Legends of the Jedi: Burning Bright/Part I

Dad repeated my question – "Why is that planet forbidden?" – to himself in a low whisper, as though the words had put him into a trance. He stared very hard at me for a long moment, the the hungry orange glow of the nearby fire flickering across his face.

"Tell you what," he said at last. "I'll tell you a story about Malachor. You decide whether it explains it or not.

"It happened a very, very long time ago. The exact century has been lost to the ages, but it was around the time when we were pushing beyond the sector of our homeworld, scattering groups of ourselves to the far corners of the galaxy in search of great new planets to conquer and civilizations to battle.

"It was a truly great time, you see, because the leader of our people was personally directing one of these grand expeditions. He was called Mandalore the Visionary, and he's one the most shadowy and mysterious figures in our entire history. Some people don't even believe he ever existed. He-"

"Did he ever exist?" I asked anxiously. As much as I liked stories back then, I really wanted a straight-up answer from Dad this time.

"Shuddup for a minute, will ya? As far as the story's concerned, he existed!

"Well in any case, he was called Mandalore the Visionary because that's what he was. Now, as with any important figure from a time so long ago, there's as many different versions of him as there are ways to skin a cannok." I didn't and still don't have any idea what a cannok is. "But just about all of them – well, all the good ones, anyway – paint him as a man with one hell of an imagination... and great with words, too. He could give speeches as well as tell stories. Many of the legends even say he could see into the future.

"That helped a lot with telling stories, which was apparently one of his favorite things to do. He would dazzle his generals, advisors, and even common soldiers with tales of his great visions of glorious conquests that would be fought and magnificent wonders that would be seen as our people explored the galaxy. Some thought he was at least a little insane, but his stories captured the heart of the Mandalorian people. When he said it was our destiny to go farther than we'd ever gone before, the people were goin' crazy about it.

"So it was when Mandalore the Visionary personally led one of the fleets leaving our home sector behind. The troops were hanging so much on his every word that some officers actually fought each other just for a chance to go with him on his fleet. He was a very brave man, brave enough to be crazy, because his was the only fleet that traveled in a direction where there were absolutely no charted hyperroutes whatsoever – and I don't need to tell you how ridiculously dangerous that is, boy.

"I know what you're thinking, so I'm telling you in advance to shut it, 'cause that part of the story is absolutely true. Look on any map and you'll see from the direction they went. How they actually made it, of course, is open to interpretation. Supposedly, Mandalore knew already where they were going and was using numbers he'd seen in his dreams to calculate the hyperjumps. Pretty crazy stuff. Stop fidgetting, boy.

"There's also a story that says that on the journey, one of Mandalore's generals decided that he'd gone mad, and got a bunch of soldiers to confront him and try to force him to turn back and abandon their voyage before he got them all killed. Mandalore didn't even fight them. He convinced them to lay down their weapons with only five words... and I'm not telling you what those five words were until you're older."

"So, yeah. It took them about five or six years... Well, who knows how many? And more importantly, who cares? Anyway, after a while they arrived at a faraway planet, way out in the Outer Rim, which was pretty damn far out back then. Even a kid like you could take one look at this world and tell that it was worthy of conquest. It had gigantic, mesmerizing spirally clouds circling across entire continents like bizzare halos, and if you looked at the planet from the right angle, the whole thing was sort of tinted violet, like some artist had put a kind of special layer of paint over it, one that you could only see if you were patient enough to wait for the right angle."

Dad took a swig from his flask to wet his tongue again.

"This planet, of course, was Malachor V.

"From day one, Mandalore the Visionary had been telling his men that this planet was inhabited by a great, worthy foe. And he was right. There were five major nations on Malachor. All had powerful armies, but three were peaceful and a bit isolationist. The remaining two were not so shy, rather warlike, and cared a lot about honor. Much like us, in fact. They were also the largest, and each of the two dwarfed the combined military might of the three to boot.

