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The Ravager was a ship of the dead, in almost every sense of the word. Its organic inhabitants were as guttering candle flames, nearly extinguished and yet somehow lingering still. They appeared to Visas as faint glimmers of sickly gray light, nearly invisible even when close by. The ship’s currents, the flow of energy between circuits and conduits, were stagnant and dull, and the droids were dead spots in the force, invisible to Visas’s impaired sight, though she knew their inner workings should have produced some sort of presence.
And there on the command deck, was her master. The horror that never slept, that subsisted off of pure energy alone. It was his vast will and inexorable power that held this dead ship of dead beings together, grafted dead limbs onto a metal corpse and willed it to move, to live, even as he drank them all dry, drop by drop. Things that should have been dead yet breathed, Visas not least of them, but their form of existence could not be called ‘life.’ Not truly.
Existence upon the Ravager was unnatural. Here was a dead ship where there should have been nothing that breathed, where the waking horror consumed the Force and slowly sapped everything around him dry. And yet, there were things that breathed there. Such existence was unnatural, was to commit an act of blasphemy against the Force, for surely nothing could breathe on this dead ship. Such existence would have wounded Visas Marr, even without the tokens of her master’s training upon her. Nothing was supposed to survive in such a place, and a Miraluka was not supposed to crawl, nearly blind, upon the rotting, putrid skin of a dead ship.
Such existence was unnatural, but after it, Visas found the Ebon Hawk a stranger place still for how normal it was. The currents of energy flowed through the ship just as they should, and the droids gave off energy, just as they should. The organic beings all channeled the Force normally, appeared as pillars of gentle, steadily glowing light. Any fluctuations were the result of injury or changing mood, not a sign of the Force being drained from them. And the one thing on this ship that was truly unusual…
“You must learn to let the Force guide you, in place of your physical eyes,” Visas said softly, burying her uncertainty deep enough that, hopefully, the Exile would never find it. “Listen to the sound of my breathing, to the humming of this ship. Forget the physical shapes you see. Reach out with the Force, search for life force and energy.”
Through her own stunted sight, Visas could discern a faint shiver around the Exile’s head—a nod. She said nothing, instead setting herself to the lesson, but Visas could sense her restlessness. There was often this restlessness about the Exile during quite moments such as this, coils of uneasy energy winding tighter and tighter around her, as if she was waiting for the first shot to be fired. It made it difficult for her to concentrate on lessons at times, this need to direct her attention on anything that might be going wrong, or could potentially go wrong in the future.
Or, perhaps, Visas was simply a poor teacher. That was not a possibility she was willing to rule out. She had never taught a student; if her world lived still and she had never left, there was a chance she would still be a student herself. Her sight was damaged; she was inadequate. She had often proved an inadequate student to her master; why should she be any better a teacher? Even on this ship, where it was so much easier to see than it was aboard the Ravager, she knew there were things she did not see so clearly as she had before Katarr was rendered a dead spot in the Force. She might remember little of her old life, but she remembered seeing so much more clearly. And when she was near the Exile, it was so difficult to focus on anything else.
She had heard the call from thousands of light years away, such a quiet thing, but so clear, even against the background life of the universe. Something was moving in the galaxy, a power to potentially rival her master’s, in time, but not one that thrived in darkness as he did. Instead, the call Visas heard was laced with light, laced with the faint strains of song. They sounded… She had not realized it at the time, but they sounded like what fragments of song she recalled from life before this half-blind existence of hers.
And when she traced that call down to its source, that call so clear that she could track it even on chaotic, too-bright, too-loud Nar Shaddaa, Visas found… light. The Exile shone like a beacon in the darkest depths of space, a light so brilliant that Visas sometimes wondered if she would go truly blind this time, if she looked into it for too long. But that light, warm without burning, and the woman from whom it emanated…
Visas could not turn away now, nor abandon what she had found.
“I think…” The Exile’s voice, soft with speculation, broke through Visas’s thoughts. “…I think I can see something.”
