, but Heather had managed to do it. So had Aenix and Nathaniel, although it had been much easier for them, as it seemed all Heather was concentrated on was finding the man who had left her standing alone in the spaceport a few hours ago.

Nathaniel meditated, but both Aenix and Heather stared intently ahead, as if she could see Zark and he could see her. The hatred bubbling inside of Aenix and the obsession bubbling inside of Heather unnerved Nathaniel greatly, and he found himself wondering at how easily the return of a long lost friend had led them both away from the path of the Jedi.

“Oh Force, I hope that isn’t what’s happening,” Nathaniel whispered to himself.

“Did you say something?” Aenix asked a few seconds later.

“No,” Nathaniel snapped quickly, “No. Nothing.”

The Fallen looked out upon the city with bitter sadness in his eyes. Death had been visited upon this place. Not just death, but something a thousand times worse. Undeath. And it had all happened because of him. One way or another, this was all his fault. He had, in his inability to defeat a Sith Lord, killed all of these people. He had, in his inability to defeat a Sith Lord, raised them from the dead and forced them to do Jeremiah Xoverus’s dark bidding.

He hated himself for it. He hated what Xoverus had made him. He hated what he had done to his friends and what he had to do to more innocents. He hated everything about himself. The only thing that kept him going was one simple little thing. The only thing that prevented him from squeezing off a round into his chest or head right now…

As much as he hated himself, he hated Jeremiah Xoverus much, much more.

Hatred. It was an emotion once unthinkable to him, an emotion that he had been experiencing in massive volumes over the past year. Didn’t hatred lead to the darkside? That’s what the Jedi said, wasn’t it? He vaguely remembered. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to…suffering. Suffering…

Jedi knew not the meaning of suffering. Neither did the Sith.

That was the path to the darkside, but somehow Zark had skipped the last step. Yes, he had fallen from grace. Yes, he could be considered evil. Yes, many aspects of the Sith fit him, but…he knew, he just knew, that was not the case. He had no desire to wipe out those he once called friends, no deep hunger for power and death, no…no allegiance to those who, by all means, should now be considered his brethren. No, in fact he hated them too.

They were responsible. They were at fault. They were the ones who made Jeremiah Xoverus the man he was today. They created the techniques that, at this very moment, Xoverus employed on the innocents of this city he was about to wreak havoc in. They were the ones who had caused all of his pain and suffering over the years. They were the ones who had killed Roland. They were…they were his biological parents.

Oh the cruelness of irony.

Something was happening to him. Even in his state, he could feel it, clearly. He did not know what it was doing, or whether or not it would turn out for better or for worse, but he knew he would not...could not do anything to stop it. The once definite line the Force created in itself had blurred beyond recognition…for nobody but him.

What the Shadow Jedi had dedicated their entire lives to accomplishing he had done without meaning to. He was the ultimate mixture between the light and dark sides of the Force. Was it a good thing? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about much anymore.

He was going to take down Darth Xoverus once and for all, and he was going to bring this city and many like it to their knees in order to do so.

The Fallen reached out with the Force, as far as he could go, taking in everything his mind could sense. It was at these moments that he realized just how powerful his abilities in the Force had become. A year ago, he would not be able to scan anywhere near the distance he touched with ease now.

What had caused it? How was it related to what he had become? These were questions he didn’t want the answers to. He didn’t want any answers anymore. He was done asking the questions. All he wanted was closure. Whether or not redemption or death or none of the above came afterward, he didn’t care.

Jeremiah’s territory was amazingly large for one man to have taken in such a short time, but the Sith was crafty. There were countless more heads under his control than there had been during the JED-1 incident. This was like Darj Ekdi times ten.

There were nine cities, each with a hefty population of undead and each with one lieutenant to bring about direction to the chaos. The northernmost city would be the one Zark would take first. It was called Galt, once upon a time. It boasted a headcount of five to six hundred undead under Jeremiah’s command. Its lieutenant was Baltar the Bear. Each lieutenant had a small measure of Force power. Baltar was the weakest with the Force but strongest physically.

To the southwest of Galt was Reap, with a population of eight hundred heads under Xoverus. Its lieutenant was Vix the Sly, the most cunning lieutenant. His Force powers lay mostly in the area of deception and stealth. Far to the east, southeast of Galt, was Hambry. Its population was roughly the same as Reap’s. Hambry’s lieutenant was Ziv the Venomous, brother to Vix, whose area of expertise was in poisons and tricks upon the enemy’s body.