"Mandalore the Visionary landed his small fleet and prepared his warriors. Always a bold one – something that lost him two fingers in his youth – he had his army begin their conquest by attacking one of the two stronger countries. Now, the two nations had been at war at the time we arrived, but they quickly decided to ally against us, setting aside their differences until the invaders were repelled. But Mandalorians don't repel that easily.

"In not much time, Mandalore the Visionary's armies had swarmed and gutted one of the two stronger nations, striking far too quickly and ferociously for them to respond. This prompted its ally and the three smaller ones to also combine their forces. As this happened, Mandalore's advisors began to get skeptical of the man's promises. You see, they hadn't expected this enemy to go down as easily as they did.

"But as it turned out, Malachor would be hard-won, just the way we like all of our victories. The remaining factions combined their knowledge and their armies, and soon Mandalore's scouts were reporting sightings of hostile armies much larger than ones we could muster. But we were undaunted because Mandalore was undaunted. He kept the entire war effort together.

"The enemy armies mobilized and surrounded the territory of the destroyed nation, where Mandalore's forces were plundering resources and technology. Then, they pressed in from all sides, demolishing the ring of makeshift outposts and defense positions we'd haphazardly set up. Mandalore's top generals made three attempts to stall the enemy advance, but each one failed.

"It seemed hopeless. We kept storing up whatever supplies and weapons we could, but Mandalore suddenly went silent for the first time in his life – literally, he wouldn't say a word to anyone. The men were shocked, and despair loomed over us as our armies were all forced to fall back to what were called the Great Crescent Plains. It was there that the battle we wanted truly began.

"Mandalore suddenly told his armies to charge toward what seemed like a random part of the enemy circle that had been tightening around them. They did, and somehow the enemy was taken completely by surprise. A huge hole was torn in their advancing line and the Mandalorians surged through.

"After the great escape from Crescent, Mandalore led his men to one of the three smaller nations and composed a complex plan for his armies to follow, supposedly using a map that he drew on the back of his cape. Each Mandalorian army was to follow a very specific path through the country, wiping out all opposition. They would then keep going to the second small nation, then the third, and then they would finish the fight with the last strong nation.

"Despite the thrill of their escape, the men were sober and desperate. They knew that the native armies were in hot pursuit, and Mandalore was sending them into a territory where the only things they knew were the borders and the locations of a few cities. If any more armies were waiting for them there, they'd be crushed. But things turned out different than that.

"The Mandalorians did exactly as Mandalore had instructed, and it worked. They tore through the countryside, catching bases, outposts, and entire cities off-guard. Every soldier grabbed as much stuff as he could carry; food, weapons, everything. Whatever couldn't be carried or stored in the war machines was destroyed. Our advance was like a carpet of fire, engulfing and decimating them.

"The pursuing armies eventually began to split off from their original formation to go around and confront us from the front, or flank us or some such thing. But Mandalore somehow knew their every move, and every time a Mandalorian formation followed his orders, they found victory. They were told exactly where to go and what to do. No wonder the man's so legendary.

"And so on. We marched further and further from region to region. The enemy fought back viciously, especially those from the remaining strong nation. Those ones, they rivaled even the strongest Mandalorians on the battlefield. It was said that in addition to machines of war, they used vicious, predatory beasts on the battlefield, and some of their soldiers would set themselves on fire before charging into close-quarters combat. Captured soldiers would try to ceremoniously disembowel themselves with their own swords.

"The people of Malachor were easily some of the most brutal and exotic ones we ever conquered, and they claimed many Mandalorian lives, but they could not match us in the end. In mere months, we cut a bloody swath through their planet and tore into the last nation. Many Mandalorians fell as the enemy defended its last bastion, but they paid with ten soldiers for every one we lost.

"Finally the war ended when Mandalore's forces defeated the last of them at their capital, a great metropolis called Trayus City. They say that the sound of our cheers and songs could be heard even in orbit. Nobody doubted our leader now. He'd given his people the battle that was promised, and now they were left with a rich planet to establish themselves on and grow outward. So a new nation was born on Malachor.

