What Was Lost

'Atton... I...'

'I don't want to talk about it.' The Scoundrel rose from where he sat, most annoyed. The boy had been testing the limits of his nerves, and the comments from Mira about 'meditation envy' had not eased the situation, though thankfully, no one else was around to see his deliberate reluctance for the subject at this moment. Cracking his neck thusly and rubbing his tired, bloodshot eyes, Atton Rand reached into the compartment on the doorside wall of the port dormitory, snatching a package of slop-like rations. Mical the Disciple stood helplessly at the door; a dumb puppy seeking recognition.

'Atton, the Exile and I...'

'You know,' the Scoundrel snapped, 'for someone who wanted to be a Jedi, you don't seem to have the ability to sense the subtleties in someone's emotions... especially not the delicate sensitivities of 'get the hell out of my room.''

'Jedi?'

'Yeah,' Atton scoffed, 'you should really have your discussions a little less loud. We already have that red haired tart whining about our gender being the purveyor of her perverted misery... not to mention the death threats...'

'Or the threats of castration...'

'That too.' The Scoundrel cleared his throat, not too fond of the idea. 'Anyway, we don't need more screamers, or hanger-ons, so why don't you go inject a med pack or something?'

'Deet.' Behind the blonde haired young man, T3-M4 appeared, sounding displeased in its whistles.

'What does that thing want?' The Scoundrel grunted.

'I believe he's taking my side,' Mical bragged.

'What side is that? The side of all things high-pitched and un-descended? Good, I'm glad he's with you.'

'Dwoo.'

'Well tell the horn-head to fix it himself,' Atton snapped, 'I'm a juma sucker, a pilot, and occasionally both at once. I don't make things un-break... that's his job.'

'Bweet drrr!'

'Yeah well, that's for him to sort out. When my ship gets shot at, it's not exactly my fault that it crashes. I don't break things, murder-horny droids do.' Atton took a gulp of the gooey, cream-white substance from the rations pack, ignoring the astromech unit. After beeping disapprovingly, it wheeled off down the corridor, most insulted. Mical, despite the telling off, refused to give up.

'Look, I'm not here,' he began, trying to keep his calm, 'to aggravate you...'

'Great job so far,' Atton cut in gruffly, squatting himself down on the Port Dormitory's bench. The Disciple sighed, trying to keep his frustration with the man to a resignation, lest it burst into a fit of anger.

'I'm going to sit down now, Atton,' he declared sternly, walking over to the bench.

'Sure, sit for a spell,' the Scoundrel mocked, 'what with the virulent insults and all, I thought you might not have felt welcome.' Mical plopped himself down beside the man, quite annoyed.

'By what stretch of the imagination,' he began confrontationally, 'can you demean me and make me feel like a child, when your very mannerisms of jealousy and brashness are nothing less than the most childish antics this ship has seen?'

'Simple physics. You're younger than I am, and you've walked in a hell of a lot less, farm boy.'

'Is that all wisdom is to you? Age?' Mical became tougher in his tone, adding bite to the seemingly harmless bark. 'Wisdom needs no years, needs no time brackets... it comes with experiences and tribulations and you...'

'I what?' Atton cut in hissingly, his patience pushed well beyond the limit. 'You presume a lot, you know that? Knowledge doesn't need years... books can be read in days, but that's all you have, kid! Wisdom can only come from experience and age, and lessons taught by journeys of life.' He became venomous as he continued. 'What journeys have you taken? Unless an excursion into a jungle, and a few little political shakes have somehow provided you with a grand perspective on the Galaxy and tragedy, I think you're in no position to lecture me on who's senior, and I swear...' he paused, his breathing deepened, 'I'll only tolerate you as long as she will... so you better hope... she's got even more wisdom than I do.'

Mical was stunned by the ferocity of the attack, feeling the wind taken right out of him. His eyes darted around the room just then, registering everything.

'Tragedy...' the boy whispered curiously. Atton leaned his head back, rolling his eyes.

'What?' he demanded impatiently.

'Perspective on the galaxy... and tragedy,' he repeated quietly, emulating a softness much in contrast to the conversation thus far, 'you said you had perspective on... both of these.' Atton moved to unleash his venomous tongue again, but was caught at a loss for words, only a deep sounding 'uh' reverberating from his mouth. 'This is about her, Atton, it always has been, I'm just trying to understand where the fear comes from.'

'Fear?' the Scoundrel scoffed.

'Yes. The first reaction of a cornered animal is to lash out, with whatever it has. It just so happens,' Mical teased, sounding half-complimentary, 'your best defense is that tongue of yours.' Atton covered his eyes with his hand, mocking the situation.

'Dear cantina: Where are you when I need you?'

'I'd like you to be serious for a moment. I would very much like to resolve these feelings of yours for the Exile.'

'Excuse me?'

'You're not very at good at playing coy, if I should say. I think it's fairly obvious what's been happening with... um...' The Disciple paused, blushing slightly. Atton chuckled in his gut, a smile creeping outwards across his chiseled face.

'Both of us? Hehe.' Atton let the amusement on his face take precedence, repressing his stress, and took a deep breath. 'Okay then, both of us. Where are you going with this?'

'I...' the boy nervously scratched the back of his head, '... I'd just like to know... well... the truth... is all.'

'Well... you...' Atton began, exasperated. He stopped dead in speech, quite unable to place words. He looked helplessly over at the younger man, entirely sure he was stuck in this situation. That, and he knew Mira would hear of it if he tried to back out now. Her taunts were already unbearable, most particularly the comments about 'the rising of the Dark Lord' whenever he was around the Exile.