“And what is it you see?” This time, Visas was able to hide her uncertainty a little better. There was some merit to her teaching methods, it would seem—or, perhaps, the Exile was simply a readier student than Kreia had led Visas to believe.
“I see… you, for starters.” Greater confidence let the Exile’s voice pitch louder. “I can see the energy flowing through the Ebon Hawk; mostly just what’s close around us, but I can pick up on some of it from further away. Bao-Dur and Remote are in the garage; I can see Remote hovering behind Bao-Dur. Kreia’s in the port dormitory. She’s… I think she’s meditating; that’s what she’s usually doing when we aren’t holding a briefing. I can’t see anyone else, though. “There was a thrum of frustration that turned the words jarringly harsh.
As far as a first time lesson for a non-Miraluka went, though, it was likely as much as could be expected. “With practice, your range will increase,” Visas instructed, “and you will see easily all those around you, not simply those with whom you share close bonds.”
The Exile did seem to be closer to Kreia and Bao-Dur than she was with anyone else on the ship. With Bao-Dur, that closeness seemed forged in blood and a galaxy’s worth of guilt, but it was a bond, nonetheless. With Kreia, it was something fraught, something intensely uncomfortable, and yet the Exile’s respect for Kreia let the bond be woven in threads strong enough to reject the cutting blow of a lightsaber.
And the Exile seemed to forge bonds as easily as some beings breathed. Her relationship with Atton was nearly as close as with Bao-Dur and Kreia. The young bounty hunter, Mira, had taken a noticeable liking to her, though she might endeavor to hide it. Even the astromech droid, T3-M4, seemed more loyal to the Exile than one would expect of a droid.
She draws others to her, draws them into her gravity as my master does. But she does not feed upon them. She does not gather others to her so that their life force might sustain her. Instead, she leads and guides them, serves as inspiration. If they follow her, their loyalty is genuine, and I—
She could only endeavor to be worthy, difficult as that might be.
“Visas?”
The Exile’s suddenly troubled voice snapped Visas out of her reverie. “I am listening.”
On the Ravager, such a slip, her attention wandering while she stood before her master, would have been corrected with pain. On the Ebon Hawk, the Exile paid it little mind, and still, Visas could not help but tense, bracing herself for the pain that never came. “Visas… your aura.” Though still troubled, the Exile’s voice had grown noticeably sharper. “It looks cracked. Has it always been like this?”
Visas had forgotten certain things about residing on a ship of the living, rather than a ship of the dead. Therein lied her error, no doubt. Her master had never fed on her directly—as his apprentice she was, though unworthy, too valuable to be completely drained—but he fed passively on everyone aboard the Ravager, and it had told on her, just as it had told on everything else. She had felt… thin, stretched, hollowed-out so that her master could pour his teachings in the emptiness inside her. She had not been away from the Ravager long enough for her aura to register as normal to others who used Force Sight.
“No,” Visas replied tersely, feeling suddenly the overwhelming urge to pull away from that which she had previously basked in. “Not before.”
-0-0-0-
Later, when Visas found herself alone in the starboard dormitory again, she pressed her back against the cool metal wall, keenly aware of her solitude.
Though logically, the ship’s organic inhabitants would wish to rest in the dormitories, the sleeping arrangements had ended up significantly more spread out than that. The port dormitory belonged to Kreia alone, and no one wished to try to argue. Visas had the starboard dormitory to herself; once, some of the others had slept here, but after the incident that had begun her association with the crew, no one who had been a part of the crew when she arrived wished to sleep here any longer. Mira had tried, one night. That ended poorly.
Now, Mira slept on one of the hammocks in the cargo hold. Bao-Dur slept on a pallet in the garage; Atton, in the pilot’s chair. The Exile seemed to move around quite a bit. Sometimes she rolled out a pallet in the engine room or in communications. Sometimes she slept on a cot in the medical bay. Sometimes, she did not sleep at all, and paced the ship instead.
