OOC: Well, this whole chapter is actually what the last 12 have been leading up to. And like Nasali, I've had it in mind since the very beginning. Boiling over and over in my head all this time. Was it worth it? I don't know. But I still think a twelve chapter backstory to introduce this was very necessary. It's not perfect, but what is?

In a humble thatch house in Mantarin, a woman sat on the dirt floor by candlelight. Eight more accompanied her, each kneeling in designated positions, each naked, and each painted with the signs of the animal spirits. A simple mat made of wicker was laid in front of the first woman, who closed her eyes and reached into an ivory cup. There, a spider's innards were drawn and brought to the wicker, where they dripped in a narrow crescent.

A pine needle was placed at its center, next to a hair that was laid previous. A simple chant exhaled from the woman's lips, repeating several times before the others stood and mimicked it in unison. As all nine chanted to each spirit, each drew a dull brass knife and placed the blades at their own wrists, scraping a narrow line. With a final prayer, each knife jammed into each wrist, and was extracted, so that nine arms were held above the mat and fed their blood to the sigil below.

The sacrifice was in vain. Their hopes would never be answered, now or later, and in their futile attempt they knew that death at their own hands would be swifter than anything the future would give them.

The scales had already been tipped. There was no longer any balance to hope for, save for in dreaming.

It was nighttime again. Palpatine was almost tempted to stand and engage the enemy now, but in his heart he knew better. Beneath his robe, he remained crouched like a weakened animal, eyeing the small valley below.

The hills were not prominent in this area, but they were sufficient for cover against unsuspecting prey. And though his goal was to remain unnoticed, the being standing next to him was more than obvious.

Standing at the full height of a human, it was adorned in an armor composed in mixed tones of brown, with a texture akin to a tortoise shell. The top part of the armor was curved like a V, resembling a high-shoulder platemail suit. And inset like a hunchback between both curves of its armless 'shoulders' rested a single head, which seemed more like the molted shell of an alien crab. At its center was a lone, green eye, devoid of expression or features.

Below the 'shoulders' was a drapery of dark purple, mixed with speckles of white, blue, and orange. This flowed down to the ground, showing nothing more. But all this was irrelevant, as its bulky frame was no more than a suit for the being inside, providing protection from the foreign atmosphere. His name was Kosh Naranek, Vorlon Ambassador. His presence was one that existed since the first civilizations existed in his own universe. And though some would think him omniscient, he was but one simple observer in the grand scheme of time and space.

Palpatine would have argued that though he had been saved by this creature, he had no reason to repay it with any type of favor. Even from what little he could decipher from his prophetic book, he knew that this creature's plans held no connection with his own. But under its gaze, it was not his place to argue.

In the valley below a man walked at a slow but steady pace. Perhaps a teenager, he was dressed completely in black, with a tattered cape around his shoulders. It was hard to make out this person from Palpatine's vantage point, but as he saw the burnt trail of grass from his footsteps, and felt just an inkling of his essence, he knew that only one thing flowed through the man's body.

Power.

Each step was another echo in his mind. A calling to go forward. It had taken time to adjust, but once he had awakened from the hibernation, there was no question to his true purpose here. Flames burned from each eye socket. He awaited the chance to come across something, anything that was alive, be it a deer or a mouse, but he knew there was something else nearby. Something that would provide suitable opposition. He still walked in the night grass, still in the same direction. Waiting.

"I suppose now is as good a time as any," the Emperor said in a low, wretched voice. The Emperor stood. The boy appeared unaware that he was being watched, and Palpatine slowly made his way down the sloped ground, using the grass to dampen his footsteps. Though he wasn't sure what the boy's capabilities were, he knew a swift strike from behind would end any speculation.

The question now was what to attack with. Would a blaster be sufficient? Or would magic be more appropriate? Magic was certainly more powerful, but not nearly as swift or precise.

Palpatine continued to shuffle towards the boy. His back was in perfect view, and the starlight helped immensely in covering the grass with a teal glow. The boy's neck was the most obvious to spot from Palpatine's view, as it was uncovered by black cloth and was eerily pale. He was twenty meters away.

The blaster was drawn, and he crept more, keeping pace with the boy's slow walk. With his back hunched, his arm raised and he took aim, steadying, holding in his own breath, and making sure that there was no chance at a misfire. The trigger slowly pulled back, back, until a swift beam shot from the weapon and struck straight on the boy's unprotected neck.

