Master Yonlach is an NPC in SWTOR, part of the Sith Warrior storyline. Like many elements of SWTOR, I’ve re-interpreted his role in Darth Merce’s story, and there’s nothing in this post that contains spoilers for the canon plotline, unless you count the small reveal regarding Jaesa.
I picked this title to echo “The Crucible of Korriban” and “The Darkness of Dromund Kaas”, for while this is not Sith training, it does reflect Brant’s continuing journey in his usage of the Force. The beginning is a bit slow and exposition-y as it’s been sitting that way in my notes for months; it picks up a little more towards the middle, I promise.
Author’s Note
The Tusken Raider rose up out of the sand directly at their feet, too quickly for Merce to shout a warning. Only his Force-sense prevented the creature from breaking his knees, as his red lightsaber shot out in reaction and cut its staff in two before it could complete the swing. Even so, the claws on the staff’s tip slashed across Merce’s chest, drawing blood and almost pulling him over when they caught on the fabric of his robe.
The rage that had so long been silent lashed out then, and he danced in with a flurry of blows, cutting off the Raider’s limbs and leaving it lying there in the sand, looking at the severed ends as it died. He had a sudden recollection of his final rite on Dromund Kaas, and he began painting the desert sand with their blood, just as he had the arena’s walls with the other apprentices back then…
Vette called out a warning, and he would have slashed his way blindly through her too, if she didn’t drop to the sand in an instinctive genuflect. Still he considered killing her, the blood-letting rush the only thing he had feel in the past few months, and he craved its energy over the beckoning void.
That would not be very conducive to traveling through the desert at speed though, he reminded himself. He needed someone to carry the water, especially if there would be more Tuskens to fight. He withdrew the blade of his howling lightsaber reluctantly, securing it to his belt, and in so doing, pulled the tattered ends of his robe shut. The cloth scraped the raw wound on his chest, and he swore.
He did not want to waste the time or the water it would take to clean it, and it was only a scratch, as much as it stang.
It was also a feeling, he realized: an emotion he could draw upon to feed his power. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, but then, no channeling of the Dark Side was, and this method was only practical while his anger and fear were so hard to call upon. Pain was something he could use in their stead… to keep back that void.
He shouted at the slave to get up and follow him. The Tusken ambush had been a reprieve, but a short one, and he still had a job to do for his Master. The second sun was beginning to stretch its rays across the dunes in sunset, and they still had many miles to go before they could safely make shelter on the other side of the Dune Sea…
She trudged after him, knowing he was her only hope of survival in the bleak desert. His typical Sith obsession seemed to be deepening into true madness the longer they spent on this planet, however.
Vette had watched Merce’s mind first begin to slip on Nar Shaddaa, after his Master had bid him slay Plothar’s servants in cold blood. As Merce’s terrible blade had howled through the Evocii slaves as they cried and begged for mercy, those strange blue eyes of the Sith’s had darkened, not quite turning red, but certainly losing their light. They instead seemed to writhe and crawl like twisted water reflections, or like the deadly lightning Merce had unleashed on the last Evocii in line: the ringleader of the rebellion. Plothar had bid Merce torture that Evocii to death, and Merce had obeyed, a grim order turning into a perverse pleasure as he did so.
Many more deaths had followed after that, as Darth Plothar had set his apprentice to blotting out all of the Imperials, Sith, and slaves who had ever crossed him, all across the galaxy. The journey had taken months. Vette didn’t keep up on the politics of the situation — they scared her, frankly — all she understood was that the victims were some kind of rival or threat to the Master. She wasn’t so sure Merce knew more than that himself, for he seemed to live only for the killing during those dark days; that small hint of kindness he had shown her on Dromund Kaas disappearing like the last fingers of a drowning man, slipping under dark water.
And now the water had receded and left behind some corpse she no longer recognized.
