Sabre!

Sabre!

Dark Lady

Rating: PG-13 for the sacrifice.
Warning: A lightsabre is dedicated with a sacrifice of Maul's blood.
Disclaimer: People and places discovered by George Lucas and Lucasfilm belong to them. The story and concept belong to the author.
Summary: The making of the first (and only) sabre, with the help of Palpatine’s wisdom and guidance.
Feedback to: dark-lady@blueyonder.co.uk
Thanks: To Maulmaus and Redone.

Sabre!

Palpatine has gone, departed in the sleek Ambassador’s shuttle to Coruscant, leaving Khameir with the box of components, the schematic, and his guidance.

The guidance is spiritual, not mechanical or of a certain type of engineering. Careful instructions, how to meld the sabre to it’s maker, to make them one, unite them, and tune them both.

The notes are opened, spread carefully on the console, and read through carefully several times. There are preparations to make, things to provide. The making of it will take several days, and the time must be selected carefully and put aside for this sole purpose.

‘My young ward’ says the note, ‘before you commence the making of your sabre, you must prepare your mind and body for the work involved in it. Your body must be ritually purified, and your mind also.’

He has eaten only fruit and water for ten days. His body is keen, poised, every nerve aware and vital, hands and fingers steady. His mind is sharper than it has ever been; keen like a razor, honed to the edge of oneness with the Force. Meditation has prepared his mind for the trial to come (for that is what it is, in all truth), all extraneous matters have been discarded, his focus is on the sabre - the mythical weapon of Sith and Jedi alike. He is almost totally unaware of his surroundings, his spartan room at the Iridonian Military Academy.

Meditation comes easily now. He needs no prompting influence, no herbs or scents. Now he can cast his mind on the galaxy with ease, spread his consciousness over the stars.

The first page of the note is concerned with the components. ‘The parts to be used in the making of a sabre must be as perfect as they can be, well constructed, and of the finest quality…’

Asking for little, Khameir knows that Palpatine is unstinting in his generosity towards him, and he has no fear about the quality of his gifts. Each part is carefully unwrapped, removed from its protective packaging and examined closely. There are splendidly machined casings, finely worked bolts, the fibre optic transmitter, the capacitor, the focusing lenses and mirrors made of superbly ground crystal, and last and most importantly, the rubies.

Firstly he fetches the gems given to him by the hermit, and places them on their bed of soft white leather gone a little yellow with age. The gems sparkle and glow with an inner light of their own, looking exquisite in their ancient setting of precious metal. He has not told Palpatine of these, considering carefully how they might be disposed of within the weapon, even now not certain how he might place them, or even whether he might use them at all.

He decides he will follow his heart and instincts in the matter of the jewels, allowing the Force to guide him.

Then the rubies given by his mentor. There are two rubies, a matched pair each most perfectly ground. The box encasing them has the certificate of provenance placed within, the purchase has been made from the most exclusive gem setter on Coruscant. Palpatine has scribbled on it – ‘these should be perfect, the best of their kind….’

He wants the weight of the weapon to be perfectly balanced, to feel right in his hand, matched to the strength of his arm, so there are scales on the workbench, and a jeweller’s lathe to make adjustments where required. There are other tools, each required in the assembly of the sabre, each meticulously cleaned in pure spirit, laid on a new and clean soft cloth, covered with another.

The delicate parts for the laser optics must be clean. Palpatine has written, “...abjure all dust and extraneous matter from the physical world as you do from your thoughts and mind... ”

There is a shallow dish, which he fills carefully with the same spirit, into which he places the rubies. He then covers the dish with another to exclude dust and contamination, to exclude anything which would ruin the perfection of the jewels or mar their surface.

For the last time he studies Palpatine’s notes, drawing out of them the least of the commentary, committing all of it to memory.

All is clean and prepared. The requisite parts are laid on the scrupulously clean floor in front of him, and the light is adjusted. The rubies in their shallow dish are placed to one side for safety.

Each part is placed in the order he will use them, the tiny bolts and fine screws, crystal lenses and half-silvered mirrors in their perfectly machined housings, the threaded components of the hilt made of hard silvery alloy, the red thumb-switches with the smooth click and positive feedback, and lastly, the beds for the gems.

The assembly has been worked over on his datapad, sketched and redrawn in his mind, practiced in his dreams, rehearsed with fierce golden eyes open and closed. It has been the first thing in his mind on awakening, the last thing on his mind before sleep claims him. The making of this weapon has been meat and drink to him for many weeks...