There was no reaction. And there was no wound. The boy continued to walk as before, paying no attention to the blast that would have ended any normal man's life. Palpatine hesitated for only a moment, before releasing another blast at the boy's back, and another, and another in a flurry of light and air-ripping noise.

Finally, the boy stopped. Irritated, he turned slowly until fully facing Palpatine. Palpatine stood still as he saw the boy's eyes ablaze with pure fire, against the ghostly pale of his skin. The boy's arms crossed. Palpatine glanced up at where Kosh once stood, but was now nowhere to be seen.

The boy's expression was one of impatience. Or expectance. Raising a hand, he motioned towards Palpatine and a swift arc of flame burst from the night air, colliding with Palpatine's blaster and incinerating it from his hand. The Emperor cried out as the searing pain had almost taken his fingers, and he willed the Force to ignore it.

With a slight grunt, Palpatine stood still and eyed the boy. He was powerful beyond what even a Sith might face. There was no way to measure just what it would take to deal with this opponent, but he would try any means possible.

Reaching into the ether, he pulled the spell of transformation back into his consciousness and released it. Naturally, the boy was immune. Unamused, the boy balled his hands into fists at his side and stared with the same silence he always kept. The fists became tighter, until at once an inferno erupted from beneath the boy, spreading around him until the grass and even the dirt itself became ablaze. The rumbling, churning of the flames whipped around him now, and with a lazy motion of a hand a stream of flame blasted forward towards Palpatine.

Covering his eyes, The Emperor knew his last moments were at hand. The flames raced towards him with unimaginable speed, and there was no chance to move away. Yet as the flames reached their course, they arced away inches from his face, and Palpatine realized there was a barrier protecting him.

The boy seemed angered now, and with another swipe of his arm he unleashed a larger stream of fire, which collided with the barrier once more. Despite the protection though, Palpatine could feel the barrier slightly weakening. If he was to end this, it would be now.

Reaching into his subconscious, he found another spell he had never used before. It was powerful, he knew before even casting it. Raising both arms to the air, an arc of ether was drawn between both hands, and a raging blizzard erupted from the black sky, hurtling shards of ice that were several times larger than a human.

Though most missed their target, and shattered into pieces on the ground, some managed to hit the boy. But he was still unfazed, as the ice merely hit and splintered into nothing. The boy looked up into the sky at the continuing rain of ice shards, and with a whisper nobody would ever hear, the inferno around him grew, launching into the night sky and disintegrating each and every remaining shard.

And then it was gone. The boy waited, patiently.

One thing Palpatine was aware of was his lack of any strain from use of the ethereal magic. Along with the barrier, Kosh must have provided the additional mental ability to keep casting without tiring. But The Emperor was more interested in whether this held true for The Force.

Now at ease, his concentration unhindered and unstressed, he peered at the motionless boy and sneered. "Now you will not survive so easily." Forcing both hands forward, streaks of lightning shot out and collided against the boy's chest, and continued, writhing around him until the dirt below started to melt into place. Completely engulfed in the lightning, Palpatine cackled to himself as it was clear to him who would be the victor.

The boy made no movement, not out of pain or shock. However, he did something Palpatine never expected. Still engulfed by the Force Lightning, the boy reached into his tunic and pulled a dagger from it. Slowly placing the handle to his lips, he gently released his breath into the hollow space between, producing a single note.

It was a low note. Soft and barely audible. A finger pressed against a small hole along its side, and the note changed. Another finger pressed against another airhole, and the note grew higher this time.

Without warning, a swarm of fire arrows launched forward and collided with Palpatine's magic shield. They burst into tiny flames, and the arc of the barrier became more visible. Balls of flame resembling tiny comets shot out next, and each collided with tremendous force against the barrier. Palpatine felt it shake.

The boy still played, and each note became part of a song. A low, dreary song accompanied by an occasional high note that erupted with the same ferocity as each flame spiraled forth. Streams of fire shot through the air, spiraling into the ground, churning dirt and spinning back.

Soon the song became a staccato of mismatched notes, each more furious and powerful. Flames of every shape and intensity launched at Palpatine, pummeling the shield around him, until it appeared as if he was surrounded by a globe of fire instead.

Anger welled up within the Emperor, as this impossibly resilient foe had not faltered a bit, and Palpatine knew that despite his own powers, he was foolish to have obeyed the alien figure. Whatever that creature's agenda was, Palpatien knew he should have left as soon as he was revived. But that was impossible now.