"For ten years that nation grew. Factories were rebuilt and cities were settled in again. And even as we got comfortable, Mandalore began speaking of his visions again. He shared another dream, one of a new Mandalorian province in the Outer Rim with Malachor as its capital.

"And don't be fooled, it was possible. Despite the devastation from the war, the planet was still rather intact, full of resources they could use to build orbital shipyards and hyperspace beacons. So for ten years we flourished on Malachor V, preparing to find even more magificent things out there in that uncharted territory.

"Cool story, huh?" he asked after a moment's pause.

I blinked, suddenly pulled out of the story. "Yeah, I guess so. But what happened next?"

Dad took another drink and looked into the fire for a moment. "What happened," he said in a somewhat more gloomy voice, "is that after those ten years, a man nobody knew anything about arrived on Malachor V."

The walls of the city had been easy to scale. He took note of the architecture of the place as he moved casually out into the street. The buildings were tall and many of them turned into curved, smooth spires or disk-shaped observatories at the top. The newer and tallest structures were painted gray, like the clouds that hung off to the east, near the mountains.

''He was a strange man. The only enemy of the Mandalorians who we never actually knew. He had no name.''

Malachor V looked beautiful from orbit, and its cities had seemed similarly inviting at first glance. Sure enough, however, there had been a much uglier picture under the surface. As he drifted unnoticed from steet to alley to rooftop, he quickly became more and more aware of a smell that was somehow distinctly unpleasant, yet also alluring. It wasn't unknown to him, but it had never felt so strong before.

This world stank of misery. Crouching on the edge of an irregularly square-shaped roof for a moment, he let his eyes wander about the quiet street below. There were at best a handful of citizens in sight, shuffling from here to there with downcast eyes. On every street corner, a Mandalorian soldier stood at attention with a blaster carbine in hand, restlessly watching.

The place was so quiet. Nobody was talking to neighbors, no children were at play. Nobody was relieved to come home from work because most of them didn't have a home or any pay. It was sickening. Not at all like home.

''Some say he was a native because he dressed in simple robes – green, I heard, like the farmers wore. But most agree that he came from another world. One far, far away. He sure wasn't Mandalorian, and wasn't from one of the two nations that had been like us, either. He didn't understand us at all.''

A thirty-something male human wearing battle armor sans helmet and a smirk that was visible even from this height appeared in the street, walking with a confident and self-satisfied stride. A scrawny, miserable-looking younger man was walking behind him. Aside from worn brown patchwork clothing, he wore around his neck a black metal collar that sported a silently blinking red light.

''Of course, after our victory over the native countries, the Mandalorians were doing what we always do. We had beaten them and proven ourselves stronger, so we spent our ten years of growth making sure the weak were servicing the strong.''

The sentries saluted the older man as he passed. His meager companion lagged behind until a blaster shot near his feet put some more speed into him.

''Like they're supposed to. But the stranger didn't understand that.''

The man on the rooftop shook his head blankly. He got up, made a six-meter hop to the next roof, and kept walking. A clandestine visit to the local library had told him a bit about the planet's history. Apparently, Malachor V been a colony established and then forgotten by the Eriaduan Imperium at least a thousand years ago. That explained why most of its citizens were human. The Mandalorians had arrived ten years ago, and the planet's days were clearly not brighter for it.

He had his work cut out for him.

''As it happened, the stranger appeared one day in one of the smaller settlements. He took advantage of the fact that most of the people we'd conquered didn't understand our ways, either.''

Sometime around midnight, he stood in the boxy central control room of the city's garrison. Dead Mandalorians lay scattered across the bloody floor as computer consoles on either side of him sparked their death throes. Out through the main viewport, he could see the streets alive with pandemonium, beings running this way and that. The pavement looked almost like a raging river of shadows. The thunderclaps of explosions, slugthrowers, and blasters sounded like a far-off orchestra that played behind the rage of the crowds. It had taken all night, but he'd done it.

A revolution had begun.

"What did he do, Dad?"