And now he starts. His mind is composed, prepared, as his steady red and black clawed hand picks up a capacitor, connects it to the power cable. The first lens assembly is carefully screwed to the gem housing, and then the first mirror. Now there must be a choice, which gem? He uses the Force to guide him, studies the jewels in their pristine dish of spirit, and focuses on each in turn. He sends his mind into the crystal of the gems, examines its’ nature, reflects on it’s properties, decides…

The gems gifted by the hermit will be the lasing medium; the rubies from Palpatine will focus and reinforce the beam. The gems are taken from their bath, and screwed in place with fine screws, aligned to each other, adjusted to perfection, and the second mirror placed. The discharge unit is placed in the master housing, then the capacitor, and the whole is slid inside the first casing and secured with tiny bolts.

He tests the assembly and finds no fault, prepares to assemble the second, which he does, again without fault.

The two halves of the hilt are weighed, adjusted using the lathe until they balance, then inserting the power cells, the casings are screwed together to form the double hilt of the sabre.

The hilt complete, he hefts the weapon in his hands, and balances it on the edge of his palm in the centre of the hilt. Perfect it is, perfect balance it has.

Holding one end, making a few experimental slashes through the air, it is again perfect, feeling like an extension of his arm, then of his body as he makes some experimental lunges and thrusts.

He throws it into the air by one end of the hilt, making it spin lazily, turning with a wicked silver gleam in the light, and catches it with a satisfying smack in the palm of his hand, straight and true. He repeats this three times. Once for each end of the weapon, once for luck? No, once to be sure and certain. Each time it replies as he wants.

Putting it into a corner of the room, he walks away and stretches his hand to call it to him – again it comes with a satisfying smack into the palm of his hand. Again, he repeats this three times. Again, the weapon replies as he wants.

Sitting cross-legged under the light, he turns the sabre slowly, looking for any blemish in the metal surface. He finds two, polishes them out carefully. The last task for the day is to put the final coating on the hilt, of metal on metal, to give the surface an edge so it will never slip in his hand or out of his grasp.

He lights the gas torch, dips the hilt into the spirit then into the metal powder, finally tapping off the excess. The fine powder drifts to the workbench like sparkling snow, and lies like a fine metal blanket on the wood. The flame of the burner is adjusted to a hot blue, and the hilt passed quickly through, making the powder sinter to it, making a surface like satin. When both ends of the hilt are done, the hilt is brushed, dipped in the spirit and left to dry.

Then giving it one last caress with a soft cloth, he decides the time has come to forge the beams. But this is for the morrow, so the sabre is wrapped, and put at the side of his bed, safely, until the morning.

Morning!

Today the sabre will be born into darkness, begin it’s life as his weapon of choice. Today he will know whether he had passed this trial and made his sword of light.

He has slept well; his mind is ready and sharp. He bathes again in ritual manner and donning clean garments, breaks his fast lightly with a little bread and fruit, drinks pure cool water, and prepares himself. Then he meditates for an hour or more, opening himself to the Force, filling himself with the dark and building its power within him.

*****

He comes to the sabre like a groom to his bride, with love and eagerness, and a little trepidation. The sabre will be closer to him than any woman, and more steadfast, for it will rarely leave his side. Unless it is lost, or stolen, broken or damaged – he will not need another. He strokes the satin skin lovingly, lets his hands flow over the hilt, touches it and caresses it. Wants it with all his dark heart.

He places the sabre on the floor on a clean white cloth, sits cross-legged in front of it, and thinks upon it for a while, considering its purity of form and the simple beauty within. The silver perfection of its shape fills his consciousness until it is all he sees.

Taking his mind below the satin skin, through the body of the metal, he lets his thoughts flow through the optic cable and the ancient gems. He focuses tightly through the ruby, feels the waiting emptiness of the capacitor, studies the brooding power of the condenser. As the Dark flows through him he stands, and the maelstrom gathers behind him, creating a vortex of power from which he will sip as he forges the blades and melds the sabre to him.

He calls the sabre to his hand and it leaps towards his open palm eagerly, landing precisely with a satisfying smack, awaiting his command. With both hands he raises it slowly in front of him, stands with feet apart, legs braced – and thumbs on the first blade.

For a short while – nothing.

He closes his eyes, sends his mind to the power pack, feels it start to charge as the trickle of electrons starts to flow. The trickle becomes a stream, the stream a river, the river a veritable flood to the capacitor. The capacitor starts a tiny vibration – his mind races along the path of the current, grinding and smoothing, forging.

