De Imperatoribus Galacticis: The Apotheosis of Miat Temm.

[The Duchess of Zeon]

De Imperatoribus Galacticis: The Apotheosis of Miat Temm




They left behind them a trail of destruction. Shimmra did not escape in time. He could not, with those furies in the midst of his guards. But there was another reason why he stood his ground, as those force users steadily advanced through the midst of his guards and slew them with great blows of their sabres. There was not far for them to go, as the last men of the guards flung themselves against the strength of those sabres, wielded in such hands as they were.

The last and best warriors of the guard stood at the entrance to the room in which Shimmra stood, his command facility, mad jester at his side, waiting with amphistaff in hand. The room was broad and expansive, showing the readouts and situational reports of the dire status of the Vong empire in the galaxy crumbling around them after the initial successes of their conquests. These ancient warriors tried to force their way in against the three with their skill, and indeed they held their own, but only against two. Miat Temm fought her way past them and the twins checked them from pursuing her or striking her in the back.

She was freed of the continual rivers of gore which had been scattered through the corridors, the stench of shit and blood and tattered flesh, all the horrors of mass death at close quarters. Jaina and Jacen had pinned the first and second of the guard, respectively, and were now fighting hard with these skilled warriors, who were pressed to their utmost simply to stay alive against their skill, but managed it, skill pitted on skill, strength on strength, with an admirable quality to their barbaric honour and stubborn, desperate resistance. The duels continued without letup; all the severe blows blocked, the minor ones accumulating in scars and lightly torn clothes, staff against sabre.

But the upper hand, ultimately, in those duels was not in doubt. If not in the short term, in the long term, in endurance, Jaina and Jacen would win. The Guardsmen fought on for a different reason entirely. They knew now that their master faced only one. They hoped that she would be dead by the time they also died, and thus he might have a reasonable chance to gain a victory over them and end this threat which might splinter the Vong into warring factions in the face of a powerful military.

Miat stood, feet slightly parted, at the ready, and smiled vaguely toward Shimmra. “My name is Miat Temm, Supreme Overlord, and I challenge thee to single combat.”

Shimmra, massively tall, physically imposing, well muscled and an excellent fighter with the amphistaff, nodded his head slightly, and prepared his own fighting stance. “Your challenge is accepted, Jeedai.”

“I am a Lady of the Sith, and I would appreciate that you remember it,” Miat replied, with a trace of haughtiness, and then she struck, daring to take the offensive against the stronger.

It was as thought time had stood still. They parried their blows and did not touch each other with a whisper of the staff nor sabre; they met each thrust of the other with a parry. Lightsabre hummed and amphistaff hissed, and the weapons were swung two and fro, matching against each other with a crackle of energy on many occasions, moving so fast as to be scarcely discerned. Shimmra, big and powerful and armoured, could not quite keep up with the darting swiftness of even the wounded Miat Temm. She moved like a dancer, and each thrust was barely met to be parried, but, oh, was it parried!

Shimmra held his ground, and by his great strength he thrice disarmed Miat, but at each time that she lost her blade she summoned it back to her before he could strike her down, and met the next swing of the staff gamely, already back in the game, once more striking back. Blows jumbled into blows, the intensity of the duel becoming a thing in itself, something greater than the individual components of each strike and each parry. They fought, and fought, and neither could gain a hand on the other.

Around and around the room they moved, Miat shifting with her greater agility to avoid the blows of Shimmra's staff, or to find a better angle at which to attack, and the great Lord of the Yuuzhan Vong resolutely moving with her, never letting the advantage be had, not unused by any measure to the effort of more agile opponents against the power of his barbaric strength and energy behind the staff. Miat moved, and leapt upon the organic consoles surrounding the room, and leapt down upon the Lordly countenance of Shimmra; but he met the swift and vigorous effort, born of the hidden strength of the force, with a powerful counterstrike that sent Miat tumbling to the ground. Yet she was up in an instant, seeming unharmed, and the duel continued with the same mad intensity as before.

