Chapter Text
“Why are you in despair, O my soul? And why have you become disturbed within me?” -- Psalm 42:11
The sallow face of the old man glistened from below his hood as the fat dripped from the candle on the table -- his beard bobbed precariously close to the wick.
“You don’t look like the stories,” The younger man said. He narrowed his eyes, “How can I know that you are truly the devil?”
“I should murder you for your insolence, Sir Twardowski,” The elder’s face did not so much as twitch, “but I admire your...tenacity.”
The younger paled a shade. There was a sinister quality to the old man’s tone and, while his Polish was perfect, the vowels were left ragged as though their very fabric was ripped at the edge.
“There are s-stories,” Twardowski said, “Of you turning birds into bats. Well...go on then, will you? Go on and prove it.”
The elder hissed, a forked tongue flickering between his lips. He removed one nobbled hand from below his cloak. On the end of each finger was the glimmer of a talon.
He snapped and blue sparks blossomed all around his hand, flickering as they seared the heavy stone of the inn’s ancient walls.
Twardowski idly pushed his pivo aside. He was no longer thirsty.
“I’ll do it,” He whispered, “I’ll do it if you teach me your powers and give me your infinite wisdom.”
The old man smirked. “Very good, my young and bold apprentice. I will train you well.”
Twardowski’s heels clicked as if by magic and he felt himself moving, walking towards the shadow of the armoire. Against his will, his hands moved like a limp puppet, loosening the knob, and returning to the table with a leaf of paper clenched tightly between white fingertips.
“One more thing,” The old man’s hands dropped and Twardowski felt his own hands, as though made of heavy stone, collapse against the table.
“You will not go to Rome.”
“I will not go to Rome,” Twardowski repeated.
“Good,” said the devil, “if you do as I say and stay away from Rome, I will teach you the Dark Arts of Hell. If you stray from my path and find your way into Rome, however, your soul will be mine.”
From beneath his robe, the devil withdrew a small metal knife. Twardowski could feel his heart racing in his chest as he slit a small cut between his thumb and forefinger and pressed it into the parchment. “Yes, my lord.”
“My lord,” The devil chuckled, retrieving both knife and paper in his wretched knobbled fingers, “Lord” is an earthly title. From now, young Twardowski, you will call me Darth Grozny. And your new name will be Darth Vestnik.”
Darth Vestnik bowed his head deeply before his master. He could feel a surge of warmth in his very skeleton as the power of darkness ricketed through him.
“Through passion, I gain strength. Through strength, I gain power. Through power, I gain victory,” Darth Grozny chanted.
Darth Vestnik did not know where the words came from. It was a strange language that he had never heard before, but now had the wisdom to understand.
He replied in a voice that was both entirely foreign and completely his own.
“Through victory, my chains are broken.”
***
I feel my eyes flutter open. The bright light of morning is creeping through the cracks in the thatch where we really ought to repair our broken roof. The bed that I share with my husband feels firm and grounding beneath the ever-growing curve of my belly. It creaks as I pull myself onto my side.
Luke, much lighter than I, has rolled vaguely in my direction. His mouth is open and his forehead coated in a thin layer of sweat. He is moaning softly, a look of distress settled on his perfect face.
“Luke,” I whisper, “My love, wake up.”
Luke groans and rolls towards me, grasping for something. Something I cannot give him, no matter how hard I try, a sense of security.
Three years have passed since the slaying of the Sith Pope. Since then, Luke and I have campaigned widely for the acceptance of new and different religions. Our little corner of The Polish Commonwealth has become a pilgrimage site for my Antitrinitarian church. Our cheese shop has become somewhat famous, by Luclawice standards anyway, and we want for nothing. Still, every night, Luke has restless dreams. Dreams of the golden man C3PO, his sister, and his friends in the sky.
Luke snuggles into my side and I ruffle a hand through his hair. It’s the color of wheat fields, of golden butter, of the sun in the morning sky.
“You were having a nightmare again,” I whisper, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Luke blinks his eyes open and shudders.
“I’m afraid it wasn’t just any nightmare,” he says, “Something is deeply unbalanced within the Force.”
I feel lightheaded and stagger over to the cabinet to pour myself a spoonful of honey, a cure I’ve found for the dizziness.
“I don’t understand,” I say, “It’s been years since we took care of Leo. What could be causing all this?”
My life is better than I could have ever imagined after the death of Faustus. I have a home, a successful business, and a deep, beautiful love. The light of God shines on every facet of my being. But Luke is not from here and his God -- the Force -- is restless. He is restless too.
Years ago, I would have never thought a Polish reformation possible. If only it were possible for Luke to find peace.
“Two,” says Luke, as if still in the depths of his dream, “No more, no less.”
“Two what?”
“Two Sith Lords,” Luke says, “There are always two. And we only got one.”
I am a bit slower in the brain. I’ve never prided myself on my smarts. But even I can put two-and-two together, as it were.
“You think there’s still another Sith lord out there?”
Suddenly, I feel Luke’s dread. I want to hold the walls of my cheese shop in tight fingers, hug my husband and never let go.
“No,” Luke sits bolt upright, nearly hitting his head on the shelf above our bed, “There was another Sith lord. Now, there are two.”