Hang Me in the Morning, Before I See the Sun

Introduction

The historian gingerly spread out the ancient text. Ink was scrawled hastily, almost chaotically, over the archaic paper. An old document, something hidden away by the Jedi—kept secret. But why? Who wrote it? How old was it? These were the questions that filled the young historian's mind as he lit a dim lamp and sat down to study the documents. One was answered, as he saw the numbers 3519 BBY etched into the parchment. The date was bolder, darker than the text, implying that it had been added later—perhaps much later. He was isolated, alone, in the basement of the archives. And he would find out what this work was, and why it had been hidden for so long. The first lines were almost a shout…

I am Aetius Glendower.

You, noble reader, will you not judge me like all the others? Stretched before you now is my life story—I, the forsaken, wretch of a human being: the Scourge of the Republic. Yes, I believe that is what they call me now. Locked away in this cell I do not have much contact with the outside world. Only through one of the two guards who rotate guarding my prison do I learn anything. One is stoic and hateful, the other is naïve and sympathetic—but he, kind Oronis, has made this possible. Or perhaps he is too full of pity to deny my pathetic begging.

Vague promises of innocence, pleadings, and he provided me with this pen and paper—I can only write while he watches. The other guard, I do not know his name, would break in here and burn up everything I have done—and I would be powerless to stop him. Not since this accursed sickness has taken hold of my lungs. Forgive me if the scrawls on this paper are at times unreadable…every so often a fit of coughing overrides my will to write. Was I once a powerful Jedi? It does not feel like it.

This pathetic state that I am—it is amazing to me to look back and see that the whole Republic once feared me. Me. An outsider, an exiled Jedi from a backwater world about which no one cares. Could I inspire fear among my '"enemies" and loyalty among "allies"? I did not know that I could. But I did. And I fought against the Republic with every iota of my being, because they betrayed me. They betrayed me by supporting the Jedi, those abominations. Those twisted, self-appointed demi-gods—they took from me the one thing I cared about and then left me for dead. No love hath the Jedi—their cold indifference…that is the real enemy.

But I am rambling. I…am sorry, but my rage takes control of my hand and I write without awareness. I may vent and rant in this my biography, but please do not discard it on that account. Allow me to begin again:

I am Aetius Glendower. Yes, the man, the "Sith Lord", and threat to galactic stability; the great enemy of the Republic and destroyer of freedom. Here I wait, in a prison cell within the Republic's maximum-security prisons, for my trial. I suspect I will be dead before long. I am charged with high treason, sedition, conspiracy to undermine the government, and several counts of murder—I don't recall how many. The essence of it remains: I am awaiting only my conviction and then execution. I have heard it said that the Jedi do not kill their prisoners. That may be true, but the Republic does—and I am their prisoner. No one short of the Jedi's fabled Chosen One would be able to extricate me from this tangled mess, and that I do not wish. I just wish that this book finds a reader.

Now, as for you who have found this. I will try my best to hide this book, and hope that it will survive longer than I will. You are undoubtedly a student of history—I can think of no other reason why you would read further than the first four words of this book. Is my name still known? Whatever age in which you live, is my name still reviled? Am I still spat upon and kicked? I would believe so. The only other option would be the sweet tonic of obscurity—that is what I hope for so earnestly. But if I am remembered, please read this book. Please read it…without prejudice.

You will scoff, I do not doubt. I am, after all, a "Sith Lord". Does that render my words meaningless? Are they nothing more than vibrations scratching through the air? I hope they are not. Sith Lord is a title I never chose for myself. It was forced upon me. Forced by the Jedi and their propagandist hounds that run the Republic. All of their enemies are "Sith". It is a clever name, an evil name. And it is most of all historical. If they can link the enemy of the present with the enemy of the past, then they will always have a unified front against him.

And that is why I was defeated, captured, and brought here for trial. But I am not a Sith. I never knew anyone who was. There are no Sith—haven't been for centuries. But that…that is the Republic's best kept secret! If there were no Sith, then the public would turn against the Jedi! They would expose them for what they are—superfluous vassals to their own swelled egos. And…this trial, as with all judgments of the enemies of the Republic, is but a sham. It is not the real truth behind my story, and behind my revolution.

And that is why I am writing this book.

I hope and pray that you who find this are not close-minded. I hope you will find it within your soul, your sense of moral rightness, to read this discourse. You will find nothing in here of the "dark side", for I do not know what that is. I do not know anything about the Force anymore. This was a political battle—nothing more or less. And I lost.

They say that the victors write history. I intend to rectify that error—or at least to try. Listen to my tale and then judge. Who is at fault? Would it be me? In spite of my lonesome, forlorn insisting to the contrary, do I still have only myself to blame? Or are the Jedi equally—If not blatantly more so—culpable? I believe you will be able to discern for yourself. But to make my views clear, I will reiterate them in complete blunt honesty.

The Jedi are swine. A blight upon the galaxy and the rotting heart that sustains the frail and sickly Republic. Give me one hundred more ships and take away the underhanded sleight of those soulless Jedi dogs and you would be looking at a very different world. Take away the treachery of devious and malevolent men like Theodoric and Kalkannis and I would not be in this desperate situation. Perhaps it would be that tyrannical slave driver Gamaliel—the Grandmaster of the Order—locked away within a dingy and depressing cell, hurriedly pasting together his memoirs for the future generations.

Oh, what a difference I could have made…without these deceivers…

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Author's Notes: Okay, so here is a new story. I hope this doesn't put anyone off, but it's an original SW piece that has no connection to the games. I wanted to try something new. It's much different than anything I've ever done before, with different perspective, a funky format, and frequent jumping of the timelines. It's been difficult to write, but I decided to post the prologue now and see if there is any reaction to it.

Oh, and for reference, the title is taken from the movie 3:10 to Yuma. It's a synthesis of two lines from a song that one of the characters sings to taunt Russell Crowe, who's being escorted to his execution.

Thanks a bunch, everyone.