Palpatine reached deeper into his subconscious, and pulled the simple lightning magic from his body's memory. Though its strength and shape was different, it surprisingly complimented his Force Lightning as both arched forward and struck the boy in successive bursts.

The flames raced past the lightning, and the lightning raced past the flames. Both struck with as much intensity as possible -the boy's short bursts of flame accompanied long spiraling streams, against Palpatine's Force and ether aided blasts of energy.

One would tire. The barrier continued to buckle, thinning and losing its hold over Palpatine. Though the boy only sought to destroy him with pure, brute force, Palpatine intended to weaken him. Eventually, the chance would arise where he could manipulate the boy's mind to some level. Now it was impossible, as there was only pure hatred and desire for destruction within. It was only a matter of how much time was left.

-

YOU WILL SEVER THE HAND

-"Urggh.... I'm.... attempting that.... you fool...."

And then it stopped. Palpatine blinked as he watched the boy in the distance. The attack had stopped, but the boy was struggling with something behind him. Palpatine felt the barrier physically depart from him, and he looked forward to see a bright, otherworldly light in front of the boy.

It wasn't a spell or an enchantment. It was someone. Palpatine quickly forced his legs to run towards the struggle, and as he neared it he saw that the boy had both arms outstretched, and was physically grasping the neck of the being of light while powerful flames shot out from his fingertips.

The arms of the light being were also grasping the boy's neck, strangling him with psychic energy, and both were at a stalemate. Palpatine realized the aura was the same as the one in the suit, only magnified. This was Kosh's true form.

Wasting no time, Palpatine reached into his robe and pulled out the handle of his lightsaber, activating it so that its hum seemed to be the only noise he could hear. The red blaze of energy was nothing compared to the white light of the being struggling with the boy, and the moment before he struck he realized Kosh wasn't using his full powers -he was only keeping the boy from attacking.

The lightsaber crackled as it entered the boy's back, piercing through his spine and past ribs, out through his stomach. Smoke violently hissed from the opening as the saber remained in place, still crackling against flesh.

The boy turned his head towards Palpatine, staring with intense hatred in his fiery eyes, and raised an arm towards him. For the first time in what seemed like ages, the Emperor realized that he was completely, utterly defenseless. Before he could even think of touching the essence of The Force once more, a furious blast of pure fire shot out from the boy's palm, enveloping Palpatine completely.

The Emperor screamed horribly as the flames ate into his flesh, charring through into muscle. The very agony in his screams alone seemed to surpass the pure and unrelenting pain that seethed into every unburnt pore.

The boy yanked the burning saber from his smoking stomach, and threw it to the dirt. He turned back towards the angelic form of Kosh, and though the boy was perfectly mute, the expression of pure hatred on the boy's face told Kosh that there was no redemption beyond this point.

The Vorlon shot out a quick blast of psychic energy to distract the boy, but he was unhindered. "Light dispels the dark," The Vorlon spoke.

Kosh released another, more violent burst of psychic energy, but the boy still faced towards the Vorlon and stared into his glowing angelic face. With both eyes ablaze, flames erupted from his hands and engulfed Kosh's body, but the alien was unharmed.

The boy turned aside and balled a fist to well up his most powerful flames, channeling through his veins and into his fingertips. The density of the flame would be more than enough to scar even the alien's mystical form, as the ethereal forces drew towards the boy. If the attack failed, the boy would likely die as well from the impact of the blast.

Kosh, however, had other things in mind. Using his most powerful psychic attack, the Vorlon entered the boy's mind, breaking through the heavy shield that clouded him for so long.

-THE END HAS PASSED

-The boy stopped his attack. He turned. The Vorlon was still standing, waiting for a response. And for the first time, the boy spoke:

"It has ended in fire."

-THE FIRE WILL SETTLE, AS THE FLAME WILL CEASE

-"I am the fire. I am the flame. I am the end."

-PAST THE END, THERE IS A BEGINNING

-"What has no end is not the end."

-YOU ARE NOT ALL YOU SEE, YOU ARE NOT ALL YOU ARE

-"I am Mykil, hand of Marx. There is only one end."

And he was gone. Kosh stared in to the silent night.

