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eorzeashan · 1 year

Text

Eiengiri

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence, blood.

Pairings: Jadus/M!Imp Agent

Rating: M

Word Count: 3858

Summary: An exploratory series of snapshots of KOTFE/ET, where the Outlander becomes what he is framed as from the beginning. Spans perspectives concerning Eight (agent), Jadus, Lana, Theron, Arcann.

Your destiny is fire and flames, famine and blood, in the arms of the one whose darkness falls like rain…

He dreams for five years. For five years Eight drifts in the abyss, out of time and space.

The first year the silence is so agonizing he could scream. Where once the curtain of enfeebling night was his ally, a sign of his domain, the all-encompassing sensation of being wrapped in his Lord’s embrace, it was a cold, comfortless stranger now.

He can't hear him.

He can't feel him.

He disintegrates into pieces– fodder in the water sinking beneath the waves, the anchor he called his Lord no longer reaches out to catch him.

This must be what the Dread Masters felt before they went mad, he thinks. He tries to sleep.

In his restless dreams, he smells smoke.

The second year he has not yet become accustomed to the loss– but he no longer waits for the sound of his voice to pierce the veil of emptiness.

It's been so long. He never remembered being so alone in all his lifetimes. Ice seeps into his bones, heavy with grief. He dreams of fire that cloaks the skies.

The third year is nothingness.

A hunger that gnaws, hollowing him inside and out with the sheer need to run free, to breathe, to bite down on shimmering warmth and supple skin- The dream ends abruptly, and he is bereft.

The fourth year… It’s the same dream again. He is in all white, stained up to the neck in rough accents of red, drenched in it. His feet are so laden by the viscosity of it caking his soles that he struggles to move forward through the reddened snow. Whether it is his or another's is irrelevant; in this slate-clean landscape, nothing remains. Someone is calling him. He can barely hear it above the deafening silence that permeates every inch of the snowfield. He has to go.

Someone is… It's the same dream again.

The fifth year, he awakens.

“This will hurt,” greets a familiar voice. It’s not the one he longed for – a cruelty that comes with the dregs of hope. A sharp, shooting pain lances through his abdomen, spreading like toxin, and though he collapses out of the carbonite chamber to his knees and screams, not a sound comes out. The emptiness had been with him for far too long. No suffering now would compare.

This deeply disconcerts Lana, who kneels down to check his vitals. “Thank goodness.” She breathes, worry flickering in her ochre Sith eyes, “For a second there I’d thought the carbonite had damaged your lungs, rendered you mute.”

Eight says nothing, merely closing his eyes and steadying himself against the railing of the durasteel catwalk as if it were his lifeline. His head rings with the echo of thousands of unanswered [connections]. The stars dance overhead. The shadows creep out of the corner of his vision. He claps both gloves over his throbbing eyelids, the searing light borne out of imprisonment too much to bear.

Feel. Feel.

A little astromech droid he doesn’t recognize chirps at them. Vault guards = arriving // Lana + Agent = get ready!

Lana’s concern returns in the form of the pert of her lips and the deep twist between her brow. She grabs him by the bicep, pulling him away. “Eight. We have to go. We’ll be surrounded any minute now, and I’ve staked far too much on this plan to leave you here. I know you're tired, but you must fight through it; the galaxy depends on it!”

Feel. Feel. Feel.

Wait.

He knows this. To be lost in the void. To be found in the darkness. To open yourself up to him.

Lana’s cries fade into the background of the klaxon of alarms and thundering boots as he drowns all else out, focusing on nothing save for the blackness of the depths and the wizened heart that hadn't beat in his chest for half a decade. The air leaves his lungs like gas exiting a corpse. He holds fast.

Feel.

Allow your body to betray you.

Feel.

Allow your heart to slow.

Feel.

Allow your blood to boil.

FEEL ME.

The darkness closes in, smothering the light from his eyes.

Lana cuts down one skytrooper, then another. She whirls around amidst blaster fire, bisecting it cleanly in half. “Eight! We have to-” The words die in her throat midway.