Amidst all of that, Visas had all the privacy she could desire. No one came to the starboard dormitory unless they wanted something from Visas, and few wanted anything from her badly enough to seek her out here. She had as much uninterrupted time for meditation as she could desire. She could wrap herself in silence or the steady hum of the engines.
But at times, when all was very quiet, and Visas was not mindful, her memory could slip. When the others slept (or, in Kreia’s case, slipped into a deep meditative state) and their presence in the Force became just a touch muted, her damaged sight failed her. She forgot, and was on the ship of the dead again.
-0-0-0-
She walked the ship of the dead, whispers trailing after her until they rose to screams, the stench of blood and rotting flesh permeating the air and clinging to clothes. She had wandered its corridors many times before, but this was a maze without an exit, and no one trapped within would ever find a way out to a place where they could feel the Force as they once did. Even those who escaped the physical bounds still carried their destination with them, and the maze became the tangled track their thoughts walked instead. There was no escape, no escape.
She had been dug out of the ashes of a dead world and brought here. She was the last relic of a dead world, the only thing of Katarr that was not doomed to shrivel into dust. Such a small thing she was, and she should not have lived. An inmate on the dead ship, her flesh lived, but there was nothing under it but grave worms. The worms had eaten her tongue, so she could not speak. They had eaten the delicate organs of her inner ears, so she could not hear. They had burrowed under the bony cap of her skull and feasted on her brain until her memories were like paper books thousands of years old; faded, at least partially illegible, more than partially destroyed, and rotting.
Her master had shown her the truth, and she was blind.
She was blind.
Empty darkness pressed on her like a straitjacket endeavoring to restrain her limbs. She stumbled forward blindly, feeling at the walls—and the floors, when she stumbled. She had finally lost her damaged sight completely, as blind and deaf as the corpse she truly was. Now, she was doomed to crawl helplessly along the flaking, rotting skin of this ship—
Ship?
Her hand, pressed against the wall, came away damp and smelling of soil. She dug her hands down into the floor, and there was dirt caked under her fingernails, coating her palms. Her heart could not pound, for it was dead and a dead lump of muscle could not pump blood. But all the same, her breath came out hitched and uneven as she began to walk down the hall, faster and faster until she broke into a run.
The faster she ran, the narrower the walls became, the lower the ceiling, until she was forced down on her hands and knees. She could not run; she could barely press forward in a crawl. Was this her ship of the dead, or was it her dead world? She smelled no blood, no plasma or fuel exhaust. The only smell that greeted her was the smell of earth. Worms squirmed under her hands, cold and slimy, and somewhere behind, there was the sound of the low ceiling giving way. Worms, there were worms everywhere, under her hands, falling from the ceiling onto her back, crawling over her legs…
Worms…
Was this her ship of the dead? Was it her dead world? Or was it a corpse?
-0-0-0-
Sharing a dormitory with no one was a double-edged sword. There was no one to awaken her from a nightmare, but there was also no one to see her as she was when she awoke from that nightmare.
Visas Marr put more faith in meditation than in sleep. Meditation allowed her to guide the course of her thoughts, keep them from turning down roads too clouded to see the end of (Few as they might be). Sleep afforded no such luxury, and rarely when Visas slept was her sleep untroubled. If it was not her dreams, it was her fear that if she fell asleep, she might pass into death without ever waking. But meditation, for all its restorative effects, could only sustain the body for so long. After long enough, Visas needed sleep, and could not avoid it.
All of her dreams ran in this vein. They were not merciful enough to let her forget; she carried them with her into waking hours. They left her now as they ever did on the Ravager, sitting on the edge of her bed, wiping her hands over her sweaty face, and stunned by the renewed knowledge that she was, in fact, alive.
If this is life, then I see little difference between life and death.
