Dark Redemption - Chapter One: The Once-Exile

DISCLAIMER: Most or all of the characters depicted in this writing belong to LucasArts and the respective developers of the Knights of the Old Republic Series. I acknowledge their rights and ownership of these properties and admit that i don't own nothin.'

'It is a thing fueled by war...' ...another vision, another attempt.

'You look like you haven't slept in days...or a year..' ..fools, all of them. Focus!

'..one blaster shot and you're Peragus...'

'..believe they were speaking to each other in that final battle...where they look at you and see the death of the force...from such acts...I look at you...had no use for a broken warrior...and see hope...the galaxy doesn't need...for all life...Jedi arrogance anymore.'

Salo Kurn opened his eyes, or rather, removed his eyelids from the vice-like grip they had had upon his eyes, emulating a feeling of twisted fury in even the most subtle of movements.

Two years. Two years; an arduous, drawn-out period of search. Every attempt to locate the last target; the final objective had failed. Despite dismissing every fool in his presence, no longer in need of ties or attachments, the once-Exile's thoughts never managed to focus long on anything more than those he once traveled with.

Or cared about. He twisted his features in fury again. In spite of the path he had taken, he could not let go. Two years searching, two years trying to determine why one such as he could feel nothing but a select few thoughts and memories, even while casting his mind out further than anything the imagination could perceive. It was the power of the Trayus Core that gave him this strength, its ability to cast echoes was valuable, as echoes could bounce back. Yet they cast themselves into Malachor, where an Exile began his path, out across a collection of worlds, and eventually returned to Malachor again, where the Exile was ended.

Two years. Two years, and still Revan eluded him. Every now and then an echo would return with some trace of the Republic's grand savior, her thoughts and feelings giving subtle hints. But in the end, all he was ever left with were nothing more than crumbs and teasers. One thing was clear, however, Revan, though so focused on the future as she always had been, as was apparent in her military tactics long ago, could not let go of the past. Often, Salo would relive the final battle aboard the Star Forge in his mind, only to have the voice of Brianna Kae the Handmaiden permeate the air.

'I believe Revan was speaking to Malak in that final battle. I would have liked to have been there to hear what they had said.'

In some ways, this small occurrence had become an obsession for him, trying to hear Revan's words through visions of flurried sabers and the living Force itself, channeled into a single being. And then would come more memories.

'Revan was power. It was like staring into the heart of the Force.'

As Malachor lived and breathed, the voice of its old master would return again, as would the voices of all the fools of days past.

'You are...different. When I look at you, I see the death of the Force.'

Is that why you hunt Revan now, Exile? he thought, scoffing to himself.

Some foolish philosophical attempt to establish a war of true parallels? No.

If there was one thing that Salo Kurn had learned more than two years ago upon meeting his final Master, it was that parallels were tools of the weak-minded, little more than an attempt to easily categorize all life, eliminating the need for consideration or foresight. Light battles Darkness, and Darkness resurges to drown the Light. It made fighting for a cause so simple.

For two years, Salo Kurn had sat at the center of the Trayus Core, attempting to locate the elusive Revan, and drown from himself the memories of his old allies. Straying from its crimson heart only to satisfy his hunger for the Force, he would meditate without end. By now he had slipped away into madness, but it did not matter to him, it would make a valuable weapon. No great Master ever achieved power with a measly red Lightsaber.

Or a mask, for that matter. Infuriated with himself once again, he stood up from the heart of the core in resignation, feeling the hate that was his life-blood. The mask of Darth Nihilus had sat beside him every day since he had taken up his task in the Core, and had debated to himself its significance. Every now and again, he would consider making it his, and taking the title that once belonged to its user. After all, it was only a title, and he had all the qualities needed to fulfill it.

But title does not dictate action, so such a title becomes meaningless if one is to choose his own actions. He stood still.

But one cannot choose such Hunger. Glimpsing down at the mask briefly, he exited the core, striding as a shadow would through the doors into the Academy. Sitting again, he attempted to organize his thoughts. The once-Exile thought back to two years ago, when he made the choice that brought him to where he was now.