Eight climbs to his feet, the movement loose and unnatural. He flops forward with no tension holding his upper half up, knees buckled inward.

Lana is struck by a delayed warning in the Force before an overpowering presence hits her full-force with all the power of a careening Umbaran magrail; her knuckles go white gripping her saber with such intensity she fears she will shatter the hilt.

It’s enough to break her focus, granting a fatal opening for a Zakuulan Knight to cleave downwards on her skull.

Eight’s wrist is limp when he extends an arm that barely holds itself up. He points one finger that hinges like a rusted joint.

The Zakuulan Knight freezes mid-swing.

Lana snaps out of her reverie to reposition herself; she doesn't need to. The next seconds play out like a holo-film on loop before her eyes:

First, the helmet lifts. It turns to the side. Eight makes a grabbing motion with both hands– he twists. Lana hears the distinct crack of bone, of a broken neck. She pales.

The Knight’s head spins off their neck in a cascading spray of red.

The headless body falls to its knees. Lana steps backward as it thuds at her feet, crimson liquid seeping out from an empty hole where a head once was– long discarded by Eight, who now collapses against the railing as if afflicted by a second bout of hibernation sickness.

A stunned silence falls over the entering guard force and Lana feels the atmosphere of the room darken perceptibly. The heavy stench of fear and iron fills her nostrils, and Lana de-ignites her saber. The broken body of their comrade lay in pieces on the floor, leaking red.

The Knights retreat a foot back, then turn tail and run.

She can't blame them for their cowardice. She blasts the non-organic stragglers to mechanical pieces, returning her attention to the one she'd come for.

The taint of the Dark Side staining the room fills her with power, yet brings no pleasure to her pained expression as she approaches her friend. Her friend, who had accomplished a miracle with no ounce of the Force in his system.

“Eight. Can you hear me?” She asks him, gently, where she knew her voice would only be grating.

He doesn't answer, again. Her hand hovers above his shoulder. Did something go wrong with the treatment? Was he hurt? Did he need-

Do not touch him.

Lana refrains from leaping out of her skin at that moment, but feels a pang of anger in her chest at the full-body jolt that overtakes her. She narrows her eyes. She has had enough surprises this day, especially of the unplanned kind. The voice in her mind boils like molten tar.

“Who are you?” She demands, authoritative, trying to wrench some semblance of control back from the situation.

Succeed in your mission. We will speak after.

“You can't just-” Lana’s protests are cut off as the presence leaves her mind. She doesn’t have time to dwell on it; her holocom rings. Koth.

“Yes, I read you,” She answers briskly, throwing caution to the wind and dragging Eight along by the hand, unnamed voices be damned.

He��s as pliant and meek as a newborn nerf calf, wholly uncharacteristic for the man they lauded as one of the Empire’s greatest Ciphers- not that it helped to absolve him of such crimes in these unstable times.

“An updated timetable would be good!” Koth Vortena pipes up from within his ship.

“We’re on schedule. There were some complications, but I have him.” Lana deposits Eight against a wall and forces the next gate open– or at least tries to, as the blast door slams back shut with a creak of straining metal.

Skepticism colors Koth’s voice when he next speaks. “Great– uh, is there a reason why he’s not talking? He’s not a vegetable, is he? Because I really, really don’t want this crazy suicide mission to be for a corpse.”

“Not now, Koth,” Lana grits out, sweat rolling down her pale forehead as she struggles against the weight of the blast doors. They roll open, finally, and she grabs Eight again to charge on through– back into the fray.

----------------------------

They call him Outlander. The assassin of the Emperor.

It’s not true, of course. Not yet.

When Lana tells him of the state of the galaxy, he inclines his head, listens intently, absorbs the information and processes it. Five years worth of galactic decay are his new world now. He should be surprised; perhaps even showcase fear, anger, shock, dismay like anyone else would.

He does none of these things.

He can accept change on the grandest of terms. All he needs is to change with it; yet the weapon he must become is not made clear.

