Epilogue…

The bitter cold wind tore at his skin with the ferocity of a hungry nexu in full attack.

If the debilitating temperature or the searing pain produced by the pebble-sized hail that poured from the darkened sky onto his motionless body had any impact on him, it was not clear. He stood in the snow, perfectly still. He was clad only in pants so white that they were indistinguishable from the smooth, pure surface of the snow. His dark, sinewy upper body was taut. His hand clenched a wooden staff tipped with a rock that had been chipped into the shape of a spear on both ends.

The storm battered at his frame with all of its power. It wrapped him in a blanket of cold so deep that it threatened to freeze the blood in his veins. It pounded him mercilessly with stones of ice at such speeds that it seemed they could pierce a meter of durasteel. The wind howled with such intensity that he could hear nothing else. But still, the creature did not budge.

This is what it feels like to be Mace Windu, Korun Master, former Dark Lord of the Sith, and exile on the planet Hoth, right now:

You can feel the power of the planet, but it cannot harm you. The Force is your ally. With it, you wrap yourself in warmth that no blanket could ever provide. The Force gives you a shield against the hail that no blaster could hope to penetrate. You are the epitome of invulnerability. But it is only a respite in the darkness that consumes you.

You are lonely, but you do not dwell on it.

You are afraid, but you refuse to bow to it.

You are angry, but you do not allow it to consume you.

You are darkness personified but you can now see light.

As you look out at the endless barren wasteland of ice that blankets virtually the entire planet, you can feel the creatures approach. They normally hunt alone but they have learned their lesson. You have cut so many of them down now that they have organized themselves into a pack in a desperate hope to stop your carnage.

You find this amusing.

You loosen your grip on your double-bladed shaft and wait for the attack.

You cannot see them anywhere. They have had millennia to adapt to this harsh world and you have had only a year. They outnumber you seven to one. You almost regret that the odds are not in their favor.

With lightning quickness, they attack as one. You do not move until three of them are within reach of you. Three snow-white creatures are suddenly dead at your feet, the blood that splashes against your face in a scorching deluge is a welcome shower which staves off the frigid storm.

You hear the two behind you roar with rage in a futile attempt to weaken your resolve. You reward them for their efforts with deadly efficiency and relish in the sight of their heads sailing through the storm-ridden sky. You laugh aloud at the suddenly Sith-colored snow and turn to face the others with malicious joy.

Two more remain and you can sense their caution.

These are the true predators in the pack. The others were nothing. Your smile spreads widely across your face in a vicious grin. They begin to stalk you as if you're their prey. You can feel their confidence flowing like a bountiful river. They diverge to flank you—one on either side. In the Force you see them for what they are—

Brothers.

They fight together. They hunt together. They are as close as two of these creatures could possibly be.

They are perfect.

With stunning speed they hurtle themselves toward you but you are no longer there.

The Force has lifted you into the sky, high above their heads. You glorify in the sickening crunch of their skulls against each other as you fall back down toward them. Two merciless slashes from your stone blade cause their heads to land in the snow as your feet touch down.

As you stand in the pool of congealing blood at your feet, which rapidly begins to freeze, you survey your work. You feel no remorse. You feel no pity. You feel victory. You feel elation.

You roar into the sky with your spear raised high above your head in triumph.

Oblivion.

It is not a place. It is a state of being. Light and dark are meaningless there. It is a state of abeyance. It is a state of suspension. One that is in oblivion simply does not exist for all others, and is completely forgotten.

This is the power of the dark.

For the dark is generous, but more importantly…the dark is patient.

Light can only survive as long as there is fuel to feed it.

Even stars burn out.

And when they do…in the midst of oblivion….

Darkness stirs….

Fin