'I... yeah. I... care about her,' he began sincerely, Mical perking up at the admission, 'I think it's because she's... well she's the only one who can understand me, cliché as that may sound.'

'Oh?'

'Yeah.' The two sat unified in silence for a moment. Atton conceded fully at last, and dove in genuinely. 'Do you wanna hear something really unpopular, kid?' Mical nodded, intrigued. 'Love... is really all it's cracked up to be. That's why people are so cynical about it... it really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the problem is, if you don't risk everything, you risk even more.' Atton sighed, embarrassed like a school boy. 'I think she understands that... or at least knows sacrifice. Looking at her is like a world of hurt, and I don't know how she endures, the price she must've paid. I feel like... I could ease that pain somehow if...'

'... If what, Atton?' The Scoundrel gawked directly ahead, annoyed by the truth of his own feelings. He felt the passion swelling within, ashamed of it like a dirty secret. And he thought of her. The Jedi who had saved him. And the burning, green, eyes.

'Atton?'

'Yeah... what?'

'You've... loved before, then... haven't you?' Mical asked carefully. A word whispered in his ear, hearing the Scoundrel's voice talk of Wisdom.

Tragedy.

The two sat unified in silence for a moment, the air grating upon the mood.

'True love can't be found where it doesn't exist, nor can it be hidden where it truly does.' Mical looked over the older man as he spoke, trying to read under the bleakness. 'Someone told me that once.' He stared straight ahead again, afraid of escalating the situation. 'It's not some... little thing... I read in a child's program, or heard during melodramatic vows at a wedding ceremony. It was told to me by someone I once loved, and when I looked at their hearts, I knew exactly what it meant; love never hides.' Atton grunted, but the boy would not budge, turning back to face the other. 'I have tried to find more than a caring of ideal in her, Atton, I truly have... but I could not. All the while, those words grating on my mind... what I knew was true...'

'So,' the Scoundrel asked carefully, 'you... don't love her?' The young man brushed his flowing, blonde hair back awkwardly.

'I don't know,' the Disciple squeaked out, fighting unchecked emotion. 'But true love is hidden to my heart, and so must it be then.' He breathed in deeply, holding his demeanor together only barely. 'You've walked in the dark places, and I can't imagine what that must've done to you. To have the power to end a thousand lives... but not save even one...'

Atton saw the body on the floor again; her skin was so cold. The one who had saved him from himself. What had her name been? Did she have a life? Was she somebody's wife? If love could not be hidden, could it be buried along with the capsule of its soul? What if he had buried a love? Prospects of nightmarish guilt danced around the Scoundrel's mind; even harsher tools of unrest. The question that had prodded in his head for years had slowly grown and festered, until only one thought now remained, a thought that plagued him wherever he walked, and wherever he saw the Exile.

What price did she pay for me? A rasp sniffle escaped his nose before he could pull his hands fully to his face, terrified of the shame. Mical turned away, giving the man his peace while he dealt with everything that was not.

'But you must know, Atton... all that is not given... is lost, and if you let your doubts consume you now, the weight of those sins will only get heavier until they crush you.' As his words became slower and heavier, it became increasingly clear how difficult it was becoming for the Disciple. 'She is so much like you; scarred, burned... a thousand sad tales to tell and a thousand tall ones more. The only one she has any reason to listen to right now is the old witch.' The boy pleaded in his words. '... and if you let that happen, it will destroy any chance for her soul... and yours.'

'I... uh...' Atton choked on his words, not sure what to make of the concession.

'All that is not given is lost,' Mical reiterated in a whisper, shivering in his speech, 'and when all you have to give is yourself, you risk too much to lose.' The younger man turned to him, his eyes and face misty and peppered, with daggers to plunge only in himself. 'Go to her, and do what no else can... love her.'

The pair sat silent again for a moment, until at last Atton mustered the courage to rise, slipping faintly. Mical caught him, aiding the weary man to his feet like a helpless child. He left the room then, leaving the blonde young man to sit back down in his place, fully aware of what was lost as time transpired. The Disciple leaned back and took a breath, trying to wish away the wheeze that accompanied it and what it meant. His breathing was quickened as his throat vibrated, the thoughts of her taking over.

'No,' he told himself, bolting upright. He paced back and forth in the small room, trying to drown the proof from his mind; the sound of his own footsteps reverberating horribly. Massaging his temples, he paused, looking around him for the slightest of distractions. Frustrated, he moved to the in-wall compartment, thrusting his hand in to whip a blanket out. The Disciple paused again to look it, realizing how aggravated his breathing had become. It was a surprisingly elegant piece of cloth for the ship they were on, bearing a smooth, white patchwork of outlined flowers. Mical stood dumbstruck for a moment, staring helplessly at the sheet in his hand, and threw it angrily to the ground; no sleep would slake his dreams. If only it were something small, something unimportant, something he could crush the life from... so he could pretend it was his own impossible want.

He thought of Dantooine, he thought of the Enclave, and the mentor who had given him the words and the hopes that had kept him alive; the mentor who had left him, fought a war and was wounded. 'True love can't be found where it doesn't exist, nor can it be hidden where it truly does.' Her tender lips had told such a simple thing so deeply; he had been only a boy with a crush then. But with every summer passed in the green fields, the words weighed heavier as he knew they would come to mean something one day. Now, in the cold reaches of space, surrounded by faces of motive, purpose and hurt, he had found again, at last, where that true love was hiding... and its call was not for him answer. The true love in her heart was not hiding; it was plain for all to see, it was only hidden to his heart, though not his eyes, and so must it be.