This last hunt was a tougher one than usual: they were after a Jedi rather than a Sith, one who had reportedly fled deep into the deserts of Tatooine to evade them. Merce had seemed to fall into a malaise upon hearing of the planet, bossing Vette around with even more fervor than usual, once or twice even shocking her with his own lightning rather than that of the slave collar. He had delayed in their landing though, fussing over the choice of city, of spaceport, of the specific dock… Vette had told him only a few options existed on the sparsely populated planet, but he hadn’t cared, and not wanting to brave more shocks, she landed their ship while Merce had been deep asleep, if only to avoid all the arguing and ranting.
Merce had been very quiet when he realized what she had done, and the fear he was about to kill her put Vette in agony. Yet, he didn’t, only picking up his lightsaber and demanding she make arrangements for travel through the desert, while he went to make inquiries of his own about their target.
What he had found out, he didn’t tell her, only striking off for the Dune Sea like some sand-demon was after him the following day. And she, of course, had to come along.
They traveled for hours after the Tusken Raiders’ attack. Vette thought perhaps it was to put distance between them while the Sand People were still reeling from their failed ambush, but given the way the Darth would occasionally unsheathe his lightsaber and rend the air madly with it, somehow she didn’t think a fight was what he was trying to avoid. Such outbursts were becoming more common for him, and Vette strove to avoid them, standing far back from the screaming blade and waiting for the tantrum to end before she addressed him.
They had had a few such stops already. It was almost noon now, and it was hot and growing hard to think. Just a year ago she might have requested they stop for a breather, and Merce probably would have obliged, but now…? Now she suffered through it in silence.
She didn’t realize Merce was truly ill until he suddenly stumbled and went down.
Heart pounding in sudden fear — what would she do if he were to die, and out here of all places? Only he had the map of where they were in his head — Vette tentatively knelt next to him, slinging one of the water-bladders off her back for him to drink from. He was staring in the direction they had been headed, but his eyes were glassy, and only her putting the bottleneck to his lips convinced him to blink, then drink.
“Maybe we should stop for the day, my lord,” she wheedled.
The groan came from deep inside him, up from his belly and through his throat. “No.”
“My lord, the Jedi can’t possibly know we’ve landed yet. We have a few days before reaching his last known location, and you can rest–”
He abruptly shoved the water-bladder away and lurched to his feet, stumbling wildly to the side before he caught his balance and could struggle forward instead. Vette just sat, watching him flail, oddly not feeling anything, though she knew he couldn’t be feeling too good himself. Merce went down once more as she watched, but he lurched back up again almost immediately, screaming at the sand like it was a slave who had disobeyed him by catching hold of his boots.
Well, Vette thought numbly, at least it wasn’t her he was shouting at.
She took a drink herself and then capped the bladder. Her load was getting lighter every day. She tried not to think of it, and she rose to follow her master deeper into the desert.
The suns seemingly moved faster across the wide, blue sky than the two hominids did across the wide, white ocean of sand. As Vette struggled after the Sith, watching him as they climbed up dunes and slid or fell down the other side, she began to feel that they had crossed some point of no return. If they turned back now, would they even have the water left to make it back to Mos Eisley? Her own thirst and weariness, the pain in her neck where the water-bladders rubbed on her shock collar’s scars, were making it hard for her to care. Maybe the end, if it came, would come as a blessing…
Merce began to talk to himself as they walked. Vette at first thought he was talking to her and would try to engage him, but invariably he would talk over her, or even break into a rant, and she soon gave up.
He ranted first about their mark and mission, then about the plans of his master. Vette realized then they were after two Jedi, not one: the Jedi Master had an Pada’wan he was training, one who had unusual powers of insight. Something about her powers scared Darth Plothar, and Merce seemed to be debating outloud whether he could use that knowledge against him, or whether he should be just as concerned as Plothar.
Why would he be? Vette wondered. It wasn’t that difficult to know the inside of a Sith: they were all anger and madness and hatred. Merce had once been different — but not so much anymore, she thought, as she looked at the blisters forming on her heels. Not anymore…
When they finally stopped for the night, Darth Merce’s grousing had turned to vague mumbles of pain. Vette had seen the gash across his chest of course, but she hadn’t thought much of it, and after the long forced march, she wasn’t inclined to be nice and offer to dress the wound for him, either. Maybe she should have known how bad it was, when Darth Merce didn’t bully her into doing the camp chores or even bully her awake the next morning.
