A note on pacing: this part should have other scenes in between it and the previous page, perhaps to do with Lathril failing at containing his fear or anger. I haven’t yet decided.
Author’s Note
“That wasn’t all of it,” Lathril told Kyolath later, while the Commander engaged in target practice in the Hangar. “I partly lied to you.”
Kyolath fired off a shot at the blaster target, inspected his blaster, then glanced at Lathril. “I’m listening.”
Despite this, Lathril didn’t speak until Kyolath set off several more shots.
“I lied because… my name — our name — was supposed to be an honor. A sign of greatness, I guess you could say, if the Jedi had less humility.”
Zam. “Is that so? Seems to me the Jedi have enough pride to fill a teacup between them all.”
“What’s a teacup?”
“Nevermind.” Zam. “Continue.”
“Right. Well… I was supposed to be a great warrior like our ancestor. I didn’t want you to think less of me, and… my failings are not just my fear. I was also once seduced by the Dark Side.”
Despite the difficult admission, the painful way it squeezed out of him, Kyolath did not seem impressed; he didn’t even change his rhythm of fire.
Zam. “Yet you still stand here as a representative of the Jedi Order.” Zam. “I don’t see what difference it makes.”
“It didn’t, I guess. The Jedi Order accepted me back. But then I met you.”
Zam. “So what?”
“I met your son,” Lathril corrected. “The… color of his eyes caught me off guard. I could’ve thought he was a Jedi, except he doesn’t conduct himself like one. He was obviously strong, both in the Force and with his will. Stronger than me…”
Kyolath stopped firing and turned to him, giving him a squint. “I have two living sons, Lathril, and despite being twins, they chose very different paths in life. Do you think I favor one over the other?”
“…no?”
“So why would I favor my son over you?”
“I… beg your pardon? He’s your son. You’re no Jedi. I wouldn’t expect you to not form an attachment to him.”
“You are both related to me by blood, and you are about the same age. You could almost be brothers. My point wasn’t about bloodlines, though. You compare yourself to him, and you find yourself lacking. That bothers you, because he is a Sith.”
“Yes. That’s right,” said Lathril uncertainly.
Kyolath grunted and switched out the magazine in his blaster. “Yet the only judgment I’m hearing is your own. You are both valuable soldiers for the Alliance by my measure.”
“You think I’m creating my own problem?”
“Close enough,” said Kyolath with a shrug, and he turned back towards his target, though he didn’t raise his blaster to shoot. “Doesn’t your Jedi code have something smart to say about this?”
Lathril hesitated. “Not this exactly, no. If you mean the matter of judgement however…” He cleared his throat and began to speak as if he were reciting something, though the words were all his. “We are taught that all beings can come towards the Light, even those who were once Sith. We are to offer mercy and counseling to those who might –”
“So why should that preclude you?” Kyolath interrupted.
“Pardon?”
Kyolath grunted, taking a shot as he rephrased. “Why aren’t you affording yourself mercy for once falling to the Dark Side?”
“I suppose it is my own expectations.”
“Huh! Sounds like one of those pesky attachments the Jedi code tells you to avoid.”
“Well… yes, I guess it is.” Lathril looked down. “My expectations, and my desire to properly honor our family namesake.”
Kyolath slowly lowered his blaster. It appeared to Lathril like he wanted to say something, but he held himself back. “I think it is time you heard the other version of the story of your namesake. Come with me.”
“To where?”
“To the library – sorry, the archives. A visual representation would probably help.”
“You called this the library,” said Lathril as they entered the archives. It was a small room, just one wall of computer terminals, and they could barely move with all the astromech droids plugged into it. Lathril squeezed himself against the wall as Kyolath barked the astromech droids out of his way. “What’s a library, sir?”
“It was my homeworld’s old word for it, when data was stored on paper rather than computer terminals.”
“Paper? How would one store anything on that?”
“With ink and – nevermind. The holos are not as pretty as the old texts were, but at least you’ll get a sense of it. Computer… show me Talmenor.”
The computer searched for a long time. Lathril stood quietly, folding his hands in his robes as he waited. Finally the computer beeped, and Kyolath tapped a flashing button.
A globe appeared in the holocon.
“There,” said Kyolath. “My homeworld. And the homeworld of your ancestors. It is out past the Outer Rim, in one of the neighboring galaxies, so it rarely gets any traffic.”
“Is this where Ser Keelath lived?”