"He beat us."

A crisp, refreshing breeze enlivened Deyrus' steps as he marched down the street. Corpses were being moved about, Mandalorians to be burned and natives to be buried. The relatively tiny garrison had fallen even easier than he'd expected. From what he'd heard, the Mandalorians had never had to deal with something like this before, so complete had their conquest been.

A man dressed in a brown military uniform with an added Mandalorian armor chestplate appeared at his shoulder. He looked about forty and his face sported a laser burn perilously close to his left eye. Deyrus had met him the previous night while taking the garrison; his name was Truman and he had clearly seen a lot of fighting before. He said that he had served during the Mandalorian invasion a decade before, and Deyrus believed him. The man had been a great help in rallying the makeshift militia that they were now in control of.

"Sir," Truman said respectfully as they walked together down the street. "I cannot say how greatful I, as well as the rest of the people of our city are." They passed many such people. Conspicuous red marks were on their necks where restrainment collars had been fastened for years. "You gave me an opportunity I've never dreamed of having: to fight for our planet again. I thought I would die a shameful death, like so many others."

Deyrus nodded silently as Truman continued. "I would have been happy even to die in the fighting last night, if it meant I could do it while helping to kill these dogs. Nevertheless, because I survived, I will follow you and obey your orders to the end. You certainly deserve that much, sir."

"Thank you," Deyrus replied simply. He didn't want to think much about the coming days, at least not yet. Right now he just wanted to enjoy the fresh air for a bit before getting down to business.

"But I have to ask you, sir," Truman went on. "Who are you? And where are you from? I must know, and many others are begging to know as well."

For the first time since the fighting last night, Deyrus looked directly at Truman, and a bit of a smile appeared on his face. "Who I am is not important," he said, visibly resting his hand on his sword hilt. "But what we're going to do is."

Dad's tone was less grand, less enthusiastic as he continued the story. "The man from nowhere just appeared in the night in one of our smaller cities. In that one night, he sparked a rebellion and killed all the Mandalorians there. We were taken completely by surprise. We'd never expected something like this to happen. But life's full of surprises, and I guess not all of 'em are good ones.

"Word spread pretty fast, and rumors went with it. Some people thought that Mandalore knew the revolt had been coming, that he was going to give us another glorious battle. But Mandalore said nothing about that and just ordered a nearby unit to take the town back. But when they got there, the whole place was empty, except for a whole lot of bodies. The slaves had ransacked the town and left, taking weapons, food and whatnot with 'em. Everyone was shocked. Y'see, we'd all expected them to be holed up somewhere in the town, hoping to make some last stand or something. But instead they had taken everything they could carry and left. So we followed.

"The Mandalorian unit gave chase to the north, but the people started getting worried when some more towns in that direction got ransacked, too. The renegades were running, and they were running fast. A few other groups of Mandalorians intercepted them, but hardly slowed them down. The enemy was moving from town to town, taking everything they could use, and moved on, usually burning what remained. Just like we Mandalorians had long before, except with every town they came to, they were joined by hundreds or even thousands of former slaves.

"The rebel army was getting more and more vast, but they couldn't run forever. After they had passed through six towns, Mandalore announced that he would personally lead an army to crush the insurrection. But he didn't make any talk about visions of the future.

"Now, up to this point nobody actually knew that this rebellion even had a leader. No Mandalorian who had seen the stranger lived to tell anyone about him. This would be the first time someone did. Great masses of warriors were diverted from the territory of what had been the two strong native countries, where our best men stayed. They soon surrounded the rebels, supposedly in the Great Crescent Plains where we had been surrounded ten years before.

The zeal and awe that had permeated Truman's demeanor for the past few weeks was now nowhere to be seen. Deyrus sensed that he was fighting to keep his military professionalism going while fear of decimation simmered underneath. It was easy for a common soldier to be worried, Deyrus supposed, but the same was not true for others.

"Sir," Truman said, looking up at him. "I'm here to report."