Up in the hills, a short walk away from a tall black obelisk, stood a gray-clad figure amidst the pale night. His name was Marx, an Ancient. And though his plan was succeeding as expected, it had been interrupted tonight by more visitors from the other worlds. Though most sent in to this universe were weak and ignorable, there was the occasional being who's powers surpassed anything he could face himself.

That being was Kosh. Though not omniscient, the alien was much older than even Marx, and as soon as it came to this planet it had sensed Mykil's present and future here. Though his predictions were disjointed by the many variables this universe presented, Kosh knew that Mykil would face a turning point which, if not prevented, would result in catastrophic events in the future.

But Marx knew that the boy would turn easily, as his mind was weak and vulnerable. Once fully broken, the boy remained tortured and twisted beneath the black obelisk in the hills. And once the weak, pathetic form of Mykil was but a laughable shell of the former Eldanasar empires, Marx knew that he could be twisted into his own image -a powerful, deadly weapon of pure hatred.

It was too late now for intervention. Even Kosh, with the aid of a powerful pawn, was unable to stop Mykil. The full, unharnessed rage of Mykil was not even evident tonight, as the sentinel-like boy was now used to knowing only the mind of his master, and nothing more.

If his full power was enough to destroy Kosh, it would need to be done from a much greater distance, as the very hills would cease to stand once the ashes would fall. It was possible to kill a Vorlon, more than possible, but it would take the right time.

A light formed behind Marx, as Mykil's form entered through the simple warping spell. "Not bad," said Marx, "Your powers will be more focused next time." The Ancient turned to look at the boy. It was useless talking to him now, this zombie shell of a man, but it gave him confidence. Despite whatever wars this planet would face on its own, the Ancient was determined to live through until the end. The gaping hole in Mykil's stomach had closed.

"Heh," a feminine voice came from the shadows. Aside from the briefest moan of the breeze, there was silence. Marx turned and peered into the night, where a thin figure stood. "Quite the macho ones, you men. I'd applaud if you weren't so drab and predictable so often."

"Who are you?" asked Marx into the shadows.

"Thought you'd say that," her voice turned slightly lower. "I've been watching this little... experiment of yours, and I must say it's caught my attention."

"How do you mean?"

"You inhabit my territory, mage. I have every right to know what you're up to. So if you don't mind..."

Marx looked back into the darkness. "You were spying on me?" He held his staff tightly in his grasp.

Anacortes stepped out of the shadows and walked towards Mykil, standing upright as a lifeless puppet. She placed two fingers on his chin, and ran them down to his neck. "I've observed many things in this area, you being the least of them. But if you ever choose to get in my way... there will be repurcussions."

Marx laughed, his silver hair moved eerily in the air. "You're just a fool. An arrogant, pathetic fool."

Anacortes rolled her eyes. "Honestly, you shouldn't talk with your mouth open."

Marx scowled in the night. He would not tolerate this little time-wasting interruption. He grabbed his long staff and, drawing in his power, released a bolt of Black Lightning at Anacortes, who quickly disappeared where the bolt would have hit. He looked around, and even with his keen nightvision he found no trace of her.

She appeared directly behind him, and as he turned to strike she was gone again. He looked to the side and saw she was standing away from him, raising her hand until a sickle-shaped shadow flew from each finger. Marx raised his arm to defend, but the sickles each struck into his chest, riveting his body with negative ether.

He snarled and struck back with another blast of lightning, which she stepped away from. She hurled another shadow blade at him, this time the size of a scythe, and he leapt to the side quickly before it struck, then unleashed a thicker blast of Black Lightning from each hand. One struck Anacortes in the shoulder, and the other burst into the ground. Marx drew in more ether, and his cloak rippled behind him, as his staff shook with energy. He spun it once and struck it forward, releasing spiraling tendrils of blackness. Anacortes dodged at first, but was repeatedly struck by the remaining tendrils, each piecing into her body. Her form sunk into the ground as she turned into a flat shadow, and slid along the ground behind Marx. She reappeared just as quickly, and pummeled him with thick blasts of dark energy, surrounding him like a blanket, and choking the life force from him. It didn't damage him greatly, but it hindered him enough. He could not afford any deviance in his plan. With a thought, he tapped into energy of the obelisk, which stood on the far side of the hills, and sent him and Mykil instantly back into its underground chamber.

Anacortes smirked, and turned away. "It's been fun." She walked off to the peak of the hillside, and kneeled to look down at the valley below.

"Then what do you think it was?" asked Toma, staring off into the hillside. Above the horizon, mountains guarded the coast far to the south. It was hard to tell the way around this area without any real direction.