The capacitor is filled and he feels the immense charge held within it, barely contained. He bends the power to his will, forces a greater charge to be held there, and on the edge of instability, allows it to be released with a sudden ‘Snap’. The intense electrical discharge is released down the cable and forced into the gems, where photons are emitted, bounced off the tiny mirrors and through the lenses until the coherent beam blazes its path through the aperture of the weapon.

As the blade leaps forth he guides it, forges the light into the slender shape he wants, making it the length he wants. He forges the blade to the power he wants, and as he does, something of him passes to it, and something of the blade passes to him as it responds, the light subtly bending and shaping to his desire.

The blade is red, it creates a little ozone which makes his nostrils flare and tingle, and there is a little burning. There is a tiny crackle in the midst of the steady hum which indicates some inconsistency, some instability within the hilt. Once again he sends his thoughts along the path of the current, finds the condenser misaligned within, realigns it, follows the light through its path once more.

Now the first blade is forged, is perfect as anything man (or not-man) made can ever be. A shiver of delight and wonder leaps up and down his spine as the sweat pours off his body. Dark power surges through him as he slowly brings the blade around him in a wide arc, first in front of him, then behind him. He brings it back, suddenly thrashes the air with it, makes a warrior’s dance with it, takes it round his head and listens to the deadly song it makes, promising pain and death with every kiss. He wonders – who will be his enemy now?

Thumbing the power off – there is yet the second blade. He grabs a towel, cleans his hands, dries what he can of himself, then considers the slender piece of metal reverently. Placing it on the floor again, on the clean cloth, he rests again, meditates again, bringing his mind to a sharper focus in readiness for the forging of the second blade.

Again he finds the path of the light, charges the second capacitor, and repeats the making of the first blade upon the second. A phrase from Palpatine’s notes springs to mind – ‘This is the only time you will follow the light so eagerly my young ward.’ Knowing what he draws on to make this weapon, now he appreciates the dark humour of it.

Again a forged blade leaps forth, but now from the second aperture of the hilt, and it is as perfect as the first. He tests it in the same manner as the first, and they may be twins in their perfection. The second blade is switched off, now for the two blades together.

The adrenaline is racing through his veins. The blood courses through him and he feels the flow and ebb as it does so. He feels neither hunger not thirst, cold nor heat, neither does he feel the need for sleep or rest even though he has been awake for very many hours. Naturally impatient, he forces patience, remembers Palpatine’s guidance on the matter – ‘this is a task not to be forced or rushed in the manner of its doing’.

So he thumbs on both blades, one after the other, and presents the weapon to an imaginary foe. Then he performs a simple and stylised training routine as if it were a stave. There is perfection in this also. The blades are balanced, the length and power are even, and there is no disparity. He performs a more complex routine, then another and greater, until he is satisfied.

The final task of all is to blood the weapon, some ceremony, some small ritual to initiate it into his service. There are no enemies on Iridonia, neither does he have any. Yet tradition demands blood, and that before the sabre is used in anger. Whose blood then?

He decides - his own blood will more than suffice. He will make a sacrifice of blood and pain, pledge the lightsabre to Nimith as it takes of his body. The manner of this dedication is suddenly most important to him, the time and place must be fitting and appropriate. The place must be a place of quiet and solitude, the sun must be gone from the sky, and both moons must have risen. He considers, perhaps the lake at the foot of the mountain then, where the ashes of his family were scattered.

The task of making finished, the sabre is cleaned, wrapped, and placed on his console. Exhausted but exhilarated still, he sleeps.

Clad only in breeches and boots he sits cross-legged on the shore of the lake, opposite the twin spires of rock. The sabre is placed in front of him, on a clean white cloth, and covered with another. The sabre is not yet used since its’ making, neither in practise nor in anger. The weapon is virgin as yet.

He sits until the sun sets, all he sees is the sabre, his consciousness is spread over and within the sabre, as he waits for the dark to come and the moons to rise. And they do, ascending through the twin spires as the stars appear in their multitudes, great drifts of them sparkling like crystals in the deeps of the heavens. There is a cool breeze, but he does not shiver. He hears silence, as birds roost noisily, insects scurry to crevices, and the predatory Na’kha bear roars its futile challenge to the night and finds its lair.

Ready now, he uncovers the sabre, unveiling its’ silver beauty to the night. As the moons rise, he rises. As the moons move out of the spires, he draws the small sharp knife from the sheath strapped to his waist, holds the blade to the night, and quickly draws it across the palm of his right hand. There is a deep cut, his thick blood flows into the palm which he holds facing the sky as if it were a cup, and the blood wells up and fills it.