Deyrus was standing on a rock that put him a good five feet above Truman's height, staring out into the distance at a far-off skirmish. All the people there looked so small, like he could wave a hand in one direction and they would go there. Dry yellow grass covered the gently rolling plains that stretched in every direction. The sky in the direction that Deyrus was facing was half-covered by a smooth gray cloud layer, and a strong wind irregularly swished his earth-green cloak this way and that.

"Go ahead, Truman," Deyrus said. The skirmish that he was observing did not seem to be going well. Many of his men were only untrained citizens, and many others had no armor. The Mandalorians, however, had armor, ammunition, and most distressingly, vehicle support. A pair treaded, boxy machines had entered the fray and were already scattering the rebel troops. They possessed weapons capable of damaging enemy tanks, but they were limited in supply.

"We're boxed in," Truman said, "we" referring to the main army which was a stone's throw behind the two. "Mandalorians on all sides. They have armor, but there's no sign of air or artillery support, not that they need it. Our harrassment formations are meeting stiff resistence, and it looks like the enemy's getting ready to charge soon. What are we going to do?"

"Binoculars," said Deyrus suddenly in his business voice. Truman immediately handed him a pair, and the two were silent for a moment. Deyrus scanned the horizon, over which a large unit of Mandalorians had started to creep. At its head was one warrior who did not look like the others. A long coal-gray cape billowed behind him, and his face was hidden by a reddish-gold mask. Deyrus distinctly thought he saw that mask turn directly toward him.

''It was on this battlefield that Mandalore would meet the stranger for the first time. Nobody knew what to expect as the two led armies against each other.''

"Sir?" Truman asked anxiously. "I've just received word that the northern wall is moving in. Mandalore himself is leading them. What will we do?"

His answer was a high-pitched whine of metal. Deyrus' sword glinted in the air with a brilliant, otherworldly light. Turning to regard the army that stood perturbedly behind him, he said, "This."

''Then the rebels charged, aiming for the formation where Mandalore himself was. The legends say a lot of things about the man with no name, about the way he fought. Many claim that he never used a blaster or a slugthrower, only fighting with the blade. Others say that he didn't even need a sword, that his mind was somehow his real weapon.''

Deyrus waded further and further into the battle, sensing every soldier's boot that trod upon the plains. He had an ally more powerful than any weapon of war the Mandalorians possessed, and it was his guide. Warriors charged him and his blade cut them down. One of their rumbling war machines came for him with guns blazing, but killing a Jedi Knight took more than armor. Flexing his will, he siezed the dual laser cannons with an invisible grip and crushed them before leaping out of the tank's path.

Rebels streamed past the disarmed tank with renewed vigor even as an entire line of the iron beasts appeared up ahead. The Mandalorians were well-trained, experienced, and armored from head to toe. Deyrus' troops were men and women of every age, wearing whatever simple clothes they had been allowed in captivity, though some were lucky enough to salvage pieces of armor from dead Mandalorians. They were farmers, repairmen, mechanics – workers given simple menial tasks and had never held a weapon before. But they had their own planet to fight for, one that had always been theirs. That was something the enemy didn't have.

Somehow his army broke through the Mandalorian line, and he battled Mandalore alone as the rebels fled.

Blood covered the ground like the grass as the two fought. Off in the horizon, the motley army of rebels was starting to disappear over a hill, leaving behind a trail of bodies and wrecked war machines. It was a shock in itself that the rebels had managed to escape, but to see Mandalore himself in single combat with the leader of the restistance who appeared to be staying behind – Corporal Tome Motir had never dreamed that he'd witness such a thing.

Metal blades shrieked and clanged as they connected. Mandalore's weapon was a long, slightly curved, lightweight sword, favoring speed. The other man's weapon was a larger, heavier weapon, certainly a type of broadsword meant to be used with two hands. Despite this, he seemed to be capable of moving it with only slightly less speed than Mandalore, which was impressive. It had been said that Mandalore's blade was everywhere at once when he fought, and it wasn't much of an exaggeration.

