Young Writers Society

Tarkin shifted in his chair. He'd been avoiding any more than allusions to the Carrion--it was a personal matter, something they mostly kept in the family. But with the amount of information Sirejj already had, he supposed he had to talk. Perhaps it would help make things clearer.

"The Carrion refers to the Carrion Plateau," he said after a long silence. "It's a swath of land my family has owned for generations. When a male in the family reaches eleven years of age, he's sent to the Carrion to complete an initiation. Every summer until the age of sixteen, he's tasked with surviving the physical and mental trials of nature." He was quiet again, lost in thought. He remembered his own time there well; it was the whole reason he'd become the man he was today. "My grand-uncle oversaw my trials. We both oversaw Garoche's. Thalassa insisted on my presence; she didn't trust Jova not to leave him for dead if he failed." He glanced at the door. "She knows what happened to Gideon. I suppose she was right; Garoche didn't take to it at all. He was too delicate for that kind of living."

Sirejj mulled over that for a moment. "Failure was not a weakness my people tolerated either." He studied Tarkin. "You completed these trials?" He was beginning to understand Tarkin a bit more now. Their minds were alike in that they had both been sharpened to a deadly edge by the struggle to survive.

"I broke them," Tarkin said with a touch of pride. "They had to find a new final trial after my run." He still remembered his uncle's face when he returned from the Spike, the veiled pleasure. That was a rare and cherished look, as were the scars he bore from his time there.

"But your son did not quite live up to this achievement?" He compared the information from father and mother about Garoche and guessed that is was more than possible Tarkin's son had many secrets from the both of them. It seemed as of neither of them truly knew him.

He had seen similar things happen to his Dathomiri kindred during their own rites of passage. Those who survived were always changed. There were always a few who never learned to master their own minds and lived short and unstable lives afterwards.

"He barely squeezed by." Tarkin's voice carried bitterness, though he tried to hide it. "As I said, he wasn't suited to the Carrion at all. Too much coddling from his mother, too much softness in him. His heart was bigger than it should have been."

He let Tarkin's words fall into silence. He felt his own two hearts beating in his chest and thought briefly to his homeworld and kin. They were a kind with immense pride in survival. They embodied power, dominance and independence, and as far back as he could remember they were taught their hearts were the conduit for their power. This never meant weakness, but a union of the cunning mind and sheer will to endure. Many philosophies, like that of the Jedi and Sith, separated the two. Recent history magnified that mistake.

He took in a deep breath, the scent of the room around him, the ground beneath him, his weapon forever carried on his back. "I'll have to return one day and see these hunting grounds," he said, almost absently. "In the meantime, let's find that trinket."

Tarkin got to his feet. "The hunting grounds are off limits to outaiders," he said smoothly. "But I'd be more than happy to show you the trophy room. Let me show you Garoche's room, first." The Zabrak would never enter the Carrion. Not unless Tarkin wanted to make the hunt more interesting.

Sirejj figured that would be his reaction. He had no intention of going there anytime soon, but Tarkin's defiance made him more curious. Still, it was far from the most important thing on his to do list. He followed Tarkin from the room.

Tarkin led him to a new wing and paused at a door near the stairs. He hesitated for a split second before unlocking it.

Garoche Tarkin's room was unlit and undecorated. There was no bedding on the mattress and no curtains on the windows; only a few crates were in the corner and the closet. A child's little drawing of a Republic war ship was sketched on the wall above the head of the bed, with a tiny person sitting astride it. Other than that, there was no indication anyone had ever lived in here.

Tarkin stood in the doorway, one hand resting on the wall, and looked into the empty shell of his son's room. It was chilly in here; the air conditioning was usually trapped in here and servants rarely entered to clean it. He wanted to turn around and leave; something inside him was clawing to get out. He felt heavy and afraid.
"Here we are," he said quietly, and stepped inside before he could change his mind.

Sirejj sensed the hesitation. Understandable. However he couldn't quite see how Tarkin truly felt about his son. He was ashamed of him to some degree, but also immensely proud. More than anything, he sensed fear. Whether that was fear he had been betrayed or fear he failed his son he was unsure.

"Any little thing of value to him should do." Sirejj wasn't about to go rifling through his things. He'd gotten in trouble taking the things of the dead before and Tarkin was already haunted, so he figured he wasn't at further risk.

Tarkin nodded, casting a glance around the room before he looked at the boxes. His chest had gone tight. "His things are there," he said, pointing. He didn't want Sirejj digging around in there, but there was nothing Tarkin could think of in the boxes that would be dangerous for the Zabrak to know or see. He took a step toward the boxes, and his stomach turned. He grit his teeth, unsure of what might happen if he took the past in his hands. Composure was usually such an easy thing for him, but the fear angered him. Wilhuff Tarkin was not a vulnerable man.

He forced himself to pick up one of the boxes and offered it to Sirejj, stone-faced.

Sirejj frowned slightly. "Would you happen to know if any particular thing was close to him?" He did not take the box from him.

One trinket was as insignificant to him as the next. It would have to be pointed out to him before he could use it for anything.

"No." Tarkin paused, looking down at the closed lid. "Perhaps a bauble. He fidgeted a lot." The boy came by it honestly; he himself used to have trouble sitting still and keeping his hands to himself. Garoche had the benefit of a beaded string to keep himself busy. "He kept things like that in the nightstand by his bed when he was home," he said. "But I expect they were on the Star Destroyer before he left." He set down the box and wandered over to the bed, rubbing the back of his neck. "There was a medal he received at the academy that might have been of some significance. And a toy from when he was a small child. I can think of nothing else."

Sirejj grunted. Tarkin was going to make him a grave robber again. He took the box and set it down, opening the lid and carefully looking through the few things inside.

There was a small collection of items a young man would have kept. Some well-worn objects to fidget with, an old lamp, a datapad, a couple styluses, a sabaack deck, a few holophotos, some shirts, and a sketching tablet. It was clear whoever had packed this box had thrown things in willy-nilly.