#oc: n'ahtav marlavi

[wiltf]

old new scar

ao3//

Darth Marr tilts her head, side of his finger against her cheek. Gently so, corner of the Imperial camp. Yavin 4 ebbs and flows around them, but they remain inscrutable and unreadable. Her eyes remain on the corner of the tent, going through the motions.

“You chose not to heal it.”

“Serves as more of a reminder than anything else I experienced.”

Perhaps he snorts in response, if there was anyway to discern what that noise was from under his helmet. Regardless, he steps back, and out. Not a final word, letting her seal her own mask in place.

[pestopascal]

I commissioned @spindlewit for several portraits of my SWTOR ocs!

L-R: SI N’ahtav Marlavi, JK Nona Kalydon and SW Alfrinn Faust

[wiltf]

reunion

ao3//

There is silence. Ever growing and consuming, as she kneels. Head bowed, eyes closed, reaching out as far as she would be allowed. Perhaps she looked vulnerable, before the statues and fires of the tomb. Hand pressed against the etched script, concentration growing.

Alfrinn’s first mistake was to believe that the dust she kicked up with her feet made no movement in the world. And there are words, that are daringly affectionate, such as rash, bold, brave. Ones that had been spoken over dinners, shared at grandiose balls while games had been played.

They don’t hold the same feeling now. Not as a line of red cuts through the corner of her eye, landing in the rock beside her finger. Running hot, felt even through the armour, and N’ahtav knows there is some poetic justice in that, as she sighs. Pulls the saber free, twirling the weight in her hands.

Heavier than her own, if that were possible. Following through with her wrist, she does hold the blade high. Alfrinn had always been so true to form, and if she had been anything other than Sith, she would have likely made it far in the Empire’s military chain.

Except the ribbon tied around the hilt betrays her, just as always.

But that wasn’t this life, and N’ahtav throws the lightsaber back, across the empty room before her. Only sound now, thrum of life as it disappeared into the dark. All the light went with it. That suited N’ahtav fine, as the first foot forward was always the most dangerous. Risk to close her eyes and feel, but if there was one thing she knew, it was that Alfrinn was always—

Above! Leaping from the statue, hand raised. Whistle through the quiet, as her lightsaber spun back into view. Equal pace, equal time. N’ahtav doesn’t fight the grin, as she draws her own up, clashing in a shower of sparks and heat. Left hand behind her back, as always, as she draws the second around.

Ah, but Alfrinn pushes back, sending N’ahtav through the dust. Two raised, cross in front of her face. N’ahtav had always wondered what it was to feel like, on the other side. Staring down. Fear had always been so palatable in that moment, where someone had been on the other end of her saber.

Yet Alfrinn raises her own once more. Silent in her judgement. Ironic, in how for once she had found her tongue stilled.

No matter. Not as N’ahtav shoots forward, one, two, force guiding her feet, into a swing that arcs wide, momentary distraction to suggest an opening. One Alfrinn takes greedily, elbow swinging out to catch the wrist that followed. Just like how she tips back, ducking under the sweep. Exposed. Hand brought down on her middle brings the weight with it, shooting her into the ground.

N’ahtav was not a fool to think that would be the end of such wrath. Not when Alfrinn twists herself, upright, on her feet. Wrist held loose. And with a flick, she sends her saber spinning once more. Closes the distance in three steps, flat of her palm directed towards N’ahtav’s face. Brave. Bold. Rash. Just as the saber comes up behind her, and N’ahtav draws.

Two. Clash of light behind them, but her right hand isn’t fast enough for the way stars fill her vision, white hot pain blinding her. Can’t shake it out fast enough, as she draws up each deflection, one, two, foot kicking out to throw some of the dust between them. Alfrinn is nothing if not relentless as she follows. As N’ahtav gets a pause, her foot finding the uneven ankle on loose rocks, kicking up as her hands moved, fitting the ends of the saber together. Spin around, tasting blood and anger, as Alfrinn rights herself with too much weight behind her movements. Too much force, splitting the ground.