Transfixed, Tome stood a good eight meters off, not daring to interfere; unless his leader called him to join a battle against a lone opponent, he was forbidden to. So he only watched the two men rage back and forth, only dimly aware of the other warriors as they started to join him in his spectating.

Whoever he was, the rebel leader was skilled, disturbingly so. Dressed in simple robes and a cloak, he looked more like a farmer or someone else from the country than a warrior. He held his own against the furious maelstrom of cuts and thrusts that Mandalore attacked him with, and his counter-attacks were both fast and powerful. He possessed uncanny physical strength, such that he could occasionally wield his heavy sword one-handed without seeming to lose any precision or speed.

What's more, it seemed like the rebel leader won every single time there was a sword lock; with a sudden shove, he would send Mandalore stumbling back. The first few times this happened, he pressed the attack, but later he would simply hold his ground and wait for Mandalore to regain his composure. Tome started to have an uneasy feeling that Mandalore's opponent was almost toying with him.

The rebel leader's demeanor seemed to have shifted as well. While at the beginning, his face had seemed a picture of serenity and detached contentment, now he appeared to be almost making a show of the duel. His slashes were wider and more sweeping – and was that a smile Tome kept seeing?

The two broke away from each other and circled for a minute, now closed in by a ring of spectators. Then, silent as a wraith, the rebel leader leaped a truly astonishing distance into the air, well past his own height. In barely a second he closed the six meters between himself and Mandalore and leveled an overhand chop at his shoulder. Clearly caught off-guard, Mandalore's knees buckled and he fell back, scrambling to get away.

Again, the robed man paused his attack, allowing Mandalore to spin, regain his composure, and bring his guard up again. Tome couldn't see his leader's face, but could practically smell his boiling anger and frustration. He didn't know what to think. Was this stranger, this man from nowhere, capable of actually defeating the best of them all? Tome silently begged for him to call for assistance, so that he and his comrades could crush this dog into the dirt as he deserved to be.

What happened instead astonished Tome and the others.

Dropping his guard stance, the robed man raised a black-gloved hand toward his opponent, his fingers opened, and Mandalore was caught up into the air, prompting a collective gasp from the previously-silent audience. Inexplicably suspended several meters up, Mandalore struggled and clutched at his throat with one free hand as though he was being throttled by an invisible grip.

At a brisk pace, the rebel leader then approached Mandalore, his left hand still outstretched and his sword still in his right.

''Mandalore fought well, but he almost lost his life in that duel. Still, he survived, and the man with no name fled after his army.''

Deyrus paused and eyed his opponent, who continued to struggle in his grip. Mandalore was powerful, skilled, commanding, and respected, but he had nothing that truly counted. For all his authority, he could only exert it over a single planet that he had thrown into darkness, and the only ones who respected him were fools who lusted for killing like he did. And his skill with the blade, while honed over many years, was eclipsed by the power of Deyrus' ally. His ally was the Force, and its power would wipe away the misbegotten glory of his corrupted people forever.

But not today.

His sneer evaporating, Deyrus tossed Mandalore away. The warrior landed on his back, gasping at the feet of his own soldiers. Roaring as one in outrage, they reached in unison for their weapons. Calmly, Deyrus felt the Force around him, felt the light that illuminated the universe, and vanished from their sight with a flex of energy.

''One story goes that the man from nowhere was actually Mandalore the Visionary's brother, wanting revenge over something that no one else knew about. And that Mandalore only survived that fight because his brother wanted him to see his empire on Malachor destroyed first.''

The night had come quickly, and the leader estimated that they were far enough ahead of the pursuing Mandalorians to rest for a time. A thin formation of trees that could barely be called a forest was chosen as the place to make their camp. Comfort was in short supply; they currently had no vehicles of any sort to store large amounts of blankets, food, or other supplies, so everyone just carried and shared whatever they could carry. The night was cold and breezy, and Malachor V's moon was hidden by cloud cover. Most of the stars were still there, though, and a modicum of obscure hope was taken from that. They needed whatever they could get.