Far south of Galt, southeast of Reap and southwest of Hambry, completing a diamond pattern, was Mejis. It had a headcount of over one thousand undead under Jeremiah’s command. Zark hoped to skip Mejis completely, and kill Xoverus before word ever got there that there was a serious attack. Mejis was the stronghold of Werkzeug, Warlord of Xoverus’s army of the dead.

And then there was the center of the diamond. There were four small towns, mimicking the outer diamond in a smaller area. They were Geb, Scholomance, Stratholme, and Hillsbrad. Geb’s lieutenant was Iziz the Fierce, Scholomance’s Nosfer the Wise, Stratholme’s Marcus the Brave, and Hillsbrad’s Dien the Merciless. Each city only had a headcount in the area of one hundred, but they were close together, and it would be tough to take one at a time without alerting any of the others.

Finally, there was the last city. It was Gilead, the center of Tirisfal, the area that Jeremiah had enslaved. Gilead was the capital city, the stronghold of Darth Xoverus himself. That was where Jeremiah resided. That was why Zark was here. That was the direction in which he would have to kill.

It was night, but the cities did not sleep. They never slept. There was no advantage, no high ground, no surprise. Jeremiah expected him, and so did his minions. But hopelessness had never deterred Zark before, and he would not be chased away now. The city of Galt was bathed in darkness, and Zark was coming to bathe it in blood.

Chances are there is someone out there in the massive galaxy that can teach you everything there ever is to know about any type of fighting ever even thought of, except for one thing. One thing everyone has to learn for themselves. One thing everyone learns differently. One thing not everyone who fights learns. How to deal with the stress of actual combat.

A man could be completely physically prepared for a combat situation, but if they can’t deal with the mental stress, they will fall apart. That’s what Zark felt like in those opening moments of the fight between him and Baltar the Bear. It was his first days of combat all over again.

He had to deal with his best of friends being with him in a combat situation, or he wouldn’t make it out alive. He knew this. He had seen it happen to people before. But try as he might, he just couldn’t wipe the expression on Heather’s face from his mind. So he didn’t.

Heather was his focus. Heather was his cause. Heather was what he was fighting for.

The fight with Baltar was reminiscent of those moments in the cathedral with Xoverus. The hardest, the strongest, the best he had ever fought. Zark predicted every movement Baltar made before he made it, as if he knew what the monstrosity was thinking in that deformed head of his.

But try as he might, he just couldn’t wear the beast down. Baltar took round after round of rifle fire, unflinchingly and almost unaware. It was like they were annoying mosquitoes. Zark realized that he couldn’t continue this for much longer. He wasn’t getting tired, but he was wasting too much ammunition. Ammunition he would need.

He slung the rifle around his back, a move that surprised all three onlookers and confused Baltar himself. For a moment. Then the beast charged once more…and so did Zark. In those few seconds it took for the two to reach each other, Heather truly believed that Zark had finally lost his mind. She gave a cry of dismay, one that quickly turned to one of surprise.

Zark came in with a roundhouse punch to the side of Baltar’s face, and to the shock of the Jedi, it sent the creature flying and eventually skidding, onto the ground. Baltar slowly but surely pushed itself off the ground, shaking its head and grunting. Its head craned to the side to look at its opponent, who was standing calmly, not even mocking a fighting stance.

Baltar fully regained a standing position, and gave a bellow of rage. Once more it charge, but this time Zark did not do the same. It came thundering toward the unmoving Fallen. Zark showed no signs of moving, and still it came on. Motionless. Finally, when the beast was mere feet away from him, Zark sprang lightning-quick into a leap that cleared the beast’s head and over it.

Zark landed, and Baltar skidded to a halt, preparing to come back for another charge.

“Heather, the shotgun!” Zark bellowed, his head jerking toward the onlookers.

“The what?” Heather managed.

“The gun on your back! Now!”

Confused, she fumbled the hulking weapon off of her back, and hurled it at Zark. It would have fallen hopelessly short if the Fallen had not drawn it to him with the Force. Baltar was once again charging, dangerously close to him. Zark cocked the weapon. Baltar was close. He aimed. Baltar was too close. He fired.

And the beast collapsed, nearly crushing Zark underneath it. It would have, if he had not back-flipped into a roll, clearing ‘ground zero’. The beast attempted to lift itself up again as it had done after Zark punched it, but it found it couldn’t stand. Zark cocked the shotgun again, and the next shot took out the beast’s other leg. For that was what Zark was aiming for. The two stubs that had, against all odds, kept Baltar standing, until they were riddled with shotgun blasts, that is.

Baltar attempted to hoist part of his body up with his hands, but he could not support his dead weight, and collapsed back to the ground. Zark slowly approached the beast, his movements long and drawn out, as if he was building up the suspense. But in reality he was dreading what he was about to do. What he had to do. Not because he held any sorrow for Baltar the Bear, but because she was standing right there.