Neither of them seemed pressed in the mind, even if their physical bodies were sweating, were stretched to the edge by adrenaline and forced along with outside powers to the very limit of their biological potential. They remained calm and silent, entirely focused on each other, allowing no distraction to enter the mind of the other, met in the honour of single combat, two Wills striving to overcome each other, without the distraction of mass or treachery. But there was treachery in the air.

Here, then, with Jacen and Jaina locked in their own duels, the only observer was Onimi, and he was silent, even his madness struck by the honour of the duel in a war where there had been no honour beforehand, and would be none after. But though he recognized what he say, and some fundamental part of him was in awe of it, he himself was cowardly, manipulative, and treacherous, and his worries as he watched the duel were entirely for himself; Shimmra was little more than his champion, and though he would have liked a surer way of things, here on the field of honour Onimi knew that his word would not prevail against the barbaric simplicitly of the savage warlord.

They continued through what might have been minutes, and what might have been hours, trading blows as great as they had at first. Battling at the top of a world, they strove to claim goals within themselves. Neither one desired what the other had; they were drawn to battle to, in the end, conquer themselves, to master a challenge which lay on their own paths, not to dispute the victor of a single path. And so the duel extended to such epic length, and intensity, for their own motivations filled them and drove them on entirely, without restraint, to the utmost of the height of their strength and knowledge and skill to be used and expended on this singular duel.

Lordly blows continued without end, the masterful strike of sabre and staff blocked by erudite parry. They fought and struggled in mind as well as in body, and here they were matched as well, and it seemed that the duel might last forever, save that there might be, perhaps, some issue of advantage, so minor, that it would sooner or later give one the triumph after an innumerable duration to the struggle, a duration they both seemed willing to accept.

That they might have dueled forever would sooner or later be put to the test, and the issue closed against. They were not perfectly matched; for the strength of the living is limited by the body even where the mind continues to struggle on. It would be a matter of exhaustion, and will, and there would be nothing to come between their struggles by that account, at least, for neither one would presume to countenance such a thing, Shimmra least of all, for here was the duel of a millennia, and Miat not one iota less, for she was battling for her own immortality.

At last Jaina and Jacen, battling hard, had put paid to the commanders of the Guard and struck them down with their lightsabres, with great and mighty strokes that had seen finish to those old and loyal veterans, those skilled warriors, nearly in the same instant—so close were the twins on their seperate paths still matched to each other, in skill and knowledge and strength. They were finished, and they might have turned themselves to add their sabres to Miat's in her lonely struggle, but even as she fought on, blow-to-blow with Shimmra, she peremptorily dismissed their effort.

“This is single combat, and a single combat I shall have!” She thus proclaimed, and so there were three observers instead of one.

To this, Shimmra spoke again, stirred to it by the Kingly act: “Lady of Sith, the Gods will take kindly to you for your honour of the rite of challenge!”

She did not reply, save by the effort of her lightsabre, and this effort also did Shimmra meet, expecting nothing less. But there were words in her mind: For when I have conquered you, Lord Shimmra, the conquerors of your Gods shall welcome me to the halls of the immortal dead.

Time passed and the battle was not abated. Wounded as she was, Miat Temm was drawing on the whole strength of her life-energy; she might as well be 'burning bone' as the old phrase went, past the point of the sinews of Will and Energy and mentral strength, drawing on the core of her essence for the motivating force to continue, and to conquer.

A thunderstorm of blows were exchanged in combat that seemed without end. But now there were wounds on both; burns and poisoned cuts. It was storm rolling through the minutes without ceasing, where those wounds were inflicted and the duel wound down by the exhaustion of those within it. Miat Temm was pallid like death, and Lord Shimmra fought with his left hand, right arm hanging limply, useless and scorched. Yet the situation was not entirely undone for Shimmra, for he was just as skilled with his left arm as his right, and he fought on thusly; and thus also did Miat Temm fight on, as though she could ignore her whole physical condition and struggle by spirit alone.