What will be my new name?

Why did you save me?

What will it take for this war to end?

Who will I become, if not Eight?

So, he asks.

“Tell me who I need to be.”

----------------------------

Jadus arrives, as promised.

Lana reels in her shock– it’s not everyday one comes face to face with the Sith even Valkorion lauded as second to him in power, and for all the years she’d known her erstwhile agent, she had never once heard Eight speak a word to her about his mysterious… patron. She remained unclear on the details, and made a mental note to press him about it later.

If she’d only gotten him to open up during their work together, she could have predicted this.

She laments over it only briefly; their relationship was never as close as it could have been and in those halcyon days of Rishi, Eight had shared more camaraderie with Theron in the end. He was a fickle thing, always choosing the path of most resistance that left either her or Theron stomping out in frustration half of the time. Then once the dust cleared, his recklessness would pay off and the loser in those duels of choice would look rather foolish for not siding with his rather astute reasoning hidden under a guise of blunt daring.

It was frustrating, how his line of thinking eluded them and kept them at a distance neither she nor Theron could cross. It was just how he was. For Force’s sake, his name was a number.

It was for that reason he could keep such secrets from them. This one had just so happened to decide it was time to collect.

“You kept Valkorion out of his mind for five years,” Lana enunciates, trying to rationalize it to herself aloud. It sounded crazy, as most events did this past cycle. “Your bond allowed you to keep him alive and weaken the Emperor for a time. When I rescued him, he could barely stand. He used the Force. Was that your doing?”

Jadus makes no movement whatsoever; not even a twitch stirs inside the facelessness of his mask. He is eerie to watch, borderline mechanical, and his voice is as unblemished as stone weathered for centuries. “Yes.”

What ferocious power, she thinks, with a shudder. Were they trading one monster for another?

“And now you approach us to…join the Alliance.”

“I am no one’s ally,” Jadus’ voice booms in the Force, quiet as it is to the untrained bare ear, “Your forces are divided. Weak. The Emperor seeks to deceive you at every turn, and you stumble blind as babes in the night. I would guide them, with my Hand at my side.” As is owed. As is my right.

Lana does not need to hear the words to glean their underlying meaning. “With all due respect,” She says carefully, aware that this may be the last remaining Dark Council Member with which she could conduct herself before, “this is not the Sith Empire. What authority you enjoyed previously is all but moot here, and I cannot convince them to accept another Lord on a whim.”

She folds her arms behind her back, an Imperial habit. “As for your ‘Hand’, he is my friend that I risked my life and many others to save. Forgive me if I am not so trusting as to give him up to the first Sith that asks.”

“Your loyalty is admirable,” Jadus intonates, a rumble that reaches the confines of her chest, “Yet it is unwelcome. I do not need to be lectured on how to lead armies, or how to make soldiers out of the feeblest of men. You call him your companion; he was mine long before you formed a blip in his destiny. I will not be denied.”

This time, an undercurrent of anger runs through his curt voice, hot like electrified wire and bordering on combustion.

Lana knows she is outmatched amidst the growing pressure. She remains unfazed. “I-”

“That’s enough, Lana. It’s alright.” The subject of their conversation enters the meeting room, and both Sith turn their undivided attention to the source. The palpable tension in the air dissipates.

“Eight!” Lana says, eyes widening. “You should be in bed. What happened to Koth? I told him to keep an eye on you.”

“He’s remarkably easy to lose,” Eight chirps with mischief creeping on his face, “this makes it the twelfth time I’ve ditched him in the cantina.”

Lana resists the heavy urge to roll her eyes. Children. She worked with children.

She quickly notices that Eight is staring straight past her at Jadus, who seems to be doing the same. Her gaze flicks between them, not understanding the connection between the two.

She catches Eight’s eye, if for a moment, who looks at her– then nods, assuaging her need to be on the defensive. She wasn’t sure about leaving him alone with Darth Jadus of all people, but he had never been wrong on his decisions as of late. She had no need to butt in on a matter so deeply personal to the agent if he did not wish it, and Lana had seen what betraying the fragile trust of spies had wrought before.

