Death of a Jedi
As you round the corner toward the Council Chambers where you can feel the younglings cowering in fear, you sense him before you see him. The turquoise blade lashes out at you wildly and out of control. Without a moment's hesitation, you've tucked your head and rolled on the ground beneath his blade.
You see the abject look of shock and horror fill his eyes as you come to a halt and stand three meters away. He whips his blade around to put it defensively between you. You watch the sweat bead on his forehead. You see the tiny droplets begin to coalesce into a small puddle. You gaze at the bead as its girth grows too large to support its own weight. Like being awarded a prize you've waited for your entire life, your heart leaps with joy as the puddle breaks loose and becomes a stream. The gentle sound of the saltine water striking the floor is thunderous applause.
He is afraid.
You laugh out loud as you watch his blade quiver, oh so slightly.
Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.
You look into his eyes for the first time and are overcome with a moment of recognition. The memory floats to the surface of euphoric delirium you've enjoyed since you stood as your Master's new apprentice. He was your friend a lifetime ago. He played with you when the other padawans would not. He followed you on your trips outside the temple without permission when you wanted to obtain parts. He joined you in the fights that naturally occur when you sink to the dangerous streets of Coruscant. He fought by your side. Even now, his eyes plead with you to stop the slaughter.
He is weak.
The lightsaber is in your hand with only the smallest flicker of thought. You watch his cautious advance, a wary look burned into his face. You can see how much he wants to save you. He wants to save you more than he wants to save himself. He advances unsteadily, stinking of fear. You can feel his fear dripping from him as clearly as you saw the bead of sweat fall from his brow. Your thumb hesitates above the button that will bring your sky-blue fire to life and deliver an end to his.
Sith do not hesitate.
The power of the sun bursts from your mechanical fist. You see the resignation in his eyes. He knows. There is no saving you. Once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny. You only wish the green troll of a Jedi Master were here to watch you wipe yet another of his precious students from existence.
When he strikes, there is no longer any quiver. The fear he felt is gone with a rush of the Force. Now, there is only peace. Now he is calm. The thought enflames the dragon that beats in your chest. He was your friend. Now, he is ready to callously strike you down. He is like all the other Jedi. All they want is to hold on to the power they had obtained over the millennia. They would strike down the Sith without mercy. They are corrupt. They are not alive.
They were dead the day they accepted you into their walls.
The dark side whispers a warning, and your blade responds. The clash of your weapons crackles with energy. He lifts his blade to strike again. When the blue energy falls a mere second later, you are no longer there. You've moved to his side faster than he imagined possible. His ribs are exposed, as is his entire right side, but you do not strike.
You want to savor the moment.
He is nothing. His power is nothing. His skills with the blade are nothing. His knowledge is nothing. The light side of the Force is nothing.
He swings his blade in a wild arc at your neck, desperate to sever your head from your body. You casually step backward and watch the column of particle energy pass harmlessly by, centimeters of your face. You smell the burnt ozone assault your nose. His midriff is open, begging to be eviscerated. In the Force you can hear his navel call for your blade to spear into it.
But you wait.
You will not strike until he gives you his last gift.
The wild strike sets him off-balance and he turns it into a spin. Using his momentum, you watch passively as he hacks again at you feverishly. Even now, you will not raise your weapon. It isn't time.
His weapon is moving faster now. But still, he has no hope of touching you. You move with casual grace, sidestepping each swing of his blue fire, forcing him to chase you hopelessly. His anxiety rises as realization dawns. You see it in his eyes. He knows he cannot win. He will die.
And there it is.
The final gift is given. You close your eyes as you continue to dodge the hapless warrior's pointless advances. You breathe it in as he searches the Force for something to use against you. When he puts all of his energy into a single, fruitless push in the Force, you calmly raise your hand of flesh and drive him into the wall with a power that exceeds anything he can imagine. He struggles against your grasp, but you won't let him go.
He has given you his gift and now you must give him yours. You lower your hand and allow it to join the other on the hilt of your blade. Your mind continues to hold the warrior in place. Now you feel his gift flow more readily than before. He is a wonderful giver. You stalk toward your prey, helpless in your snare.
You look into his eyes and drink his gift, as refreshing as the cool breeze at the end of a summer day on Tatooine.
He gives you his fear.
You give him your blade.
As he falls at your feet, you lap at the last drips of his gift as it evaporates like the puddle of brackish water he left on the floor only moments ago. Then all you feel is emptiness. You close your eyes and welcome the power of the dark side. You will not hesitate again. You've had your fun. Now you must finish this. The younglings are next. They will no doubt beg for mercy.
Mercy is for the weak.
As you stalk toward the Chamber doors you glance back at the man who dared stand against the power of the Sith. It didn't last long enough. He was poorly trained. He was overcome by his fear.
It was all too easy.