Deflections. Throwing off each swing with another meeting. N’ahtav finds some solace in the footwork, reminiscent of Ziost. Buried in the training grounds of their home, but that was then and this was now, and she ducks, finger sliding over buttons to stop the light. Twisting the blade around, activating it once more, cutting close enough to have Alfrinn almost pause.

Almost, in that she pulls up too slow. For who, N’ahtav can’t say. Not with the kick to Alfrinn’s gut, sending her dear cousin back. Maybe there was too much behind it, as a gasp and heave broke through their fight. Flat had against her stomach, no, she would not be given time to heal.

Not now. Not as N’ahtav follows, pushing back this time. Enough of this. Alfrinn meets each swing with her own, undeterred by the way blood spilled down her lips. Just the way she strikes, cuts a fine line that sears, eye hollow, cold. Only the momentary tightness around her eyes, when N’ahtav catches her in the side with the hilt, having her twist out the way, push back.

Back and back and back. Turning in her favour, as each swing becomes more aggressive. Unnatural in the energy, and N’ahtav. Watches, with the world slowing behind her, as Alfrinn’s blade cuts through the hilt of her own. Light flickering out as they dropped. Bringing her hand up on a backswing, ready for the final blow.

Who was quicker, truly? As N’ahtav’s hand closes around Alfrinn’s throat, finding all the delicate points, left hand pulling the saber free. Letting it disappear into the dark once more, as she holds. Enough! Something says, roars, as Alfrinn struggles. Claws at her wrist. Finds words that are lost in the gasp.

N’ahtav can’t protect herself from how she was thrown back. Rolls as she hits the ground, and there is shooting pain. Leg. Arm. Side. Hands drawn together as Alfrinn presses forward, blade fighting against the palms of her hand.

She wants to say one of them screams, but it is both. As the lightning builds and as Alfrinn prepares for the final blow. As the rocks seem to rise around them, time not telling who is faster, or who would be stronger. Just the clamour and the noise and the silence.

[wiltf]

new old scar

ao3//

If N’ahtav were to look upon the moment later, she knew she was tired. When the hand closes around her throat, holding her high in the air, she scrambles. There is nothing there, in power or the force, that threw her across the room. It was the seething hatred, that has her pull her arms around her head, roll and land. Feel the universe tip under it all.

Thanaton moves with a certain grace he never had before. Holds the back of her head so gently, even as he brings her down. Again and again, into the ground. Helmet barely holding together, until it cracks and N’ahtav screams, she thinks. Someone else, nearby. Doesn’t matter, as her head is pulled back, and she sees.

Blood and the ceiling and Thanaton’s grin. Searing pain, down the right side of her face. Skin pressed in and boiling. Against one of the thrones, maybe? Runic carvings, she can almost see. Can’t. Won’t.

N’ahtav doesn’t remember moving.

[wiltf]

the house

ao3//

Älfrinn doesn’t like the old house. And it is old, spanning generations back to people the family didn’t know of, truly. But reclaiming Ziost meant doing more than dusting off holdings and property. They still hadn’t been able to take the cold out of the walls.

Up the steps, towards the study. Summoned, with such a directness that Älfrinn had been sure that branch families were not recognised with. Lord Marlavi had never been one to send such a specific note, and even her own mother recognised that. Troubling, in all the wrong ways.

“Darth Masrae summoned me.” 

Barely a look up from the person who sat beside the doors. Didn’t know they had invested in a receptionist either. Just the press of a button, and Älfrinn is in, rounding the corner once more to see an empty chair.

Had they been infiltrated? A dozen scenarios played out in her mind, that this was a trap, and someone was willing to even remove the branches. It would be flattering perhaps, if the snap of a book closing behind her didn’t have her wheel around, arm outstretched.

Finding instead N’ahtav, looking remarkably amused, placing the book back on the shelf. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Älfrinn.”

“Where is Lord Marlavi?”

The smile doesn’t go. Instead, N’ahtav sits herself where the head of the family might’ve once, hands spreading. “A pleasure to meet you.”

One, two. Slow breaths, before Älfrinn tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “You killed him.”

Looking almost annoyed by such a claim, N’ahtav shakes her head. “No, father has returned to Dromund Kaas to assist with overseeing the military operations as this… war begins to grow again.”