Here she was in the starboard dormitory. No one sought her out here unless they wanted something from her, and few wanted anything from her badly enough to seek her out. On the Ravager, she had had her meditation chamber, her cell. No one sought her out unless they wanted something from her, and few wanted something from her badly enough to seek her out. When her master wanted her, he summoned her. He did not come to her, and would not; it was not fitting for the master to come to the servant. She went to sleep nursing her aches on both ships; on one, the aches were physical, and on the other…
Her body needed sleep, though Visas would have been cheered if sleep never came to her again. She was still weak, and her body, screaming for sleep, reflected this. If nothing else, a glass of the hard, lukewarm water found on the Ebon Hawk might calm her enough to let her contemplate sleep again.
After wiping the last dregs of sweat from her face, Visas rose, and made her way towards the main hold, where the ship’s victuals were kept. She kept as quiet as was possible, steadying her breathing until it almost sounded normal, keeping her steps light and even, forcing herself to walk at a slow, careful pace. The others, the other organic beings, did not enjoy undisturbed sleep any more than Visas did. Their dreams were drenched in blood, or stank of loss, reeked of disillusionment and betrayal, and in Atton’s case, the vague, clouded impressions spoke of something near as dark as the paths Visas had walked herself. But if any slept well tonight, Visas would not take that from them.
The main hold was empty. The droids were all elsewhere, and just as well; the assassin droid had taken to prowling the ship when it thought no one was paying any mind, and Visas found conversation with it… trying. It reminded her of things she would sooner forget, and couldn’t. Solitude was, in this instance, welcome.
Visas found the water much as she remembered. Lukewarm, roughly the same temperature as the air onboard the ship, and so hard that she could almost taste rust at the back of her palate. Small wonder most of the crew preferred caf or blue milk or juice instead, or alcohol when they were berthed. But this water was at least relatively clean in taste; the water on her dead ship had been grainy, and seemed to cling to the throat on the way down. And she did not want something with a taste to it. Food or drink with a real taste was a reward, one she did not deserve.
“You’re awake, too?”
It was a testament to how inattentive Visas had been that the Exile’s voice startled her. She pressed her hand down flat on the countertop, grateful (and shamed to be such) for something to steady her. Speech failed her, and she stood there dumbly, her mouth running dry again.
The brilliant light that was the Exile flickered slightly as she drew a little closer, away from one of the doorways and into the main hold itself. “I hope I didn’t wake you.” Mingled frustration and shame bled into her voice as she said, “I know I can get kind of loud before I wake up. You wouldn’t be the first person I’ve woken up on this ship.”
So Visas wasn’t the only one who had found her sleep disturbed tonight. Her tongue unstuck. “No,” Visas answered swiftly. “I was already awake. I…”
Her strength was needed. The Exile needed her to be strong. But dreams assailed her with such ease, and in the face of her weakness, Visas’s voice failed her. Silence would serve the Exile nothing, and had the potential to harm her greatly, but Visas could not make plain just how weak she was. She couldn’t bear it.
“We all have dark dreams.” The words came out as brittle as thousand-year-old glass, as that fragile moment of silence before a fleet commander ordered the fleet to open fire. “We all carry certain… places with us. I don’t’ think it helps much to talk about it unless you truly wish to.”
Nodding was not a gesture native to the Miraluka; the closest equivalent they had was to make their aura flicker in just such a way as to indicate assent. But Visas knew what a nod meant, and she nodded silently. Her voice still failed her, but for once, memory did not.
Memory told her one thing with certainty, though she’d not known it at the moment of the event. Visas Marr’s acquaintance with the Jedi Exile had not begun on the Ebon Hawk, on nearly overwhelming Nar Shaddaa. It had begun years ago, long before Visas had become the last relic of a dead world. The screams of Malachor V had touched all corners of the galaxy with the ears to hear, and Katarr had heard the screams reverberating in the very fabrics of the universe. Visas had been a child then, though not far from adulthood, and she had never heard its like, had never been so shaken, so unsure of the galaxy as she was when she heard the Force rip.
If the Exile spoke of carrying a destination with you, Visas knew that she spoke from experience. She could hear the echo of the screaming now, the ghosts and their screaming clinging to the Exile like a cloak. As she drew nearer, came to stand besides Visas, Visas could smell sweat the acrid suggestion of bile upon her; that too, spoke of Malachor. It was not so easy to see at other times, but now, Visas could easily discern the dead world the Exile dragged behind her, everywhere she went.