“Urrgghhh…” groaned Baltar, “Fool! You may have destroyed the outpost of Galt, but the rest will not be so easy! Darth Xoverus will have his vengeance! The Jedi Zark Ekan will be DESTROYED!”

Zark straddled the massive neck of the beast, looking down on the back of its head. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but reconsidered and simply snapped the beast’s neck. The crack was loud, gruesome, and extremely satisfying.

The Fallen swung one leg over and sat on the former lieutenant’s head. One down, a lot to go. Zark had a feeling that this was going to last longer than one night. Larger scale, longer timeline, it only made sense. Still, the idea of all of the killing he was going to have to do nearly made him sick.

It wasn’t a matter of morality, Zark had long gotten past that, but killing things over and over again was like watching one movie over and over again. It might be exciting the first, second, and maybe third time. But eventually it got boring, and after enough times, it made you want to throw up.

“Umm…Zark?” It was Nathaniel.

“Yes?” Zark asked.

“A little help?”

It took Zark a full second to register that there were still undead wandering about, the destruction of their leader not seeming to have given them a moment of pause. With a frustrated sigh, the Fallen stood up, wiping the seat of his pants off. There was going to be a lot more killing, and Zark was only looking forward to one more death.

You’re almost not worth it, Jeremiah, Zark thought to himself.


************


Zark once again sat perched atop the head of Baltar the Bear, attempting, in vain, to wipe off some of the blood, entrails, and other pieces of flesh that had managed to cling to his body during the fight. It had been nearly another half hour of fighting before he, with minimal help from Aenix and Nathaniel, had cleared out the rest of the town.

“So…where to next?” Nathaniel asked.

“Reap,” Zark muttered, just loud enough for them to hear.

“To Reap, then,” Nathaniel proclaimed, trying to bring a measure of happiness to a situation that couldn’t possibly have any of its own.

“I’m going to Reap,” Zark fixed them all with a stare; “You three are going home. Now.”

“No,” Aenix.

“What?” Zark glared at what seemed more and more like a former friend.

“You heard me,” Aenix said, “We’re coming with you. It is our duty as Jedi to rid this planet of the blight that plagues it.”

Zark laughed. There was no measure of joy in it, no happiness. It was the laugh of a man who had lost all sense of anything remotely positive, and it was one of the scariest things any of them had ever heard, even Aenix, though he wouldn’t admit it. It truly sounded like Zark was a madman.

“The Jedi lost all sense of their duty a long time ago,” Zark hissed, “Their self-proclaimed duty. Their mandate, given to them by themselves. Selfless, hah! They have achieved more fame and glory than any could ever hope to achieve, and look what they’ve accomplished? A galaxy ruined, an Empire at large. The New Republic? A fool’s idea, gone with the fucking wind.”

“Not another word, Zark,” Aenix growled.

“Or what, Aenix?” Zark growled right back, “Look at you! ‘Rid this planet of the blight that plagues it’, you couldn’t rid this planet of a frelling nerf. You’ve been so glorified by those you protect that you’ve forgotten how to protect! What are you going to do, discuss philosophy with them? Go home, you miserable child.”


”Child?” Aenix scoffed, “And what are you? A man. What does it take to become a man, Zark? Do I have to kill someone? Is that it?”

“To kill someone…” Zark whispered, again just loud enough for them to hear, “Is to become a monster.”

“Then how do you justify yourself?!”

“I don’t,” Zark snapped, “I am a monster. I cannot justify that. I live with it, though I’d rather not. But I have one more thing to do.”

“What’s that?” Heather managed, speaking for the first time since the fighting had begun.

“Kill the source. Kill the Sith. Kill Xoverus. Again.”

“Again?” Nathaniel breathed.

“Go home.” Zark said again, but his tone had changed. He was no longer the angry ‘monster’, the Fallen. He was, for a moment, Zark. The old Zark. And his voice…was kind…and pleading, “Please.”

“We’re coming,” Aenix said, his tone resolute.

“Then may the Force be with you,” Zark said, “You’re going to need it.”

Six Days Later…

Zark had spent an entire week of his life on the planet Xoverus had so brutally claimed and twisted to suit his own personal needs. He had passed through hell, and he was still alive, if you could call it that. It was just like a fairy tale, straight out of the books he had been read as a child. The fearless knight conquered his dark foes and triumphed over the Dark Lord who threatened to plague the land.