Dalia remained silent for several seconds. "I don't know... but it couldn't have been a dragon."

"What makes you so sure?"

"The flames were too big, I think. They went way up in the sky, and if there was anything that could breathe that much fire it would be immense. It's not like half of the cities wouldn't know about a dragon that big lurking here."

Toma looked at his dagger along his fingertips. Bran spoke. "In my experience, most creatures aren't so stupid when it comes to finding a lair. It's just a matter of whether this thing is intelligent, or likes to hoard straw instead of diamonds. Either way, we'll have to tread carefully."

"I have a feeling you've never met one before."

"That's not the point."

"Hah!"

"Come on, keep quiet.." Toma kept a close watch on the hills leading towards the rocky mountains. The flames had come somewhere near here, but it was impossible to tell where. The creature might have moved miles from here if it was fast enough.

"I think it's gone. It must be." Toma stopped walking. The air was eerily still now. "I think we're wasting our time."

Dalia peered into the starlit hills. "Wait a second, what's that?" she pointed a ways away. In the distance, something black moved slowly against a small and constant glow.

"It's some kind of... red light."

Toma stared forward as far as he could. The line-shaped light in the distance kept spewing dust and dirt nearby, as if it were alive and twisting on the ground. In its glow an odd looking figure lay, pitch black even in the adequate illumination.

"What is that thing?" For a brief moment Dalia considered the possibility of an injured man, but what lie in the distance lacked any human detail, as far as she could make out from where she stood.

It was certainly not dead, however. As curiosity got the better of them, and they ran towards the red light, the black figure began to stir.

*HACK*

Pain... incurable pain. A charred, burnt crust was all that remained of his once wrinkled flesh. Cracks and crevices showed tiny rivers of red, most dried and steaming in the night air. Without a word, he slowly forced his arm to push against the ground, and felt a numbing jolt deep into his bone.

There was no way to describe it. A level of severity so far from anything he'd ever felt. A constant, overpowering pain that not only gave him the realization that he had survived, but the realization that he could live.

The numbing continued, seething through him as he concentrated on his arm, slowly rising to his knees. The Force aided him slightly, but not enough. With a sudden lurch, he coughed past his unrecognizable mouth, spewing ashen flesh onto the ground. He had no power to breathe, let alone stand. But he did.

Rising to both feet, he felt the pain seethe into the core of his bones, where he felt how frail and brittle they truly were. Charcoal skin cracked and fell below his feet, and whatever else remained of him, he didn't know.

He laughed. A short, muted grunt at first, and as he remained standing hunched with his spine on the verge of collapse, he felt a sickening joy within him. There were visitors.

"Hell, it's moving, isn't it... " Bran watched the figure slowly creep on both legs, in the vibrant red glow that still lay on the ground. The figure moved towards it, and like a fire handler from the islands of afar, the red light quickly jumped from the ground and into the figure's hand. Then the light was gone.

The three paused and stared into hill's shadow. It was still hard to see from this distance, even with the help of the stars.

"What..." In Dalia's mind, thoughts raced of a battle previosuly fought that had ended here, a magical duel of some kind. But it was impossible to know just what the outcome was. The figure was probably a wizard, or some kind of mage, who would have fought a dragon if it had come here, and lost. Or at least, that's what seemed the most logical. "We should help, Bran."

"Shhh, be quiet. We have no idea what its intentions are."

They kept walking, until they were at the base of the hillside. They stopped. Toma inhaled his breath deeply, then shouted into the darkness, "HELLO?"

There was no response. They thought they heard the briefest stirring from above, and squint as they may, they could hardly make out anything, except for the conjurations of their thoughts.

A thin voice came from above. Barely audible, barely recognizable. A cry of some kind, perhaps help, it sounded like.

Dalia hesitated, then shouted back, "Do you need help?" After another pause, there was a louder cry back, though the words to it could not be made out.

"Come..." they heard it this time. A low, animal-like moan, distorted by the air and the distance between them. "Come here..."

Without a word or a glance, Dalia made her way up the hillside. Bran and Toma followed, not in total agreement, but they both knew she would do anything to help a maimed person.

To Toma, it became increasingly more obvious that there were no dragons along these hills near the mountains. But then what was here? He had no way of imagining. Looking down at his feet, he saw glimpses of what looked like tiny pieces of burnt meat laying on the grass, as if scraped off an overcooked hen. A thin trail of deep darkened blood lead up the hill into the shadows past his view.