When she turns to leave, she catches a fragment of the conversation that floats out the door as it slides closed behind her.

“My Lord.”

“My bride. Come.”

She understood very little indeed.

----------------------------

Jadus takes over as Commander of the Alliance, after Eight vouches for him with his whole breath. He makes the argument that his role to play differs, and Jadus excels in leading from the shadows. It would be foolish to have their Commander act as the Outlander at the same time, who must be seen to take the greatest effect in the minds and hearts of the Zakuulans.

Lana is unsure about it as with most of his reasons, but there’s no further argument coming from her. Theron is…displeased, to say the least.

“I don’t trust him,” Theron gets out gruffly, direct with his insults as usual.

“You don’t have to as long as you agree with his decisions.” Eight sits primly in a cantina chair opposite him, sipping on a cocktail as peacefully as a vacationer in Zeltros.

Theron throws up his hands. “That’s not what I– Lana, can you back me up here? You see where I’m coming from.” For once, Theron looks to her with pleading eyes that manage to still be defaced by his scowling.

“We’ve come to a consensus already, Theron. Perhaps you could exercise trusting our Outlander a bit more?” She smiles, the rub successfully getting under the SIS spy’s skin as he frowns even further.

“Oh don’t you– I trust him,” He gesticulates to Eight, who snickers quietly beneath his breath, “I never signed up to trust Darth Jadus. That’s a can of Gizka eggs I said we shouldn’t open.”

“You’re losing it, Theron.”

“Don’t get me started on you! Since when were you married?!”

Lana stifles a laugh behind her asymmetrical glove. The two spies go off on each other like they’d never been apart, easing into the familiarity of being around one another with her as the median. If she squinted, she could picture them very clearly having the same conversation around the crackling fire of their hut in Rishi.

If she closed her eyes, she could pretend they’d never left.

----------------------------

They call him Outlander. Assassin. Eternity killer.

They learn his cry is the death toll rung, and where he flies, a head is soon lost. That mysterious figure clad in finery white as fallen snow becomes the object of their loathing, and for others, their fervent adoration. Like a specter on the battlefield, he appears to those decreed by Zildrog’s hand to enter nothingness; only the worthy may see him. Only the worthy may face him. Only the worthy may feel the frigid ice that bites into their neck when his blade finds its mark.

Prince Arcann decries him as a figment of mass hysteria.

The Scions argue otherwise, and he threatens to cut their tongues for their baseless faith. Rumors and backwards thinking, he dismisses it as, but even he cannot deny that this was in part, his doing.

To name your enemy is to give them life, and the Outlander had sprung forth from the weakest foundations of their society to manifest as a vengeful spirit that encompassed their desire for the end, to see it all crumble beneath a veneer of gold and glory. Zakuul had been born from destruction, its creation myth more a tale of wanton nihilism than anything else. All fables and myths he saw fit to burn with the legacy of his father.

A demon, like Valkorion himself; a spirit from the furthest plains that had come from Zildrog’s bosom to usher them to the end times. What foolishness.

Yet as that same figure crashes through the skylight of the Eternal spire in a cascade of broken glass, their ghostly frame illuminated by moonlight, bloodied and beautiful, he thinks he may start to believe.

Their eyes meet, his enraged yellow on their rich, deep darkness, and his pupils contract; where he expects a fury and hatred to match his own he sees…sees nothing but serenity. How can this be?

He raises his lightsaber to meet the blade that aims for his head, and they finally come face-to -ace. The force of their clash blows back the silken hood of his adversary and he is paralyzed by the sight.

A tranquility as unrippled as the skein of a lake. No. Not just an inner peace that staves off his unmatched fury…this emotion is…

The Outlander is overjoyed.

“Your head is mine!”

Arcann’s mask leaves his face in a spray of blood and searing pain, but all he can feel is the biting cold that overtakes him as he falls backwards. As he sees light through his other eye for the first night since the war, he sees him.

