Two years. Two excruciatingly long years.

Too long.

It is a long time to brood; a long time for all things impure in a person to manifest, surface, explode, and brew all over again. And it had done. For two whole years, Marka had scoured and cleansed every lingering memory of his time before the Empire - eradicated all the assorted polluted dwellings within his own mind by wiping them from the face of the physical world.

On Coruscant, his childhood house. The decayed slate of his mother’s tombstone. On the planet he no longer remembered the name of, the grove he took shelter and solace in. The family he saved. Every last one of them that had ever known his name.

All for nothing, he realised far too late. It had all been a misguided, desperate attempt to start anew. Since joining the Empire, it had become his first real home. It mattered not which squad, or who the squad leader was, or which sleek white shoulder-piece clattered against his own. It was a collective to belong to. But always, no matter how unlikely it seemed, something or someone crept up and cut open whatever seal Marka had tried to put between him and everything he had lived through before. An infection of time, a virus that never quite went away. So he left. He left it all behind. And because of this it remained pure to him. Untouched. He had separated the Empire from the disease he carried in his memories, and set off in solitude to exterminate the infestation that was his own personal history.

It was deceptive; that was the worst part about the inevitable failure. With each blink of progress, each ruinous goal achieved, it seemed a relief. Like the weight of worlds was easing from his broad, exhausted shoulders. Even with hands drowned in blood, or caked with crusted dirt, there seemed personal justification. Up until the final thread was severed. At the very moment the last loose end was tied, and he finally found the disconnection he pursued for those two years, a shattering revelation occurred somewhere in the most private recesses of his heart: None of it meant anything.

All that he had done; all he had created and destroyed would live on at least as long as he himself did. He would always remember. He would always be different for it. It had shaped him, formed from his personal scrapheap a veritable warrior, a soldier.

So he stopped, and took his time.

There was a month of reflection, of spiritual self-mutilation; an arduous, overwhelming period of time devoted to the desperate deconstruction and salvage of the soul, to rationalise his actions and to retrieve purpose from the wreckage. Questions, empty solutions, alternatives, variables thereupon… so many things raced through his weathered mind that everything became a vast mess of instability.

Ashamed at his own folly, and haunted by the inescapable demons tightly clinging to his back, Marka made the only decision left to him.

It was time to return to the Empire.


*                                                    *                                                    *


The laboured grinding of the transport’s aged engines whirred to a relieved silence as the rickety, rusted hull of the ship collided more than landed with the circular steel platform below. Marka’s seat gave a marginal jolt, its neglected screws loosened under the weight of countless prior passengers. The metal-grey paint at the very edge of the seat had worn away to a faded ivory, undoubtedly the result of the sweaty legs of nervous recruits stiffly tucked against it. Shooting a peripheral glance to a close-by window, the bustle of life once more became apparent to him.

Solitude had long been the sturdiest foundation of Marka’s life outside the Empire, unfailingly consistent throughout. He had grown accustomed, and even, to a degree, fond of it in those last, lingering two years. But the vibrancy of life in the Empire made no time for ease of transition.

With a strained metallic groan the shuttle’s single side door wrenched itself free and slid open, the minimal surge of power enough to flicker, dim and just as quickly extinguish the lights inside. A dozen men were left in almost silent darkness, motionless, accompanied by little more than the muffled intrusion of footfall, barked orders and scraping metal from the world beyond the walls.

Elongated corridors of light pierced the windows and door, the resulting illumination serving only to render the musty darkness more oppressive, more stifling, where the light had not penetrated. Still hidden from view, Marka’s sunken eyes alerted themselves to the man - the boy - opposite him; face lit up like the heavens since the door opened. He was too young; it was beyond obvious. His cheeks rosy, flushed with a pubescent glow, brow velvet-smooth. His lips, still longing for a woman’s skin beneath them, tight with deep, self-conscious terror. His nose, unbroken. His chin, bravely announcing its desire for masculinity, here and there sporting nigh transparent downy hairs at odd lengths, as if they had grown one at a time, as far as they could, before beginning elsewhere. His babyish throat, having never been marked by impassioned teeth nor vengeful fingers.

Having studied the boy long enough, Marka eased himself to his feet, collecting the only possession left to his hands; a sleek, customised vibrosword, sheathed in notched slate-grey dewback hide, supported by a single leather strap. It was as new to his hand as it was to existence, having been hand-forged barely a week ago. During his purge, his original blade did not escape his ruthlessness. So he built anew. He built better. He built differently. He built for his hands alone.

There was no rush as the rabble sorted itself into stoic order, shuffling their heavy, misfit boots over to and out the door and revealing their virginal hopes to the training officers standing in malevolent patience twenty feet away.

Tadath. Still here.

At last the remaining greens moseyed their way into the light, Marka took one last, savouring breath and stepped beyond the cusp.

There was no fanfare, no ecstatic welcoming party to greet him with satisfied smiles and drink. Just the unyielding hubbub of folk busying themselves with whatever their hands could manage. Engines bellowed, assistants bustled. Droids whirred and men cheered. This was the time and the place for everything anyone ever said there was a time and a place for.

“You new to this too, sir?” the mousy boy from before chuckled in hesitant greeting, harmlessly jabbing an elbow into Marka’s side. His seamless, perfect teeth poke out in a nervous smile as he scrutinised Marka’s face, “I had to get out of home, you know? Friend of mine told me, he did, ‘Empire’s where it’s at, Jamen’. So here I am. He was just about to go on a mission.”

Already understanding that this bare nubile had signed his life away for all the wrong reasons, Marka felt a distant twang of pity. But it was fleeting.

“Have you heard from him since?” Marka’s accented voice drifted low and steady, his eyes locked with the boy’s.

Pausing, as if only now aware of the implications to his answer, the boy faltered.

“N-no, sir.”

There was nothing more to be said. Without the slightest hint of a smile by any definition, Marka draped the sturdy strap of his scabbard over his head and threaded his arm through, securing the weapon to his back with seasoned efficiency. He barely caught Jamen’s gaze lower in a realisation of mortality before Marka eased away from the group and set off on a sluggish, pensive hike toward the barracks he was now no longer familiar with.

He was back, he was home, and he knew it.

OOC:

Just a nice little 'returning to VE' post. Hi folks, nice to be back.