He didn’t wake by himself either, lying like a dried-out pile of seaweed on the sand. She waited for as long as she dared, then crept up to him and touched his wrist. She was alarmed to find his skin was hotter than the sands under her knees. His eyes flared open as she gingerly pulled back his robes to examine his wound.
“My lord.” She tried again. “Maybe we should take a day off and rest. I think you’re in fever. You should really let me dress this.” Privately, she considered if it was worth it to urge him up or to let him die here, but then, suddenly, Merce sprang to his feet.
His, “No!” was a scream this time, not just a deep groan, and she dodged out of the way as the lightsaber came out. It swung a mighty arc and then… fell, retracting into the hilt before it hit the sand some yards away. Yet Darth Merce was trudging on already, and Vette trailed after him, disbelieving. She picked up the lightsaber just in case, and its metal felt oddly cool after the heat of Merce’s fevered skin.
The Darth’s soft moans of pain turned to long groans, and then finally screams, as the day dragged on. They had at least made it across the worst part of the Dune Sea, now paralleling a tall cliff; the echoes of Merce’s cries against the rocks gave Vette the willies. Worse was when the ranting returned, and this time Merce was screaming out his memories of torture — both afflicted by him and inflicted on others. He spat dire threats but also pleaded for mercy, and then, most pitiful, begged for a rescue. Vette was scared he would draw the Tusken Raiders back to them with his racket, but the creatures remained strangely absent, perhaps just as frightened by the mad Sith as she was.
She wanted to help him, but another part of her, perhaps her common sense, kept her from touching him. Indeed, he seemed to have forgotten she was even there. He continued to stumble and fall throughout the day, then shove himself up with a determination that would have impressed her, if she hadn’t been so afraid.
Then, in the late afternoon, he fell again and did not get up.
She slid to the ground in exhaustion nearby him, her back against the cliff, and just listened to him scream. Her own emotions were dull, run ragged as her body was. Her eyes scanned the cliffs, and though there were any number of small caves in their sides, she couldn’t see anything in them. She could imagine all sorts of nasty beasts in their depths though, awakening to the sounds of sickness, swarming just out of sight, watching and considering when it might be safe to leap upon them, to kill and to feast.
The thoughts were only that: she saw no hide or hair of any living thing aside from Merce, but the dull anxiety persisted. Finally, when she couldn’t bear it anymore, she got up and clapped her hands up front of Merce’s face, until he stopped moaning and seemed to focus on her.
“Be quiet,” she told him, forgetting his honorific in her fear. “Do you want to bring the Sand People back down on us?”
His eyes rolled up, but he didn’t stop the dreadful moaning.
“Please, Merce…” Now she was begging him — not just making a show of it to please his Sith pride, but truly pleading with him. He was delirious, that much was clear, and unable to resist anything she did to him. She tried shoving a wad of his own robes into his mouth, and when that didn’t silence him, she seized him by the arm and started dragging him to one of the caves.
Her thoughts were a little wild, maddened by the din and the pain in her neck and their long ordeal. Maybe if she presented him to the beasts, she thought, they would eat him first and leave her alone.
When she made it to the last few feet, she flung Merce at one of the gaping holes in the cliff. He went along limply, tumbling down a slight incline and then getting stuck, and she stuffed him in deeper with a kick, some distant part of her laughing and crying at the absurdity of it all. There were no beasts in the cave; it was obvious now. It was much too dry here for any kind of large animal, and she should have known that from the start. Yet now Merce’s screams echoed even worse inside the enclosed space, and still half-mad, Vette rolled a large rock over the entrance and sealed him inside.
Then she was sitting down hard and hugging herself and wondering how in the world she was here, on Tatooine, with a mad Sith she had just manhandled like so much freighter cargo as he screamed for his mother behind her. For that’s what he was doing now, she realized with a little sob.