Truman sat alone on the outskirts of their camp, staring into the pitiful campfire he had built. It had rained here just before their arrival, so the wood from these trees was damp and didn't burn easily. Still, a fire was a fire, and Truman would have to accept however much heat it gave him, even if it was only the size of an outstretched hand.

The leader – Truman didn't even know his name – appeared out of the darkness behind Truman. Always alert, he walked with one hand on the hilt of his sword. Stepping gingerly over the remains of Truman's meal, blanket, and pillow, he extended a hand toward the fire, his fingers moving in some kind of obscure sequence. The fire suddenly leaped up and spread to cover the entire little pile of wood that Truman had gathered. The leader then wordlessly kneeled in front of it.

Truman eyed the man for a moment, and then shook his head at the fire. He had only known him for a short time, but he'd already learned the futility of asking questions like, "How did you do that?" In the end, the man was what he was, and Truman supposed the fact that he was here was what really mattered.

After a moment, Truman smiled. "Quite a day, hasn't it been, sir?" he asked. "I must confess I thought those bastards had us for sure, that time."

The leader returned neither Truman's smile, nor his gaze, instead opting to stare into the fire he somehow commanded. "Few things in the universe are truly impossible," he remarked. Then, after a long pause, he added, "I have a sort of confession, as well."

Truman shifted uneasily, not sure what to expect. Glancing up at the stars, he said, "I'm all ears, sir."

"Tell me, Truman. At the battle today, after we broke through the line and began to leave the battlefield, do you know where I was?"

"Yes. You were at the back, covering our escape."

"Not exactly. I was at the back, but..."

The leader seemed to be searching very carefully for the right words. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and he almost sounded like he was in pain.

"...I fought Mandalore. And I defeated him. I could have killed him. This war could've ended that much sooner, but I didn't."

Some kind of rippling coldness thundered up through Truman's body. He stood up quickly. "You... you let him go?" he gasped.

"I don't know why. I felt... not like myself. Like I had something personal against him. I wanted... I wanted to make him suffer first. Wanted to destroy his armies, take his cities, his wealth, everything he had from him first. Make him see how vain and meaningless it all is."

Truman took this all in silently, turning it this way and that inside his head. When he replied, his voice was coated by enthusiasm, which seemed to take the leader off-guard. "That... I think that is actually fitting, sir. To show him that. He should live to see the defeat of his empire of savages."

Shaking his head, the leader looked up at Truman with an expression of complete helplessness on his face. Knowing his courage and prowess in battle, it was a truly disheartening sight. The man was clearly in some kind of guilt crisis, and it was up to Truman to snap him out of it; as far as he knew, he was the only person who the leader ever actually talked to.

"Others might think you wasted an opportunity, but I think you did well," Truman went on, his voice rising in volume and confidence. With a large sweep of his arm made in the direction of the rest of the camp, he exclaimed, "Look at this! Look at what we have! We have an army – underequipped, untrained and suffering, but we have an army! We can fight! And we already have victories under our belt, despite these hardships. And we have you, sir. We could never have gotten anywhere close to this if not for you. After what we accomplished today, I am convinced that there is nothing we cannot do with you at our head, sir."

To Truman's bewilderment, the leader sighed and his gaze fell back to the campfire. "You don't understand, Truman," he said quietly. "About the thing with Mandalore, I mean. It's not the same thing for me as it would have been for you. I'm a..." He stopped abruptly, as though catching himself before speaking a word he wasn't supposed to say. "I'm not a man who's supposed to think that way. We're not supposed to spare a life because we want to make it suffer more."

Truman's previously soaring disposition was sobered by the other man's confusing philosophical talk, not to mention his elusive nature. "Who is we?"

"The... the people I'm from."

Hanging his head, Truman turned away and braced himself against a nearby tree for a moment. Exasperated, he started to pace around the fire and said, "Sir, I truly don't understand you at all, and I'm beginning to think I never will. You've come from nowhere, have no name, and can do these..."