“Oh, yes. And died…” Kyolath tapped more buttons, and the globe zoomed in until a map of a long, narrow continent was all that could fit on the display. Kyolath scrolled up on it and enlarged the map a little more, until the outlines of little mountains and even a still-life of a forest could be seen. The holocon’s blue lines flickered across a completely flat caldera lake, in the midst of which was built a city of glistening spires. “Yohon’nai,” Kyolath murmured.
“Is that a city?”
“Yes.” Kyolath pursed his lips. “I grew up there. So did he.”
“So this must have been the place he defended in legend.”
“Yes. Defended, and then ransacked.”
Lathril looked at the Mandalorian in shock. Kyolath didn’t respond but tapped more commands into the computer. The map disappeared, replaced with a long readout of text in a strange font.
“It was too long ago for the history to have a dedicated holo, I suppose,” Kyolath muttered.
“I can’t read the script, sir.”
“I know. It’s in old Ak’ali.”
“You can read it?”
“I can speak it.” And Kyolath did, reading from the top. Lathril shivered as the words seemed to take on a cant, like the rhythm of a prayer. Despite not understanding the words, Lathril could almost sense the things the words described: he could see the shapes of men and of monsters rising out of the darkness, hear the clash of steel and the howl of battle cries and death screams. A dark horde overran an army of droids — or no, they were men, wearing strange armor, Lathril realized. They were followed from behind by a smaller horde of men clad in robes like Jedi or Sith, and suddenly the fallen got up again to fight.
The vision continued long after Kyolath stopped speaking, and Lathril shook himself, looking back at the bounty hunter as his head cleared.
“I know what it is you saw,” said Kyolath. “In that text was hidden a spell, that only those with the old blood would have been affected by.”
“What does that mean?”
“If nothing else, it means you were telling the truth about your bloodline.”
“Did you see the visions?”
“I was the one casting the spell,” said Kyolath, and to Lathril it seemed a dodge rather than a denial.
Lathril looked back at the long column of strange text. “What was it that I saw…? Those men?”
“You would call them Dark Siders, I suppose. They were necromancers, who raised the dead to fight for them, giving them terrible powers and a lust for blood that could never be sated. Keelath Sunwalker was returned to life through such magic and made to serve them: to hunt and to kill their enemies, once his former kin.”
“I… never realized…”
“And so for a time, he fought for the Dark Side,” finished Kyolath.
“You say for a time,” said Lathril. “Does that mean he was…?”
“Defeated? I suppose you could say that. The ones who cursed him were eventually cast down, and he with them.”
“So he died as a Dark Sider.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Lathril squinted up at the Mandalorian. Again Kyolath seemed to hedge his words, and Lathril suspected he wasn’t telling the full story.
“It’s not important,” Kyolath finally said. “What I wanted to impart to you was you are not the first to have such struggles with the Dark Side, and you bear your namesake no duty of honor, considering his own past. If anything, if a name is a prophecy as you believe, perhaps it was only expected.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” Lathril said dryly.
“You’re not evil now, are you?” Kyolath retorted waspishly.
Lathril changed the subject. “So did Ser Keelath ever recover?” he asked, looking back at the holo, which was now showing the globe of Talmenor again. “Did he turn back to the Light? Or did he die?”
“It’s not known,” Kyolath growled. “There are no records of his death. When off-worlders came to Talmenor, he joined them, left with them, and has not been revealed since.”
“I see. …thank you for telling me this,” Lathril said. “It gives me some perspective.”
Kyolath grunted. “Lathril…”
Lathril paused, looked at him.
“I meant what I said. You and Brant — Darth Merce — are nearly like brothers, and I do not believe it is a bad thing. He could teach you…”
“What would I learn from a Sith, except things I would regret?” Lathril snapped back.
Kyolath shrugged. “Then from your namesake’s story,” he said lowly. “And your Jedi code. Just because our family’s past is not as rosy as you would like it, does not mean there is not still honor to be found there.”
“If you say so. Is there not a holo I could see then, on this Ser Keelath? Or another spell like the one you cast?”
Kyolath shrugged. “I doubt it, if your part of the family didn’t preserve the record.”
“Then… maybe I could learn it from you?”
Kyolath seemed taken aback. “You, learn from me?”
“Yes. Why? I know you are no Jedi, but you still have things you could teach me. You clearly know more about this then you’re letting on.”
“Mmh, damn your Jedi senses. Fine, if you insist, but not right now. There are many things to still take care of, while the Emperor is at large.”
“Of course, sir.”
“And you keep your nose clean, in the meantime.”
“…I will, sir.”