It seemed so surreal. Sith had mothers — of course they had mothers — but somehow it had always seemed too alien, too horrible, for her to really believe. Who in their right mind could birth, let alone love, that? Yet there was no longer any malice in Merce’s voice, only pain and fear and the heart-piercing want of a child who had lost a parent and couldn’t find them again.
Then he was screaming for a dad, too, and that decided her. Vette rolled the rock aside, just enough so she could fit, and went down to him.
“Mother?” Merce asked, looking at her, but his eyes were gummy and glassy, and she didn’t think he could see her. Biting her lip hard, she touched his hair, that stringy alien hair, and he shivered, and the glassy look in his eyes spilled over into tears, yet the lines in his face had eased into relief and gratitude. “Mom…”
She felt like she had stumbled into something terribly private, seeing this side to the usually rage-drunk man, but her presence seemed to soothe and quiet him at least. She sat next to him and stroked his head.
“Don’t cry,” she said. “You’ll waste your water.”
“I’ll get more from the moisture farm. Promise,” said Merce muzzily.
“What?”
“I’m sorry I broke it,” he continued. “I didn’t mean to!”
“You didn’t break anything.”
“I’m sorry. …please, I’m sorry. Don’t leave me again. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it…”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Vette took a deep breath. She wasn’t entirely sure if Merce was talking to her, Vette, or to a ghost of the past, perhaps some abandoning parent, but she felt compelled to make it right for him, somehow. “There, there,” she said softly, patting his head. “I know you didn’t mean it. Bad things happen sometimes, but what’s important is that we make it right again. I’m not going to leave you. I promise.”
And she suddenly knew she wouldn’t — couldn’t. This strange Sith needed her, needed someone in his life that wasn’t all about the torture and hatred and rage of the rest of the Sith Empire. Hadn’t he shown her that side of him before, back on Dromund Kaas when they had first met? Clearly something in him still remembered a better life, was still drawn to it, perhaps hanging on to these half-formed memories of a mother and some moisture farm on Tatooine.
Was that why he had hated this place so? Had it once been his home?
Vette suddenly wondered who his mother was and what her story had been. She bent over Merce, whispering almost in his ear. “Do you remember…?” she breathed, and then, hoping to stir a memory, “…that time we had the picnic on the hill…?”
“Yes,” said Merce. His eyes were closed, and that slowed the tears. “It was so hot. I’m so hot now, Mother.”
“Yes, well, Tatooine is a hot place.”
“I miss the cold. I miss the ship and Dad.”
“Your Dad? Do you remember what happened to him?”
Merce tensed. “He left us to die… pulled into the ice-world…” And he started shivering all over, like he was in some kind of ice-world himself.
Oh no. That wasn’t what Vette had wanted to remind him of at all. “He’ll be back,” she promised, and she wasn’t really sure why she said it: Merce seemed to believe his father was dead after all, but maybe she was hoping it’d calm him.
And it did seem to. Merce opened his eyes and was gazing at her, or past her, his expression relaxing. “Tell him I love him,” he said. “Tell him he’s got to hold on, no matter what.”
“I will,” said Vette, though she was bewildered. Hold on to what? Had this mystery man died on the wrong side of an airlock? She shivered at the thought, and she quickly pushed it out by stroking Merce’s head again. “I’ll tell him. Now go to sleep. Everything will be fine. Your father will be fine. Um. He loves you, too.”
It seemed so flimsy an attempt, but whatever strange memory she was speaking to, or speaking about, it seemed to satisfy Merce, at least. His head slowly rolled to the side, falling to the sand under its own weight as his eyes slipped shut. Vette wiped his tears away firmly and adjusted his robes so he wouldn’t choke in his sleep.
“I sure hope everything’s going to be fine,” she said to herself, swallowing hard as she looked around the narrow cave. Now that the Sith was silenced, their reality hit her again. She crawled past him and dragged the big rock more firmly across the entrance, as well as she could, as a barricade and for camouflage. Then she sat alone in the dark, contemplating the futility of their situation. It seemed the only thing she could do now was wait for Merce to die… or to decide he wanted to live.
