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Strike, or be struck down.
A tortured soul knows fear first. She knows to brace herself if the Lord raises his voice. To swallow the instinct to run whenever he draws his saber. She knows that his gaze makes the hair on her arms stand on end. She wishes she could surpress the fear, but she cannot. Not yet. \\
Obedience is never learned. She has it flowing through her when the agony ends. It’s written into her bone and her legacy will be this reverence, if nothing else.
Carry on the legacy. Become our hate.
The Second Sister lives to see her power blossom. She turns the fear for her lord into ire. She never becomes mindless like the other sisters, but the ire burns her alive. Cere will die by her hand and it is through each strike of her saber, every application of the force, that she learns.
“Sister.” The Lord beckons, easily brushing off her ferocity with practiced strokes. ‘Channel your fury’ he says, without ever giving her a taste of his own flame. In practice, he is always reserved. In their teachings and his torture, there is always a method. He is shouldering a legacy of hate so vast, Trilla can’t even fathom it yet. She just sees his wrist flick, and then her abdomen burns with a blow she should have been able to deflect.
“My Lord.” She swears fealty by wit of a blade against her throat. Already on her knees, she is a squire being knighted in this pose. He can so easily take the life from her. Do it, kill me kill me kill-
“You’ve done good work today.” The saber is retracted at her throat, so that she may remember it’s lingering warmth. She attributes the heat growing in her face to this, and not his praise. She should be better. Stronger so that she may crush his enemies under her boot and one day make him proud. How heavy must his burden be? How long has he longed for a pupil with the resolve to surpass him? What can she say to this praise, other than “My work isn’t good enough, my lord.”
She can suffer in silence, stay kneeled and bleeding on the training grounds until he hums in approval and leaves. All at once, her body betrays her. Arms are too heavy for her staff, chest too hot for the uniform.
The Second Sister collapses under the weight of praise, letting the pool of her own blood and the blood of felled apprentices nourish her. She will consume all hate, without being consumed herself. She would will become, if she is not. ’
Stronger. You have to be stronger.’
Two years is all she needs. The Sisterhood becomes hers to command in that time, and weak hearted Trilla feasts on the marrow of heroes. Bounty hunters, inquisitors, the rouge Jedi or two, all were felled by her blade without discrimination. Without mercy.
Two years and her scars still sing their tale. Their love of a power she is barely grasping and an abyss that threatens to swallow her whole. It rains, and her abdomen aches with age old memories. Vaders well contained wrath changed her. His love and devotion to crippling the powers that once took his life, knew no bounds. Two years is all it takes for her to master the lust that all gifted Sith were plagued by.