Now, though, the most slight of advantages had become tangible for Miat Temm. Though Shimmra regularly trained with either hand holding his staff ready, or fighting with two hands upon the staff as well, he had not fought with only his left hand before; his experience with this sort of fight was only training, for only a madman intentionally hobbles himself in a real fight. Thus it was that for all his great experience in countless single combats, Lord Shimmra had never fought with his only his left hand in a true battle, and that lack of fundamental familiarity with the act when blood flowed and bone was sundered was the smallest hint of an advantage by which Miat slowly gained ground.

Another great flurry of strikes and parries, of blows and blocked blows, and it seemed that Miat Temm had regained her strength from the beginning of the duel; yet it was actually Shimmra who was falling behind, more and more pressed by an agile opponent when he had but one hand with which to fight. And so they fought on, Shimmra tired by the constant and extra effort required to defend himself from Miat's agility, with but his one hand, and Miat looking like so much of a corpse, her heart scarcely beating, scarcely breathing, existing on the use of the force to drive adrenaline through her body in greater and greater amounts, like a cape buffalo, it's heart rent asunder by the impact of a heavy bullet, crashing on to gore a hunter by virtue of the adrenal gland alone, dead to the world, by alive to a doomed foe.

Finally there was resolution. The great blows of Shimmra's last effort came, valiant and powerful despite them from his left hand, a flurry of strikes to at last end the desperate struggle. Miat Temm staggered to her knees as she fended them off, as though she had died with that last effort, and Jaina gasped in horror, for her body was indeed that of death. But then, as the last blow skittered to the side of her on her blade, she lunged up with a fury's cry and swung the blade of her sabre so fast that it was just a burnt afterimage on Jaina's retina as it passed sizzling through the air...

...And struck the head off of the Supreme Overlord of the Yuuzhan Vong.

A look of surprised crossed Shimmra's face, and his lips moved without speaking as his severed head fell to the floor and rolled crazily about. Miat Temm watched it for a moment, her gaze flicking back to the collapsing body of Shimmra, ending in the usual squalor after such a noble effort. Then she fell to her knees, and deactivated her lightsabre, panting.

Jaina made to rush forward, and Jacen held out a hand: “Jaina!” He cried, as though he was losing his sister; and in that moment, he was.

But she broke free and ran on to Miat Temm. Miat heard her footsteps, and dragged herself around to face Jaina, still living.

Then Omini struck.

Cackling in mad rage and delight, he unleashed a salvo of force lightning into Miat Temm's battered body, and she shuddered and colvulsed and her flesh burnt, and her hair caught fire as she was struck in the back. The lightning coursed through her body and destroyed her physical form, all save the last act, for in her will she sustained herself by one last, great effort, eyes as clear and intense as ever and looking with longing to Jaina.

She was thus avenged. Jaina met that look, with tears in her eyes and with horror, and with rage. She leapt up, her lightsabre at once drawn and activated, and moved in a blur through the air against mad Omini. Jaina struck him with her boots upon the chest, and drove him down to the deck of the control room, landing upright atop him.

At once he turned his force lightning upon her, but here she was, rested and prepared for a fight. She battered it away, diffusing it, fighting through it, as she brought her lightsabre down, battled and delayed by the force lightning, but inexorably pressing her body down, the lightsabre forward, through the resistance of the lightning and the effort that it took her to disperse it, and thus did she drive the energy blade right Omini's skull, and put down that mad mind, and with it his twisted powers, crushed forever in the shadow of the master he had manipulated, who had fallen with an honour above his race, whilst Omini had none.

Jaina turned back to Miat. She deactivated her lightsabre, and rushed forward to fall to her knees beside the shattered body of the woman, hugging her tightly. It should have hurt Miat, but it did not. She simply smiled.

“Now I carry the dead of Coruscant through the gates of death, to their deserved rest in the heart of their vengeance,” she spoke softly, contentedly, and then added a moment later: “Please don't forget to want me, Jaina.”

