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Hello, my beloved readers! Yes, I have not fallen off the face of the earth. Yes, I am still alive, believe it or not.

And today, I offer you a short–very short–story, as a brief break from my Nanowrimo project.

This story has a backstory, and that backstory was how I was thinking how some characters can pass by other ones’ names, or nicknames, even if they’re not from the same fandom. For instance, you could call Charles Wallace Murry “the Chosen One”, or you could call Obi-Wan Kenobi “Glorfindel” (“golden-haired” in Quenya. 🙂 ) You could call Martin the Warrior “the Seeker,” for goodness’ sake! You could even call Dooku “Sauruman”, if you wanted to. ;-P

That is what this story is about–name crossovers. Enjoy!

I have been called many things in my life. Obi-Wan Joseph Kenobi. Raelynn Ae’enn Narshala. Guardian angel. Mercy. Grace. The Negotiator. Brother.

Then there are the titles of which I am not so proud. The Angel of Death. That’s what they called me after the disaster of Nokama. Unobservant.

Traitor.

I don’t want to argue over whether people called me this for a reason. According to the strict definition, I am not a traitor. I never swore fealty to the Empire. I am–was–loyal to the Republic I promised to serve. I am not a traitor. I have merely been called that.

Palpatine–Sidious–was the real traitor. He betrayed us all. But maybe he was not a traitor–his allegiance always was to himself. It always comes down to points of view–and mine… it keeps on shifting, now. Making excuses for people whom I should not excuse.

Whoever said that the mind is a good servant but a cruel mistress was more right than he will ever know.

Palpatine stole my brother’s heart. I thought it was safe in my keeping, but he had already given it to someone else. He gave his heart to an angel, and it was stolen by a demon. Palpatine spent long years in poisoning my brother’s ears, changing his heart, making him cold, cruel, dark. I can see that now. They say, after all, that hindsight is always twenty/twenty.

Palpatine made me kill my brother. I am a murderer. It was me that killed Anakin Skywalker and allowed Darth Vader to take his place. I strangled the very thing I meant to nurture. I killed the innocent sprout-ling and nurtured the tares.

And in the end, I ran. I ran like a coward. He might have turned–he might have broken my heart–the heart I never really gave away until I met him–but I still loved him. Attachment is a curious thing. It can cosset and warm you, or it can betray you.

I ran. I ran from Palpatine, and from Vader. But before I ran, there was one confrontation with the man who destroyed my brother. It was not of the body, but of the spirit. He put a curse on me, but I put a name on him.

He called me “accursed.”

I called him “Wormtongue.”

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