He squinted and peered as far as he could into the darkness, and saw something stir. Not sure if it was wolf or a creature or anything else, he decided to take another step forward and continue, feeling a chill crawl up his spine..

Each step was an eternity, a slow pace that was constantly dragged down by uncertainty. The night sky was less lit by the stars, as the clouds moved in silently. Their breaths grew louder within them, and the hill had been half way covered.

"Thank you... so much..." a dim voice came from in front of them.

"Who are you?" Dalia half-yelled into the shadow.

A low chuckle came from the dark. "An Emperor."

They would have glanced at each other's faces, but couldn't tell which direction each other was looking towards. Before one could reply, the hidden voice coughed several times, a hacking and wretched cough. "Help me, please." The voice remained deep and guttural.

Dalia stepped forward, not sure what the situation called for.

The voice spoke again. "Yes... thank you..."

And like the bursting of a gas lantern, the crimson red light blazed through the dark and rose upward, stopping about a meter away from its origin -a shriveled and blackened hand holding a cylindrical black hilt. But the glow of the light revealed far more, as the arm that held the hilt lead to a body which was far more hideous, and far more shriveled and blackened, so that the overall sight of the person was a decaying, zombielike mess, a burnt and scarred collection of twisted and ashen flesh.

But what made it most horrific was not its body, nor its mangled face, but two eyes inset within it which peered back at them insistently, revealing that this was not a creature of any kind, but a human.

In some ages and in some texts past, there would be mention of things known as Liches, who were men whose souls were forever lost to the ages, who could never reach any true place or form, and would always linger in a caged and uncontrollable body, which only served as a shell so that magic and whatever so called "life" remained could hold this spiritless spirit within. However, Palpatine was not to be mistaken for this. He was still, as unimaginable as it was, alive beneath his newfound torment.

It occurred to him, now oddly enough, that his wish for an Empire to be under his control, even with the firm justice and stability it provided, was perhaps unnecessary. He realized that people would always try to make their own Empires anyway, and in that process Empires would continue to exist -not from a single power alone, but from the struggle of the small who sought power. The small and bickering ones who were determined to fight for their own rule -they would be the ones to create empires, which would rise and fall yet still keep man under some authority, and under the natural constant desire to lead and govern there would always be a rulership in place.

He was not needed. The thought made him smile, and the cracks between his burnt flesh grew more prominent. The stranger who stood before him, middle-aged and ragged haired, stared at him in half-hidden disgust.

"The Force... is my servant..." Palpatine shoved Bran back with the aid of his power, and spun around, slashing his lightsaber sideways in a perfect arc. He smiled as Bran stepped back away from him in confusion. Palpatine extended his arm again, and pushed Bran harder this time, until he tumbled backward down the hill, causing Dalia to panic.

She ran towards him, but he quickly grappled her with The Force and pushed her to her knees. She cried out as she kept her eyes on Toma.

Toma brandished his knife, staring straight into the wretched man's eyes, now willing to protect them at all costs. Thoughts of the spirit's prophecy entered his mind, as he remembered the mention of The Shrouded One. Could this possibly be him?

Palpatine laughed and held his lightsaber close, as it hummed wildly against his hands. "So you think you can win, boy?"

Toma did not respond. With his knife held close, he eyed the old man's weapon and waited for the first strike. Palpatine grinned and let go of the saber's hilt with his left hand, holding it in his right, and reached for Toma's neck. Toma could not struggle as the force dragged him against the sickening, flaky skin of Palpatine's fingers, which pierced into his neck as Palpatine's muscles tightened.

Toma's head turned away as the Emperor brought his lightsaber forward, holding it a mere three inches from Toma's cheek. He tried to turn back, as far as he could manage, but the very heat of the glowing saber was enough to sting into his flesh, slowly singing his cheek.

Palpatine laughed and pushed him back a few feet, and Toma rubbed the wound on his face with one hand. But without warning, Palpatine slashed his saber straight at Toma, this time for a killing blow, and Toma's only choice was to block. He raised his knife in the air, and the beam of energy collided straight onto its metal blade, lighting wildly in sparks.

Toma yelled out as the heat of the saber was so near to his fingers, and he stepped back away from the Emperor. The blade was still untarnished, and Palpatine chuckled to himself at this.