The Dark Lord had already been killed once before. The fearless knight had been driven mad by the torments of his past. The dark foes, in many parts of Tirisfal, still walked abroad, without fear and without talk. Almost just like a fairy tale. Zark knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this fairy tale would not have a fairy tale ending.

Over the course of the past week Zark had sacked the town of Galt, and slain Baltar the Bear. He had turned the tables on Vix the Sly, assassinating the master of stealth from the shadows. He had turned back Ziv’s venom, engulfing the lieutenant in his own concoction, at a terrible price. His left eye socket lay empty, the ball having been sizzled away by his dead foe.

The armies of Geb, Scholomance, Stratholme, and Hillsbrad had been gathered into a bottleneck, and Zark had depleted his surplus of weaponry in blowing them all to hell where their damned souls belonged. Iziz the Fierce had been slain, his body skewered upon a pike. He had taken Zark’s left hand with him to his grave. Nosfer the Wise had been driven mad by his thoughts, cursed to think and think about everything and nothing until his head exploded. Marcus the Brave lay in some hollow corner, terrified out of his mind and no threat to anyone. Dien the Merciless had been flayed alive by his own creations.

And then there were two. Gilead and Mejis. The mass army of Mejis had no doubt been notified by now of the disturbance, and was likely on their way. Gilead lay before him, bleak and desolate, with not a minion of Xoverus in sight. Zark knew that there would be no creatures sneaking from the shadows here. Gilead was barren, save one.

Gilead was the key. Gilead was all that mattered.

Gilead housed Jeremiah.

Zark wandered the streets, marveling at the oddities of a culture now destroyed. They had made a little utopia for themselves on this planet, a mix of old ways and new technology. The people of Tirisfal had been aided by an outside source. Zark wondered if it had been Xoverus himself. It would have been just like the Sith, to lift Tirisfal’s culture beyond their wildest dreams and destroy it just as quickly as it had begun.

But no, Xoverus had been trapped on JED-1 for decades.

“Zark!” it was the cry he had feared ever since he had left Reap.

He did not know whether it was Aenix or Nathaniel calling to him, and he did not care. He pretended, desperately, not to hear them, a last ditch effort to deter them from following. No use. It seemed that the fates of the four were intertwined after all, as Zark had feared ever since he had realized his fantasies’ futility back on Naboo.

“That was some shit you pulled at the bri-oh Force…” Aenix stopped suddenly, seeing for the first time the stump where his left hand had once been.

Zark turned, and before either of the two men could react Heather burst into tears. His left hand he had left untended, but the blood oozing from his eye had become too cumbersome during his battles. He had managed to cobble together a decent-looking eye-patch, but the terror of what the patch represented horrified his companions beyond belief.

“It is almost over,” Zark said, unfazed, “You should not have come.”

“You bastard,” Zark had expected it to be Aenix, but he was shocked to discover the statement had come from Nathaniel’s lips, “We could have helped you! I could have helped you! You selfish little bastard!”

“After all this time, you think it’s about fame?” Zark asked, almost horrified, “If you’re lucky, not all of you will die here. I hope you’re lucky.”

“What?” Heather asked, “It’s over, Zark! It’s done! There’s no one left.”

“No,” Zark’s one eye flashed in anger, “There is one left. There is the most important of all.”

As if on queue, Jeremiah Xoverus stepped from the shadows. He looked nothing like he had originally on JED-1, that body was forever dead. But Zark knew right away who was standing before him.

“Well done, Zark,” Marcus’s mouth said, but the voice was the one he knew from so long ago, “You did better than I had expected. It’s a shame about the hand, though…and the eye. That probably will handicap you when it comes.”

“When what comes?” Heather whispered, “When what comes, Zark?”

“The battle,” Zark replied calmly, “The battle to end it.”

“Ah, Heather,” Jeremiah grinned broadly, “So nice of you to come. You don’t know it yet, but you’re going to be a big help when the time comes.”

“Leave her the fuck out of this,” Zark hissed, his voice turning into something terrible and viscious.

“Or you’ll what?” Jeremiah scoffed, “Beat me with that stump?”

“Aenix,” Zark’s voice was calm once more, “Your lightsaber.”

“Zark..,” Aenix began.

“Now.”

“I…”

“Aenix!” Zark hissed, “If you love me. If you love her, you will give me your lightsaber!”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Aenix unclipped the Jedi weapon from his belt. It was snatched out of his hands by the Force before he could second-guess his decision, and the familiar snap-hiss! greeted everyone’s ears, followed instantly by the appearance of the blue-colored blade.

“Awww…” Jeremiah tilted his head, smirking, “I was hoping we could have chatted for a while longer. But very well, if you insist.”