“I promise—never!” Jaina nearly screamed, sobbing.

Jacen felt the power rising up, and raced forward to his sister. “Jaina! Jaina! We've got to go—NOW! Something is happening..!!”

Jaina looked down to Miat with querrelous eyes, and Miat smiled back one last time.

“Go. The exit beyond.. The Supreme Overlord's personal shuttle bay. ..Go, go there and swiftly, and flee from the system with your father. And.. Remember, Remember, and we shall meet again.”

Jaina hugged Miat Temm fiercely against her one last time, and rose up, and then paused, and reached out with the force to do one last thing—she drew Miat Temm's lightsabre to her hand, and holding her own and Miat's, gave in to her brother's pleading shouts and led the way, running through the far exit and racing down the corridor there, as fast as they together could run.

Behind them, Miat Temm continued to breath for as long as she could force herself to, continued to survive for as long as she could manage it, giving Jaina as much time as she could to reach one of Shimmra's shuttles, and activate it and fly it clear with her brother aboard, this time, using the desperate knowledge of how to pilot Vong craft that she had learned during her last, equally desperate escape. And this did Jaina do.

Miat could feel her presence move away, then, at a pace greater than a dead run, at the pace of a ship accelerating clear of the Worldship itself. Relief filled her, and she ceased her efforts, and turned inward to the last task. Her eyes closed, she slumped down, even as Vong warriors now pressed into the chamber to the see the dead bodies of the Guards, of Omini, and of Shimmra... And the woman in the middle of it all, who looked quite dead.

A convulsive shudder passed through the force there, and Miat Temm removed herself from it forever, and then, denied its powers, her body could no longer hold out, and she died.

A force storm had begun, emanating out from her dead body. It consumed first the Vong Warriors who had entered the room, destroying them all in the grip of its power, and then spreading out, twisting and crumpling the worldship and gaining steadily in size and power and the swiftness of its expanse.

Jaina could not muster the words to speak. She just piloted, dead to the world, dead to any purpose save the last request of Miat Temm.

It was Jacen who sent the pleading order into the mind of his father: Father, father, we're both alright—Jaina and I are both alright—but there is a force storm building, and you must go now! We shall make it out on our own ship.

Redoubtable Han acted at once, filled with incredible relief, and remembering his earlier great escapes. The moment he heard those dreadful words, 'force storm', he turned his attention to escape, at Miat Temm's stealthship, under his guidance, bolted out of cover and raced for the stars, the navcomp already have a course into hyperspace laid in. The moment it was safe, he commenced the runup, and as he did he looked to the sensors to see in awe the majestic sight of a whole Vong Worldship being absolutely consumed by the power of a Force Storm.

“For you, Chewie!” He shouted, and then: “For you, Anakin, my son!” And then he pulled the lever on the hyperdrive and the Stealthship shot with a flicker of pseudomotion into hyperspace and unto safety.

It took Jaina just a moment longer as the force storm continued to grow, threatening to engulf the other four Worldships in the system, and, indeed, the whole of the system, Jacen realized; though his sister did not care. She laid in the plot, and then looked back one more time at the awesome funeral pyre of her love, and then she to, bound by duty and by a promise, and perhaps, even, driven by hope, drove her craft into hyperspace and safety, to leave the countless trillions of abominations upon their Worldships to their doom, condemned to be the fuel for the funeral pyre that marked Miat Temm's Apotheosis.




De Imperatoribus Galacticis will be continued in Chapter the Twenty-Fourth

[phongn]

/jaw drops.

Outstanding, Marina.

[Ford Prefect]

Bloody hell.

[Darth Fanboy]

Best duel written that I have ever seen, fanfiction or otherwise.

[consequences]

"Whoa"

And now Luke loses his claim to fame from NJO as well(not that he particularly deserved it in the first place). Speaking of which, what is the Jedi Remnant up to these days, aside from the inevitable ineffectual bleating about the upcoming genocide?