"You amuse me to no end, boy..."

With another slash, much fiercer this time, the lightsaber arced straight towards Toma's head, and he blocked again with his knife, only the beam touched far too lose to the knife's hilt, and the saber's heat burned into Toma's fingers, causing him to scream in agony as they instantly blackened, and he withdrew, holding his wounded hand in pain, gasping.

Palpatine stepped forward down the hill towards Toma, and with the last of the Force, he placed all his strength within his arms to strike with his weapon a final time.

Toma, despite his agony, raised his hand once more to block, and his fingers instantly burned onto the knife's hilt, in such immeasurabe pain that it was all he felt, and as it seemed to numb his body, leaving nothing else but the will to fight back, he screamed and plunged his knife towards Palpatine's chest, through his heart, letting it strike into muscle and rib.

Palpatine's eyes widened, and his mouth opened to speak, but there were no words left. Toma twisted the knife sideways, then withdrew, letting a torrent of blood rush out from the Emperor's chest. Palpatine clutched the wound with his right hand, squeezing inward despite the blood which flowed so freely between his fingers. With the last of his energy, he dropped the saber from his hands, and with the dwindling aid of the force, willed it to arc upwards, slashing forward at Toma, grazing the right side of his body, up through flesh and into his shoulder, and exiting upwards, until Toma's arm was completely separated in a burnt and gory mess.

Toma let out a horrible wail and fell to the ground.

Dalia screamed and looked away, and with tears in her eyes she refused to look at Toma now. She looked up and held her gaze towards Palaptine, who was standing upright and still, despite the wound to his heart. He did not collapse as she expected; instead, his eyes were held tight as he seemed to hold on to the last of his life. As his mind suffocated from lack of oxygen, and the energy within his being was all but swept away, he willed the force to aid him a final time.

It is important to note that the Sith technique of soul transferance, while invaluable to any true Sith, is very rarely used. When alive, the effort involved is akin to suppressing one's own stomach, and then coughing it up until it launches out of the esophagus. It is the equivalent of forcing one's muscles to push the ribs forward until they completely tear through muscle.

And as Palpatine stood, holding his lifeforce down to the very last, convulsing within his being, he suddenly stopped and plummeted on to the ground, still as a fallen tree. The body was gone in an instant.

Dalia's hands were held back unto her face, forcing the constant tears to stay within her eyelids even as she willed not to cry. All that she could hear was the endless, dying screams of Toma, and she dared not look at his bloodied body.

Eventually she calmed, and forced her eyes to open, still turning away from Toma. She saw Bran standing upright, and wanted only for her husband to be near. He turned and faced her, not with compassion, but with a void and blank stare.

And as she looked into his eyes she could see that they were not his. Bran's emotionless face twisted in a half grin, and his eyes grew narrow, peering at her in disgust. His head suddenly snapped back and he laughed, so hard that it drowned out Toma's screams of agony, and Dalia covered her ears as she was surrounded in the ear piercing laughter.

The laughter only grew more, as if a banshee had been set free from its cage, and Dalia closed her eyes tighter still as tears streamed out, and she screamed, "NO! NO!" as loud as she could but it still would not mute the unrelenting laughter from Bran.

The laughter eventually stopped. Her screams grew into whimpers, and her tear-covered face was now red, as she looked up again at her former husband. Her eyes pleaded to him, begging that this was all a hideous dream she had witnessed, but Bran only smiled at her helplessness, and turned away. He walked into the distance without another glance.

Dalia remained still, her face pressed between her legs as the tears refused to come, and she stayed in her silence for what seemed an eternity. Only the darkness from her tightened eyelids gave her any comfort. The breeze trailed along the grass, but she never heard it. She never heard the footsteps which walked steadily towards her, ruffling the grass. And it wasn't until someone stood completely next to her hunched self that she opened her eyes, and looked up.

A woman stood wearing nothing more than a black sheet. Her hair was a deep hazel and flowed to her back. On her face there was no compassion -only a stern gaze back down at Dalia. The woman extended her hand, offering her to take it. Dalia remained still.

And the woman spoke.

Late in Mantarin, people gathered to see the newest sacrifice in the old thatch house. They witnessed the blood which soaked the bodies scattered about so greatly. The dirt remained wet and soggy in it.

Some of the visitors were relatives, and some were friends.

But they refused to show remorse of any kind. It was because they understood now, with pure and utter acceptance, that the end had passed.