Work Text:
(sealed, do not open)
Dawn comes and goes, and she is still on that same spot on the floor of her tiny apartment at the edge of the city, her legs crossed, and arms resting on the knees. The datacron is hovering in front of her, - more of a chipped piece of stone, carved with rough inscriptions so long ago they are almost invisible, - glowing only when you look through the Force. Shadows cover her face, instead of usual dark paint. Only the stain on the lower lip remains, half-smeared.
Two days later, she stands up.
The holocom blinks with several unanswered messages, but she brushes past the table, finding her way to the bathroom, touching the walls, as if she was blind.
She looks around for something, then clenches her fist, staring intently at the edge of the table, until metal starts to crumble like paper. When she lets go, tabletop collapses into a pile of metal shards. She picks the one that looks sharpest, touches its edge, and, satisfied, comes over to the mirror.
Old words, rough and crisp, are hissing in her ears, forming into the phrase that wants to be written.
She looks at the mirror, not really seeing her face - only the blank spaces to put the string of letters on. She takes the shard.
She starts to carve.
A month later she is standing in the office of her former master in Citadel, a cramped room with datapads scattered all over the floor, and looks perfectly humble under the gaze of Darth Thanaton.
Investigators found nothing.
"While deeply saddened by my Master's passing, and lack of her knowledge to help me, I'll serve the Empire to the best of my abilities," she bows politely. Bow hides both her smile and fresh, puffed scars on her face.
Darth Thanaton watches her for a second - his own tattoo, once a very similar scarring, looks almost alive on his face under the usual dim light of the Citadel offices - and then chuckles, humorless.
"Start now, then, Lord Zael, and clean up this mess."
She looks up.
She smiles.