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Palace of the Eternal Dragon
Arcann’s white armor is stained gray across the shoulder, red across his chest and hands. The blood of those who served his sister marks him now, and yet seems hardly enough to count for anything amid all the deaths he has wrought.
The Barsen’thor turns to him nonetheless. Offers one outstretched hand from beneath the crimson of his robes. They are edged with gold, gaudy in a way the Magistrate of Revelry might have chosen, and wrong because of it. Even here it is hard to imagine the Barsen’thor in something other than brown and dusty green.
In anything other than the simple robes of a Jedi healer.
And Arcann kneels.
The world falls silent as he takes the Barsen’thor’s hand in his. The former Emperor bows his head, lays kisses upon palm and wrist.
“It seems the Force has returned us to each other. And far earlier than I dared hope,” he says. His voice is rough with emotion, his eyes shadowed with the weight of it. “I cannot change what I have done. But I would spend the rest of my life atoning for it, if you would have me.”
He turns his head as the faint whir of a holonet cam buzzes toward them. Looks up to the Barsen’thor and says nothing.
The whole of the world seems to hold its breath.
“With your aid we will free Zakuul, and the galaxy from Vaylin.” The words are left soft, cloth draped over the durasteel beneath them. The Barsen’thor stands proud. Almost too stiff, draped in such ceremony and promise.
Then with a wave of his hand the Barsen’thor sends the prying eyes away, to clatter down over the edge of the balcony and find some fate on the levels below. He wraps both his hands around one of Arcann’s own, and stands still.
It is only then that Arcann sees the bruises on those gentle hands, torn flesh, drying blood that splatters up across the sleeve. The way such hands shake now that they are spared more eyes upon them.
Not just his hands, now. The Barsen’thor stumbles, and his head rests heavy against Arcann’s chest.
“The rebels?” Arcann asks.
“They are well now. Vaylin’s beasts were...difficult.”
“Then rest.” Arcann stands, and does not pull his hand away as he lifts the Barsen’thor in his arms. He tilts his head as the Eternal Fleet assembles in the sky above them. “I’ll bring you to your ship.”
He can feel as that drying blood smears across his own hands, his armor, and it seems far more fitting there.
It is then that he begins to run.