Trailing off, Truman simply gestured at the fire. "You're not like us," he went on. "For whatever reason. And I don't just mean those... things you can do. It is like your mind is completely different from mine, like you see things that are invisible to everyone else. Or like the universe sees you differently, or... something."

Truman coughed and shook his head in frustration before going on. He barely even understood what he was saying. "It's like there's something hanging over you, sir, torturing you. And I'm convinced that whatever that thing is, it's directly related to... well, everything about you."

He stopped beside the leader, who was still gazing into the flames. Aside from occasionally glancing at Truman, he had made no indication that he was listening. Looking into the fire as well, Truman said, "I'm not trying to make you say anything you can't or shouldn't, for whatever reason. You're here to help us win back our freedom, and that's all that matters to me in the end. But as for your own demons, whatever they are... nobody is going to be able to help you if you don't tell anyone anything."

Silently and without looking up, the leader nodded. Turning away from the fire, for he suddenly felt himself in need of a walk, Truman said, "I'm a soldier, sir. And I can't fight an enemy I can't even see."

In any case, the rebels got away, and sure enough, the war would go much worse than expected...

Deyrus shook his head wearily as Truman disappeared into the shadows. He didn't blame the man for his frustration, but orders were orders; Deyrus was not to tell anyone about the Jedi or the Force until his mission was completed.

So for the moment, the fire was Deyrus' company. In his earlier years as a Jedi apprentice, he'd found himself a natural at conjuring and directing fire with the Force; it was the first power he'd ever mastered on his own. It was such a rich metaphor to hold onto, as well. It was a sun, giving life and comfort; it was the Force itself, illuminating the universe and allowing him to walk without stumbling in uncharted territory. Just seeing a fire, even in combat, tended to had a focusing effect on him. He would stare into a fire for hours while meditating. Usually it would be just a single candle while indoors, but not so outside; like Jedi, different sizes and temperatures of fire belonged in different places and times.

Jedi, however, were called to not be the light, but rather to bring it to others. They were servants of justice, so if one was to be metaphorical, a Jedi was a collection of firewood – or, more poetically, a candle, and the fire that they brought to the galaxy was the power they wielded for its people – the Force, without which there could not be Jedi.

But for the first time Deyrus could remember, the fire was not much of a comfort for him. He stared and stared into it until there seemed to be nothing else in the universe, but it had nothing for him that he wanted. He only saw Mandalore staring back at him, lying beaten in the dust, and the fire's heat seemed to no longer even matter.

He knew that he had drawn on it, let his feelings and actions be guided by it – the darkness, that aspect of the Force that full Jedi were forbidden to. It also had a name, like the Ashla, the light side, but non-Masters were forbidden to speak it – as he was taught on Alaris, anyway. This dark side, it was the only thing Deyrus feared.

And he knew that it was inside him somewhere. That malice, that contempt for Mandalore that had seemingly come from nowhere – it felt like something he'd always had, felt just like the Force, his fire that empowered him and illuminated his path. He had barely even noticed the transition from his lighter state of mind to the darker one.

Deyrus had to do something about it. The dark side was deceptive, malevolent, and not something to be taken lightly by any stretch. But what could be done about it? The dark side was a part of the Force, which theoretically meant that it was everywhere, only manifesting itself when it was actively drawn upon. It was an enemy within, one that he could only defeat by living his life and staying mindful of himself every step of the way.

Furthermore, Deyrus also had to keep fighting this war. He was not the only one tormented by the darkness. An entire planet was suffering under these Mandalorian oppressors. They were without hope, imprisoned in the dark. Deyrus was here for them, not for himself. He had to dedicate himself to winning this war. The darkness would confront him along the way; there was nothing to meditate on, nothing further to ponder.

One lone candle could turn the tide against any amount of darkness. The Jedi all understood that. That was why he had been sent to these people on Malachor V – to be their candle. So he would shine, burn for them as brightly as he could, whatever it cost him. His mission was all that mattered.