“But there is something else of which we can speak—“ the Exile’s voice was clearer now, and harder, ringing like the tone of a bell “—and I think we have to. Visas, tell me of the damage to your aura.”
It did not come with ‘I order you,’ but Visas’s response was automatic all the same. How much easier it was to speak when she perceived a command couched in softer words. “When my master showed me the truth of this galaxy, when he showed me my dead world, and how small those who lived still truly are, my sight was damaged.” Stripped of every sense of wonder, or beauty, or mystery, sight had become a dull, dry thing. “My master feeds passively on all those in close proximity who cannot shield against it, and it was considered a mark of disloyalty for me to resist.”
The Exile paused before asking, in a voice that was agonizingly soft, “Is there any way to heal you?”
“I am strong enough not to be a burden in battle. I can fight alongside you.” Do not send me from your side. I couldn’t bear it.
“That’s not what I meant, Visas.” Though still so soft, the Exile spoke more firmly now. “Is there any way you can be healed?”
The question was… Visas would not pretend to understand the sentiment behind it. In the short time she had spent with the Exile, she had gained a few glimmers of understanding, but they were but a few gossamer threads in a tapestry she had barely glimpsed. Even if her sight was what it once was, she knew she would not understand. But understanding was not required for her to answer the question as it truly was. “My master’s feeding upon me is partially responsible for the damage to my sight,” she explained awkwardly. “When I am away from him, there is a gradual increase in the range of my vision. The effect is only temporary; when I return to my master’s side, it vanishes.”
There came a considering silence, one that made the muscles in Visas’s shoulders tense. “And if you were never to return to your master?” the Exile asked at last.
“I… do not know.”
Inevitably would come the day when the Exile faced her master. The wheels of fate had been set in motion; they were racing towards each other, even now. Visas had every intention of fighting at the Exile’s side when the day of reckoning arrived. If she survived… Well, that was another matter. She was tied to her dead ship, and the waking horror who ruled it. When he was undone, so too, perhaps, would she be. How was Visas to know how her damaged sight would be affected, if she found herself alive in a galaxy that no longer had her master in it?
My sight is not important. You must not endanger yourself for something so small.
“Then we will just have to find out.”
The Exile spoke with such certainty that for a moment, Visas forgot, and she could imagine a galaxy in which such a thing would be an easy task. “You…” She faltered her mouth working, no sound coming out. “You cannot do such a thing, simply because of me. There are more important—“
“Visas.” A hand, such a small hand, palm slick with sweat, reached out, and clasped Visas’s own. “I am not doing it ‘just for you.’ I know what’s at stake here. But I do think it’s worthwhile to find some way to heal your sight. And not just because it could make you a better fighter. “Her voice dripped bitter scorn at the very concept.
“When we face your master, I don’t know if we’ll win. I don’t know if we’ll live. But if there’s even a chance that we will, a chance that there will be an after, then you will have a chance at a life again.” Visas could hear the rattling breath that the Exile too, so sharp that it almost sounded painful. “And a future where you could be healed, if it’s possible.”
“Such talk… There is no place for talk now,” but Visas couldn’t make herself sound so adamant as what the words implied.
“Perhaps.” The ghost of a laugh, brittle and hoarse, rode out after the word. “Not now, but later. For now, whatever you were dreaming about, just try to remember that you are not alone here.”
She squeezed Visas’s hand, warm fingers clutching tight. Such a small hand, belonging to such a small woman (She had collapsed on the Exile at the end of their battle, and her last conscious thought was amazement that the call she had tracked down belonged to someone so much smaller than her). Sometimes, most of the time, it seemed to Visas close to impossible that someone so small could do everything she had already done, everything she was still determined to do. But she spoke with such certainty, and Visas clutched tightly at the hand that had reached for hers, in the midst of dark dreams.