“So, you’re keeping his seat warm? I suppose congratulations are in order.”

Toothy grin, one that holds no warmth. Overstepping, Älfrinn’s mother always had a problem with her overstepping. But she does not want to take the opportunity to apologise, hand over her heart. Swear allegiance to the cousin before her. There are pieces in play, and Älfrinn had seen N’ahtav play even the most basic board games in her youth. She did not want to become one of them.

Perhaps the silence drags too long, or N’ahtav knows that Älfrinn will not bend knee. Undeterred, she draws up one of the screens. “You will be moving out to Korriban to complete your training. Tomorrow.”

Threading her fingers underneath her chin, N’ahtav looks over her, from head to toe. “Your time has come, acolyte. I know my father had refused your request, but I think you’re more than ready.”

Confusion fills Älfrinn as she bows. Low and respectfully, frowning at the ground. Smooth and clear face as she looks back up. “Thank you, my Lord. I will not fail you.”

“See to it that you don’t. I will join you on Korriban in a few weeks.”

“To find an apprentice?”

“That is the idea.” Something in her voice tells Älfrinn otherwise, but she doesn’t press. Just bows, once more, with thanks. Lets the silence grow, until N’ahtav returns to the work in front of her, one hand waved, towards the door.

Dismissed. Too much to tell her mother when she returned, to pack for. Needed to be ready. Hands shaking as she steps out of the house, doors closing behind her. Älfrinn does not look back, as she’s too focused. Trying to smother her smile with her hand, feeling the beating of her heart in her ears. Finally.

[wiltf]

rage

ao3//

Alfrinn is the stronger. That much has always been true. Finding the holes in the way N’ahtav spins saber in hand, defence buckling under the weight. Each slash forward, driving her further and further into the ground. Earth and dust crumbling, as N’ahtav struggles to find foothold, and Alfrinn is anger.

Rage.

Years of it bottled up and unleashed upon the universe. No more painted faces, animalistic politeness that came from existing in the same room. Bared teeth and nowhere to go. Her swings are gaining too much space, but the force. The force behind them has dear family struggle. To have saber shake in hand, fractures forming along metal.

One of them would fall. No more prolonged fights, drawn out in the momentary clashes when crossing paths. Alfrinn fights with the weight of a hard won saber, pried from a dying Jedi’s hands. It screams in her fingers, burning green where it should have been. Red. Cold. Ugly colour rising from the way it clashes against N’ahtav’s own.

White hot sparks and the way it’s like the world shifts around them. They are an electric bubble. Watching rock rise up, at the next clash. Where N’ahtav finally rises to meet on uneven footing. She is the weaker. Sly tactics and the burn of hidden weaponry. No longer quick enough to summon shadow to hide her away.

Alfrinn could see her clearly now. Sweat and blood. Dust. Raised skin from a mistake. Always making mistakes.

“You should have left me to die,” is her victory song, spoken too early. Too assuredly in the wake of something as simple as one mistake.

Costly one, where there is only green, and the force. Too much weight tipped forward. She is stronger. But once again, she is the weaker. Made fool by old women, with too much pride and knowledge, whispering behind hands. N’ahtav is solid feet that find her gut, ankle, knee. Faster, faster faster faster.

Screams drown out the way bones crack. As right foot is lifted to be brought straight across. Alfrinn could see it all in her mind’s eye. That her cheek would not survive such an impact. So she grabs. Reaches for whatever it was she could possibly find.

Pulls it down with her, into the space they had made. Where only moments before N’ahtav was to be swallowed whole. Blind punches and kicks that find bruised bone, until fingers find the warm skin of her throat. She could squeeze. She could end it.

Break down the wall of what had been holding her back all this time. Alfrinn could just.

Fight.

[pestopascal]

I don’t know if I actually posted this, but @hellosailorsuits did a commission for me last November, and I’m still in love? Yes. I will never get over it? No. Ever? Hell no.

N’ahtav Marlavi, my sith inquisitor from swtor! With a fern from Manaan (because I’m always a slut for Manaan)