Korriban, the once great center of the Ancient Sith Empire, which sought to claim the Galaxy as its own; once the place where Dark Lords convened and plotted their vengeance against the Forerunners.
Korriban, now a cold, dark tomb.
Empty. Void. Senseless. But, beyond all else, only one feeling, and one feeling alone.
Pain.... so much pain...
The soil stirred, shifting, as if trying hard to hold back a terrible catastrophe from rising once more.
Thoughts. Desires. Faint, distant memories that seemed to not belong. Questions. Did he awake for answers? There were none.
Everything hurts... every chunk, every cell....
Dust was kicked up during a small movement of the dirt, picked up by a swift breeze which carried away a tiny cloud of the debris. Beyond the faint howl of the wind, there would be no noise, no feature throughout the entire world.
He could feel it, a faint touch from the outside, beyond his pain. A strong call; The call of Korriban. It was the call of the dead.
Four small, round protrusions emerged from the soil, penetrating its thin wall and feeling the dry, unforgiving air of the planet. They were fingers; damaged, battered, broken, but alive. Somehow. A fifth, the thumb, emerged as well.
Who... where... why?... Why the Agony??
This man could not remember who he was, or where he came from. Though he had memories, their nature eluded him, for a time. The thoughts seemed to belong to someone else, not him. There were studies. Immersion. The path walked in exile.
A full hand burst from the soil, rising up a few centimeters, now reaching down to grasp a stirdy part of the ground with which to pull the rest of the body out of the ground. Despite the all-consuming fire that dominated his senses, the pain which overwhelmed his nerves, he strove forth to escape his prison under the dirt.
The memories came faster. The fires which raged upon the Dxun moon while his allies and enemies died around him. He knew war. He knew battle.
And he knew of the Halo Array.
The hand was weak, but it managed to pull up half of the arm attached to it from the dirt. Progress was slow, slowed even further by the agony that filled his fractured bones, but unrelenting. Eventually, like a cat fitting its head through a small space, the rest of the body will follow.
He was broken. He knew what this meant... the ones he followed sought to destroy him. As he had tried to do himself. He tried to end it before this began ----
Why? What would compel him to even contemplate, let alone, self-destructive actions? Why did he seek his destruction? Was it this pain?
The memories slowly came back, coming closer and closer to the present; to answers. A feud. An uprising. He was on the rebelling side, along with a few others. They sensed their masters were faint, and weak. They suffered through teachings that weakened them. Weakened him.
He grew angry.
The soil suddenly shifted a great deal, and the entire upper body of this man burst from the ground. His mind seemed to fracture for a second - the tremendous pain that filled him was nothing compared to this brief burst of strength, which acted like a massive explosion of hurt. But it made him escape faster; and shortly after, his memory came back quicker. His head hung low as he concentrated on his thoughts, motionless for now.
The Forerunners. They must have been responsible! He would destroy every last one of them if it was the last thing he...
...no. This was NOT the works of the Forerunners. Something else. Someone else. But who?
He was limited. He knew that before this, he held power. To be here, he must have fallen, and fallen far. Did he learn anything from this? How could he? He failed...
The head rose again, glancing around at his environment. Featureless. Cold. Uninviting. And most notably, Dead. His vision was blurry. It hurt so badly just to keep one eye open. The other eye did not seem to function at all.
The whispers, telling him to wake up, continued to ring in his ears, echo through his head, crawl within his skull.
Suddenly, he remembered. He remembered it all. The secret planning. The movement to make changes. The betrayal.
The coup going badly. The flash of light throughout the sky. The infinite shining as countless lives across the galaxy were taken, as the Array was activated. The atrocity committed by the Forerunner Empire to save all intelligent life by destroying it.
The body continued to climb out of the dirt, and though his shredded muscles screamed in protest, he pulled the remainder of his form from the dirt. Dust blew from his features as the breeze picked up again. He wore dark boots, and his legs and lower right arm were covered in featureless black clothing. He felt a foreign weight on his hip, but he paid no mind to it.
The pain was strong, but it won him his freedom from the coffin of soil which claimed him. It seemed like a fair trade. But looking at his hands, dry and cracking, lost of color and appearing dead, he fully remembered who he was.
This man, battered, broken, rising from the ashes of Korriban, was a wretched thing. He was a warrior that claimed victory through defeat. He was severely damaged, in mind as well as body. He sought death through war, trying to escape something. But each time, he proved too powerful for even the strongest of enemies, and left the battlefields wounded and in serious pain, but very much alive.
He became an asset for the Sith. He was a Marauder; carving huge swaths through the foes of the Order, slaying hordes of people in a desperate attempt to claim territory back from the Forerunners.
Still, he sought death. There was a woman... someone who offered him another path. A path that would release him from his terrible life.
A dark power seized him, and the man's muscles froze in place, his bones squeezed as he was lifted off his feet into the air. His vision darkened; he could faintly see flashes of red in the corners of his failing sight. Could this be blood? Was there any left in him?
The agony reached phenominal levels. He immediately forgot everything - waking up, his memory, life, the entire universe, all of existence. There was nothing. Not even thoughts or sentience. He was no entity, not anything. He was nothing. There was only this wrenching, crushing, pain.
Then it stopped. He fell, dropped to his knees. He felt a chunk of his skin fall off. He coughed, but nothing escaped his throat. Was he even really breathing anymore? Every motion from his organs, muscles and bones hurt like no other kind of pain he ever experienced before.
---"CONCENTRATE ON IT."
Though he protested, his body instinctively reacted. He focused on the pain in his form; worshiped it. He let it enter his mind, and fill every crevice of his being. He allowed it to possess him, to replace him..
..and that is where his legs found the strength to straighten, and the man rised to his feet.
Pain. It was all he could feel. But through it, he felt strength. And this strength through pain is what gave him power.
He felt its touch again. Not the pain, but something else. An energy that surrounded and binded him to this world. It amplified his pain, but it augmented his life force at the same time, somehow tethering him to the mortal world when he should have died long ago.
After all that has happened, still he lived. He was difficult to kill.
He finally looked down, finding the source of the weight on his hip. There was a weapon - a silver cylinder attached to his belt. He took it in his right hand. There was weight. His thumb fell upon the activation button by instinct. He pressed it, and a loud hiss sounded as a crimson-hued blade of white-hot plasma emerged, around 36 long. It hummed faintly, its power system undamaged by the burrial in the soil.
He lowered his hand, and the blade pointed down at the ground. He kept it activated, letting the hum echo through his mind like the faint voice that resuscitated him. Glancing about the great stone ruins which surrounded him, and the faint orange light of the sun, the man contemplated his return to his former path of destruction.
And with this, Sion walked forth, searching for the voice that woke him up, in terrible pain, but strong because of it, searching for his answers.