The sabre waits expectantly; he calls it to his hand, holds it across his body and ignites the first blade. He tilts his right hand and slowly moves it along and over the blade, dropping his blood onto the light, hearing the hiss and sputter as it cooks and burns to nothing. As the sweet smell of burned flesh and the acrid scent of charred blood assail his nostrils, he breathes deeply and recalls a memory of Nimith, an ancient goddess of his home world, patron of destruction and nurture . He dedicates the sabre to her. Promises to her the sweet smell of the burnt flesh of his enemies, to her the stink of their blood as it chars on the flame.

Having honoured the first blade thus, he turns the hilt to honour the second. Flexing his right hand, his blood wells up again, fills the palm with blood and his mind with pain. He ignores the pain, ignites the second blade and a shadow ghost of Nimith appears before him, walking to him out of the lake. She smiles, inhales deeply as he tilts his palm, pouring blood along the second blade. Again there is the sound of burning, and the smell of charring blood.

“Oh, such sweet incense” whispers the goddess, as she takes his hand and licks his palm clean. She licks her lips delicately with a black tongue and smiles sweetly upon him, takes his left hand and guides it, drawing the lightsabre along the cut, slowly. Very slowly. The agony is exquisite as he stares into her deep black eyes, putting himself above the pain as she feeds upon it.

“Such a pleasing sacrifice,” she breathes in his ear, as she draws the sabre again along the cut, sealing it closed. She smiles lasciviously, caresses the sabre as she and he switch off the blade, and as she kisses him on the lips, lightly.

"And how will you name her?" she asks, gazing into his eyes as she lightly strokes her fingers back and forth, along the shaft of the weapon.

"She is nameless, and in your service," he whispers into the night, and the goddess smiles, for it pleases her greatly and she is much flattered.

“Such a pretty warrior,” as she touches his cheek with her black clawed hand. He feels the power radiating from her, and his body responds to it, a burgeoning power calling to a greater one.

“And soon ready...” as she turns and leaves, giving him one lingering look over her shoulder.

He stands watching and wondering until she is gone, then clips the sabre to his belt. There is training and practice to be planned, exercises to perform, this new weapon to learn. His expertise with the stave will provide the finest of foundations.

Hunger reminds him to eat and his stomach growls its approval as he prepares a hearty meal of meat and bread. There is cool water from the lake, and he drinks of it before he prepares himself for sleep, wrapping himself in his cloak under the stars, lightsabre by his side.

In the morning, the pain is gone from his hand, and there is no scar.

Epilogue

The young warrior, the Sith-in-waiting, although he does not know it yet, bows respectfully to the dark lord who will soon be his master.

He presents the weapon to Palpatine in the manner of a blooded warrior presenting the sabre to his opponent. Not to make Palpatine fear and tremble for his very existence, but to show Palpatine the deadly beauty and elegance of the thing he has crafted.

Grinning broadly he reports his success, raises the weapon in front of him, switches on the blades and elegantly presents it. Holding it across his body, he looks over the weapon at Palpatine, eyes glittering with triumph.

“Is she not beautiful?” he demands, and raises his head, looks straight at the Sith Lord, challenging Palpatine to say otherwise.

Palpatine agrees, smiling in the face of this young man’s pride and enthusiasm, pleased at the success of his enterprise. Oh yes, the weapon is very beautiful indeed, and it is very many centuries since a Sith carried such into battle. He reckons that his credits are well invested, and knows that soon, after Khameir’s graduation, some of that investment will return quickly. He wonders. Little occurs in the wilds of the Southern Continent, how will the weapon be blooded?

Leaning forward into the hologram projector, he pleasantly enquires of this, planning perhaps to make his ward a killer sooner than he had thought.

“There are no enemies here, I have blooded it with my own blood.”

Forestalled then. The purity of the young warriors mind surprises Palpatine and irks him. The warrior thinks honourably in terms of ‘enemy’ and ‘foe’. Palpatine thinks in terms of ‘inconvenient’ and ‘opposition’, silent slaughter and assassination.

Smiling his approval, enquiring as to the making, at the back of his mind the Regional Governor considers, how to bring Khameir Sarin to his first kill, to blunt his senses, separate him from this burdensome honour. But this delight is for the future.

Until then, he smiles approval, nods in agreement, allows the young man to enjoy his praise.

Waits a little longer.....

END