After about an hour had passed, or as near as Vette could tell, she chanced putting on a light and taking a closer look at Merce’s wound. The dim glow of the camp lantern made any kind of surgery work impossible, but what she could see of the gash was that it was very swollen and inflamed. A poison? Infection? She didn’t know. She lanced the worst part of it, and Merce let out a scream, from the depths of his sleep, like he was being murdered. Vette stopped, heart pounding in the deep silence that followed, but nothing outside the cave stirred, and Merce himself was too deep into it to make another sound. She didn’t think she could chance such a thing again — not without some Tusken Raider attacking or even Merce turning on her — so she blotted up the pus and wrapped the wound as best she could without disturbing him. She put a kolto shot in his thigh — the Sith barely jerked in response — then she lay down beside him.
And she waited.
Merce slept on, and she dozed, coming in and out of full awareness. Outside, dusk had long since passed into night. The complete silence of the desert was startling to the Twi’lek. For all of her life, she had been able to hear the slight buzz of electricity nearby, or the dim roars of traffic or a starship’s engines, but out here, it was so quiet she could even hear the wind, though it was barely blowing. It whispered against the sides of the cliff, sighed out in the dunes, hooted and hummed in the gaps between their rock-of-a-door and the cave walls. How very small and alone the first primitive aliens must have felt, she thought. It suddenly made sense why they would believe such noises to be the voices of their pagan gods. Did Merce hear the Force in such things? It did not sound like a very mean or cruel kind of sound, so maybe the Sith didn’t.
Sometime around the rise of the first moon, Merce began whimpering in his sleep, and Vette tended to him, talking to him like she was his mother or easing him with a drink and cool water sponged on his brow. Once she was able to get him to down half a ration bar. It was hard to make the image of the fearsome Sith she had known and this pathetic invalid match up in her mind, and Vette wondered at the fortitude of humans. She could almost like him, at least feel sorry for him, but deep inside she knew she had to stay emotionally distant. At the very least, when he finally woke up, the Sith would not appreciate knowing he had acted so weak in her presence. He was prideful and paranoid like that…
If he woke up.
Merce’s fever broke sometime in the hours before dawn. He stirred against her, pausing as if in surprise at finding her there, then crawled towards the entrance of the cave. Vette hadn’t sealed it as well as she thought, and the dim light of the coming morning revealed the cracks, including one wide enough for the Sith to stick his head through near the bottom. He did so, lying exhausted against it like it was an odd kind of pillow, as he watched the first sun come up with unfocused eyes. When its bright silver sliver pierced the horizon, he pulled his head back in, turning sideways so Vette could barely see his face in the gloom.
The light was just enough to put little glints in his eyes, and they were soft from his weariness and ordeal. He broke the silence. “That was you, wasn’t it? Through the night.”
“Yes.” She saw no point in lying. Sith just knew these things, sometimes. “You’ve been delirious for a long time, my lord.”
He said nothing, not even a threat that she must never betray his weakness. Instead, he waited until the bottom rim of the sun had lifted from the dunes, throwing the shadows into sharp relief, down to the last grain of sand. Then he backed down into the cave, curling against the wall directly across from her. Vette watched him nervously, but he didn’t speak again, and his breathing was soon smooth and untroubled.
He slept through the morning, but it was more peaceful now. Once the first sun was fully up and the second was beginning to rise, Vette dared to push the rock back from the entrance, and try and tend Merce’s wound again in the full light. One blue eye flared open to watch her as she approached, but he remained perfectly still as she treated him, even though she knew it must be hurting him terribly. The cut had stopped oozing, but it was still very red, and it seemed to have swelled up even more overnight.
As she worked, hearing nothing but Merce’s sharp intakes of breath when she prodded a particularly sore spot, she thought about his screaming the day before and contrasted it to his silence now. Even though silence was normally a deadly omen among Sith, she somehow couldn’t feel afraid. When she finished and looked up into his face, she found he had lapsed back into sleep, though whether into another fever dream or simply a deep sleep of trust, she couldn’t tell.