Jeremiah’s own, red blade, appeared, and in an instant too short to comprehend, Zark Ekan and Jeremiah Xoverus exploded.

The collision was the likes of which none of the three onlookers had ever experienced. They were literally blown off their feet by the shockwave of the two men’s first strike. Both sabers strained and groaned under the sheer pressure of the force with which their master’s were wielding them.

And then…it happened. The fight began to play out with such predictability that neither of the two really had to think. It was exactly as it had been. Exactly as it was during that night oh so long ago on JED-1. Down to the last saber strike, everything was the same. Their sabers even broke from over-exertion at the exact same moment.

“Do you remember this fight, Zark?” Jeremiah asked, “I do. I remember it so clearly. Do you remember how it turned out in the end?”

“Yes,” Zark replied, huffing, “I shot you. More than once.”

“Ah yes, yes you did,” Jeremiah chuckled, “But you had Roland then. He sacrificed himself for you. He gave you life. He is not here this time. All he can give you is death…death in his memory.”

And before even Xoverus could react, a punch was landed so hardly on his nose that it compressed inside his face, leaving only a stump in the middle of his horribly disfigured face, a small hole between his mouth and eyes.

And he laughed. Blood gushed from the wound, and he laughed.

“Exactly as it was supposed to happen,” Xoverus grinned, and he went into a chant. An all too familiar chant.

“NO!” Zark screamed, moving faster than could be possible.

Too late.

Zark’s fist exploded through the chest of Marcus’s body, but Jeremiah’s soul had ceased to inhabit it moments before.

“Take me!” Zark screamed, “You want someone else?! Take me! TAKE ME!”

“You would love that, wouldn’t you? a tiny, almost insignificant voice whispered, “But you know as well as I do that it is not meant to be.”

“No…no! NO! DAMN YOU, XOVERUS!” Zark screamed all around him, “NO!”

His gaze halted as he reached Heather’s face, and his look softened. He knew what was going to happen. He couldn’t prevent it. It was inevitable. Why couldn’t they have just listened? Why couldn’t they have just gone home?

“Zark?” Heather managed to speak for the first time since the fight had begun, “What’s going on? Zark?”

“Damn me to hell, I’m so sorry,” Zark choked out, tears pouring down from his one good eye, “I’m so sorry, Heather. Please. I’m so sorry. I never wanted this. I’m so sorry.”

“Zar-” and before she could scream, it happened.

The spirit of Jeremiah Xoverus rushed in through her opened mouth, and for the third time he…she was reborn. Aenix and Nathaniel backed away, horrified. The woman they had known since they were children contorted into something terrible. Something exactly the same, something completely different.

“Damn me to hell…” Zark whispered.

Before Nathaniel could react, his lightsaber had unclipped itself and flown out of his grasp. The purple saber flared to life, and Heather charged.

“No…” Zark whispered.

Still she charged.

“No…no no no…” he couldn’t find anything else to say.

Relentless.

“NO!” he screamed, and in his voice was something…ethereal. Something…unworldly.

He drew his revolver, and shot her.

The spirit once more fled her body, the shadow of Xoverus’s voice tittering with ravenous glee.

Heather fell, and before she hit the ground Zark was there, catching her. Breaking her fall. Saving her. Saving her…if only. If only he could. Her eyes, her beautiful eyes, stared up at him, as if she did not believe what she was seeing. His eye had softened; his face had stopped natural impassiveness. Vigor had returned. For a brief moment, the old Zark Ekan. The Zark Ekan she had once known was back. Was standing right in front of her.

“I lo…I lov…I…” and she died.

“I know…” Zark whispered quietly to her dead face, “Even if you never said it, I know. I did too, once. Please forgive this broken shell, who can no longer love even the ones who deserve it. Please forgive me. Please forgive this Fallen Jedi.”

He lifted her body, and carried it over to Aenix and Nathaniel, horror still portrayed prominently on their faces, tear stains covering their faces. He gave her to Aenix.

“Take her. Get back to your ship. Get out of here.”

“Where are you going?” Nathaniel finally managed.

“I’m staying right here,” Zark replied, “I’m going to end it.”

Wordlessly, Aenix and Nathaniel complied. The traveled north, through the wreckage of Galt, back to the ship they had arrived in.

Xoverus infested Zark in an effort to prevent what he was doing, but it was too late. They battled for what seemed like hours before Zark Ekan was manage to send forth the entire essence of the Force within him in the form of a Spark of the Lightside into the ground.

The following explosion was more devastating than any created by the ingenuity of man. In a split second, Tirisfal was gone.

Zark had won.

At the cost of everything, Zark had won.

And now he could find peace.

End.