Chapter Text
For a long time they had slept. Their only remaining physical tie had been passed from hand to hand, each seemingly worse than the last, and none with the power to hear them.
This last wielder was one of the worst. Not a direct pawn of the dar'jetiise, though they had their suspicions. No, this one sought personal power in the most distasteful of ways. A fanatic who believed his own rhetoric. A bloodthirsty demagolka politician.
They had felt his rage and fear often over the years, and while young Tor carried their kad near religiously, he rarely used it. He'd learned early on how they fought being wielded in dishonorable acts. It had not taken long to see all he did was tainted by his madness and greed and they fought him at every turn.
But it had been so very long and they had passed through so many hands they were compelled to resist…
Clashing against another kad'au for the first time in centuries had been like ice water thrown in their metaphorical face.
The other kad'ause were wielded by a jet'ika who blazed in the Force and when they looked closer… an ember of Manda glowing within, repressed but shielded and nurtured. A foundling padawan. When they again locked with her blades they held with all their will to give her an opening. Instead Tor, used to their resistance, pushed her away and turned to flee.
They had not noticed the verd until his fist was already hitting Tor's face, but now… oh how he blazed. The Manda roared through this soul that burned nearly as bright in the Force as the jet'ika, fierce and protective.
They tried not to be offended by how he cast them aside, they knew how heavy a burden responsibility could be. Still, they could feel the bond that had begun to form between them. They had always been quick to form bonds, some in the Order had seen it as weakness but it was merely an effect of the Manda in the soul reaching out to form a pack.
They cast out their senses, straining to perceive more than just the emotions flowing down the fledgling bond. Their new wielder was worried and so very tired, mind racing disjointedly to find a way around… a block? They looked closer and saw the Dark within, claws and hooks and lines like puppet strings. They knew their physical form was likely vibrating in their rage. This one had been violated by some demagolka dar'jetii. They banked their rage and quickly set about prying loose the connection points as gently as possible.
They could feel the wary hope begin to grow in the mind as they freed it, too absorbed in their task to pay attention to anything beyond freeing this bright mind and burning soul to which they were now bound. When finally they watched the last barbed string of Dark detach and dissipate like a foul gas in steady wind they prepared to rest, content and exhausted. They began to drift back into the Force, content that they would have no need to fight now that they were in trustworthy hands.
Then came the sudden panic. The call for a weapon to defend.
They did not think, merely reacting. The Force wrapped around their physical form and in an instant they were similarly held by the hand of their wielder. There was a great deal of shouting, but no combat. What was going on?
They prodded their wielder with a general sense of query, but seemed to be ignored. They prodded more insistently as the shouting turned to a short scuffle. They cast out their senses.
There was something…
Something is coming.