He reaches in vain for that distant warmth, so far out of his grasp.

What has he done?

“Thexan… brother. Was this what you-”

The throne room collapses beneath him in fire and flames. Arcann plunges into hell.

----------------------------

The Commander and the Outlander are inseparable. This, the Eternal Alliance realizes quickly.

Their leader and their public figurehead are enjoy each others company so often that it becomes difficult to see them apart, though the sight of a white-clad assassin clinging fast to a shadow that towers over them all is a rarity few are privy to.

Lana makes sure their privacy is respected, as that seems to be the only reward they ask for. She grants their request to be given joint quarters far from the rest, nestled in the thicket of Odessen’s deepest woods.

What goes on in their sanctuary is unknown to the rest, but on a quiet night where one is alone with their heartbeat and the silence of falling snow, it is rumored that personnel may catch a glimpse of the Outlander standing in the midst of their training grounds with sword in hand, the other outstretched to catch the flakes that blanket Odessen in winter.

It’s a gentle look for the man who was made to kill Emperors. They say he glows with the love he has for the Commander, who showers him with his own in turn.

Their Commander- the former Darth called Jadus.

Jadus’ knowledge of information flow, fear tactics, and aged experience prove to be invaluable and what misgivings others had of him slowly dwindle away; the Outlander’s reassurances of his infallible strength are proven to be true and this inspires hope in even the most callous of their troops. But it is not the proof of his abilities that convince them he is a man they can place their faith into; rather, it is the romance that blooms between him and their Outlander that cements their loyalty.

The Outlander goes on the frontlines where the Commander does not. He always returns with a smile as sharp and wicked as the curved edge of his vibrosword to his beloved’s side, who turns demure the instant Jadus looks upon him and the victories he places at his feet like a feline with a gift.

For the greatest of Sith to allow this weakness into his impenetrable heart convinces the skeptics of his humanity, and those who would ordinarily decry it as weakness simmer in quiet envy at the apparent devotion his former Hand has for him where no Sith has ever inspired it.

Theron doesn't understand it himself, but what he gleans from it is this: their union guarantees unity in the ranks between Sith and non-Sith alike, and those are results he won't argue with.

A good love story makes even better propaganda, and support for the Alliance swells as their Intelligence unit spins the tale of a lovestruck Echani general fighting a guerilla front against the Eternal Empire to avenge their fallen spouse– a story that resonates with the thousands scattered across the galaxy that were separated from their loved ones in the early days of the war.

Eventually the Outlander’s exploits reach even the furthest shores of his home planet of Eshan, who express the thrill that the latest hero of the rebellion is one of their own. They send him gifts: the long-sleeved delicate robe of the unmarried as pure as the hue of his hair, the lightest of Echani-forged armor to wear beneath, and the finest of vibroblades borne from the designs of countless blades that met conflict against those who wielded the Force.

He dons these, and his persona as the Outlander is made complete. He is no longer Eight, agent of the Empire, Hand of Jadus.

He is remade: he is the Outlander, hero of the Eternal Alliance.

Assassin of the Eternal Throne.

#swtor #swtor fanfiction #jadus x imperial agent #kotfe/et #oc: orradiz #cipher eight au #curse my inability to directly tell shit and instead make it weird and trippy #I like writing characters like figures of myth as you can tell #'thats what your six sentences was?!' you like how my exposed wips resemble nothing of the final product #in case it isnt clear: the Outlander is not the Commander #rather these are two separate roles #the Outlander is the assassin figure that will destroy zakuul and a hodgepodge of rumors depending on which side you ask #the commander is the shadow leader of the alliance #idk what to tag this as dawg #if you can figure out wadda hell im saying in here good on ya #oh look arcann is here too #no Valky this time cuz i need to think about his role #craziest fuckin weekend i ever had suddenly waking up at 3 am and smashing my writers block into bloody little bits #ALSO WAOW Echani culture whewewew like 3 seconds of it #admin writes #jadorre

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