06-16-2014, 12:44 PM
The light was gone but filled with the Force, Malik saw everything clearly. Every naked branch, every pile of snow, every twisting of wrought iron on the bench backs, every carved white stone of balustrades over bridge walkways. He could smell the cold, the moisture, the wet walkways. He walked slowly, not feeling the cold. No one was out now, no one but him. Lamp posts cast sickly yellow lights onto walkways. The quiet was a blanket, the traffic on the nearby streets dimly heard in the distance.
He heard the crunch of boots on snow and stopped, pinpointing the direction. Carefully he made his way closer- and there he was. Malik smiled tightly, eyes watching hungrily, jaws clenched. He felt a delicious sense of anticipation take hold of him. So many things had begun since he'd come to Moscow. He felt like he was beginning to assemble a set of tools, each one studied and tested, hefted and appreciated; the way a craftsman would lovingly and painstakingly put together a a collection for a job he was about to undertake.
This one, now, this one was critical. The more he'd thought about it, the more he'd realized how very special Pyotr was going to be. He hadn't realized how great a help Andre had been. The ability to practice weaving threads of Force and see what they did, to learn to anticipate or deal with Force attacks from another had been priceless. Marcus almost missed his brother then, but squashed it. He was Malik. And Pyotr was not Andre. There would be no brotherly affection here, no shared horrors of childhood, no remembering his brother comforting him when he cried. Emotion threatened to overwhelm him.
For a moment, Malik thought of resisting the emotion, to surpress it. Instead, he let the grief and loss pass through him, remembered the pain, the beatings, the abuse, the tears, the rage, the fear, the cowering under the bed, the running to Andre for protection, he remembered it all. He let himself feel everything that came to him. He was Sith and the Sith embraced their emotions, embraced the pain of their lives, Took their strength from it. They didn't cower in fear of it. It was the price of power. Only those who could face their pain and accept it could truly understand and use power. His mind played the mantra. A Sith will not shield himself from paying the price for the things he does. If I choose to do a thing the world calls evil, what of it? I do it because it is my right. I do it because it must to be done. And I will not be afraid of the emotional consequences of that action. That was what gave the Sith the right to rule.
Those moments stretched out, the storm passing through him, leaving him cold and dead peace. Malik smiled at what lay before him. Looking around and seeing no one else, he wove his conduit so that it was behind Pyotr. "You will not turn around."
Pyotr jumped, but he was obedient. Good. "You are very fortunate, Pyotr Grigory, that I have found you. Your life is about to change. I sincerely hope it is for the good."
He paused. "You came here because you want to know more about your power. I can teach you things you cannot imagine."
It was time. Malik let the conduit drop. It was a gamble. He prepared a different, more deadly weave in case Pyotr turned out to be a problem. Death by heart-attack would be odd in one so young, but in the absence of any other proof, it would be accepted. He drew himself up and walked slowly through the snow to the bench, wearing a friendly smile on his face. Time seemed to slow. Exposing himself was a terrifying thrill, but to walk this path, one had to take risks. He allowed himself to calm, to think of what he had already done and what was ahead of him. He sat down next to Pyotr and smiled at the man. Not overly friendly. Interested. Hopeful. He hoped his countenance conveyed wisdom and experience.
"I am Marcus. And I will help you if you let me."
His eyes watched Pyotr. He was filled with the power, examining every move and twitch of eye and quirk of mouth. He would be sure about Pyotr, one way or another.
He heard the crunch of boots on snow and stopped, pinpointing the direction. Carefully he made his way closer- and there he was. Malik smiled tightly, eyes watching hungrily, jaws clenched. He felt a delicious sense of anticipation take hold of him. So many things had begun since he'd come to Moscow. He felt like he was beginning to assemble a set of tools, each one studied and tested, hefted and appreciated; the way a craftsman would lovingly and painstakingly put together a a collection for a job he was about to undertake.
This one, now, this one was critical. The more he'd thought about it, the more he'd realized how very special Pyotr was going to be. He hadn't realized how great a help Andre had been. The ability to practice weaving threads of Force and see what they did, to learn to anticipate or deal with Force attacks from another had been priceless. Marcus almost missed his brother then, but squashed it. He was Malik. And Pyotr was not Andre. There would be no brotherly affection here, no shared horrors of childhood, no remembering his brother comforting him when he cried. Emotion threatened to overwhelm him.
For a moment, Malik thought of resisting the emotion, to surpress it. Instead, he let the grief and loss pass through him, remembered the pain, the beatings, the abuse, the tears, the rage, the fear, the cowering under the bed, the running to Andre for protection, he remembered it all. He let himself feel everything that came to him. He was Sith and the Sith embraced their emotions, embraced the pain of their lives, Took their strength from it. They didn't cower in fear of it. It was the price of power. Only those who could face their pain and accept it could truly understand and use power. His mind played the mantra. A Sith will not shield himself from paying the price for the things he does. If I choose to do a thing the world calls evil, what of it? I do it because it is my right. I do it because it must to be done. And I will not be afraid of the emotional consequences of that action. That was what gave the Sith the right to rule.
Those moments stretched out, the storm passing through him, leaving him cold and dead peace. Malik smiled at what lay before him. Looking around and seeing no one else, he wove his conduit so that it was behind Pyotr. "You will not turn around."
Pyotr jumped, but he was obedient. Good. "You are very fortunate, Pyotr Grigory, that I have found you. Your life is about to change. I sincerely hope it is for the good."
He paused. "You came here because you want to know more about your power. I can teach you things you cannot imagine."
It was time. Malik let the conduit drop. It was a gamble. He prepared a different, more deadly weave in case Pyotr turned out to be a problem. Death by heart-attack would be odd in one so young, but in the absence of any other proof, it would be accepted. He drew himself up and walked slowly through the snow to the bench, wearing a friendly smile on his face. Time seemed to slow. Exposing himself was a terrifying thrill, but to walk this path, one had to take risks. He allowed himself to calm, to think of what he had already done and what was ahead of him. He sat down next to Pyotr and smiled at the man. Not overly friendly. Interested. Hopeful. He hoped his countenance conveyed wisdom and experience.
"I am Marcus. And I will help you if you let me."
His eyes watched Pyotr. He was filled with the power, examining every move and twitch of eye and quirk of mouth. He would be sure about Pyotr, one way or another.