Marr

Chapter Four

Star Wars: The Old Republic

Marr

~Chapter Four~

Our mistakes define us; they are the foundation upon which all else is built, and should we fail to learn from them, we are doomed to repeating them until we do.

I boarded the shuttle for Dromund Kaas the day following my ninth birthday.

At the shuttle depot, my mother fussed with the coarse weave tunic she'd made for my departure, while my father inspected the contents of my ruck sack to ensure I hadn't forgotten anything.

The departure carillon rang out and after a final embrace I strode up the boarding ramp. I stopped to look back at them and waved good-bye.

Together they stood, arm in arm on the platform, stoic and smiling. Outward appearances suggested that this was the greatest day of our lives, but this peculiar sensitivity I'd inherited told me otherwise. They hoped for my return but didn't expect it. They mourned me as if I were already dead, but felt compelled to promise the next time I'd see them, it would be as a Sith.

I took a seat by the window. The tinted glass allowed me to see them, but it was unlikely they could see me. The moment I was out of sight they collapsed into each other. My mother sobbed into my father's shoulder and I felt her heartache and remorse. I felt her regret. For as long as I could remember, she had told me that I was her world. No son, whether chosen or through blood, could expect more devotion than she had given me.

My failure to believe I could so utterly fill another's world would be a failing that would dog me for the rest of my life, but at this moment, I understood and I believed. Her world had ended and with that despair came the understanding that her choice, for good or ill, could not be rescinded—that no matter how indirect her part had been, she had committed herself to being the benefactor or executioner of the one person she held most dear.

My father patted her back with a tepid rhythm, the motion matching the helpless look on his face, that suggested he had no clue how to console her. I wept for them both.

The academy demanded nine years of my life. The notion that I would not see my parents again for almost a decade was unfathomable, but I would soon learn that time was the least precious thing I would be expected to give up in my quest to learn the art of being Sith.

Much could happen in that time—things I was afraid to dwell upon. Would my parents be safe? Would they remember me? Would I remember them? Would I still want to?

I had heard many Sith abandon their Force-blind parents as if consorting with them would somehow diminish their power. I believed in loyalty and family. Was it possible for a school to exorcise the ideals I clung to? The prospect worried me. Would I even be aware of it, after such an absence?

Why had I agreed to this at all? Why would I want to be Sith?

Many advantages came with being Sith. I would have the power to help my family escape those who would exploit them. I would have the means to provide a proper home filled with loyal slaves and guards who would see to their every comfort in their waning years. They had saved me, and it was my intention to return that kindness.

The idea consoled me until it solidified into a goal. I would dedicate myself to my studies and achieve the most important station any Sith could attain. To make sure I never wavered in this hope, I reminded myself of it in my quieter moments. I visualized the man I wanted to be—I saw the trappings that came with being that man. I would be Sith for my family.