Casting his old Master into Malachor's heart, he instantly considered the choices she had given him. In the end, and against the advice of his companions, he had chosen to stay. Though they refused to see why, he knew perfectly well what he was, even if they would deny it. They even denied themselves, the Darkness they had all shrouded themselves in since they began their journey with him. At first, they dismissed Salo's leanings, focusing instead on repairing the ship, claiming they'd 'fix him up later,' much like children ignoring critical tasks in favor of mindless entertainment and distraction.

When the ship was fixed, they finally realized it was a task that required effort. And tried they did. Like sirens they would call from the edges of the Core, almost afraid to go near where he sat in the center, as if afraid they would be wholly swallowed by the Dark Side. Atton, resembling walking death in his Dark power and black robes, would make snide comments about the man he 'used to know.' Visas Marr, no longer a true Sith, yet still far fallen, would watch him as if staring at a gravestone. He sometimes felt her yearn to join him, to give into the Dark Side if only to be able to sit with him a little longer. Brianna would sometimes engage in this act, but would often be overcome with the sharp pain of reality and either flee, or break down.

Over the weeks Salo noticed the changes in them. Aboard the ship they had slowly been fighting off the Dark Side, and their features soon became Human. Bao-Dur finally buried his anger and removed the Sith tattoos from his face; he was always the bravest little soldier. Only he and Mira had had the courage to face him after a month of frustrated attempts to get their leader off of Malachor's heart; Bao-Dur, because he still felt some connection to the 'General' of the old days, and Mira, because perhaps she had finally acknowledged that the Exile was never really 'too old' for her. They had approached him with a casual demeanor that walked a fine line between heartwarming and sickening.

'Still need some shields up here, General? Or have you finally learned not to get shot?' Bao had joked. Salo had grinned; a mixture of nostalgic warmth and pity at the fear he could feel radiating from the two.

'Guess so,' Mira had chimed in, 'but it looks like he isn't standing in front of any power cables anymore.'

'Or admiring my arm,' Bao said with a half-hearted chuckle. And then they stood silently next to him for what felt like hours. The once-Exile remained seated at the direct heart of Malachor, wearing only a full Zeison-Sha kilt. His features were nothing short of nightmarish: his pale gray skin, augmented by black patches under his glowing yellow eyes complimented his silvery wisps of hair.

At last, he rose slowly and turned to face them, opening his eyes for the first time since the battle with Darth Traya had ended. Noticing that the rest of his companions were standing as spectators at the edge of the Core, he thought it odd that he had not sensed them. Mira and Bao-Dur looked horrified, by not by the state of his skin or hair, but by his eyes. To look at them was to hear the wailing of thousands of tortured souls, with one howling over top of them all, seeking relief. They never examined any other part of him, and seemed hypnotized with fear at the very sight of them. It was in that instant that Mira drew her saber and slashed quickly across his chest; or so she thought. Salo was indeed the master, as he ducked quickly and brought his arm up under hers to catch her wrist, throwing her purple saber back to her shoulder. He felt the others jerk forward in a unified motion, but they stopped.

'I won't let you carry on like this. What she did to you, what that -- witch did! -- I won't let it keep on like this! If not for your sake then for ours, for every damn person in the galaxy's, for mine damn you! I won't leave you here like this!' Mira shouted. Her grip became half hearted as she dropped, sobbing. She moved to clutch his hand; to feel if there was more than pure reaction in his touch, but he violently shoved it away, tossing her saber into the Depths of the planet. The dead world swallowed its newest offering graciously; wispy green flames emulating from the bottomless pit. Salo kneeled down next to her. The face of the one-time Mandalorian, many-time bounty hunter and Disciple of the Last of the Jedi was full and healthy again, and yet he saw the tragedy in her eyes as well. For a moment, he considered leaving with them, going for one last hurrah aboard the old Hawk, burning through space, weaving another tale of heartbreak and vengeance. And then the visions came again. He would not be moved, this was his task. Slowly caressing her face, he began to speak.

'All the witch ever did....was show me how I could choose for myself.'

Her sobs became howls; Bao-Dur slowly picking her up off the heart of the Core like he would a wounded soldier. And for another moment, he felt hope for himself as he watched them leave for the last time, feeling something for the first time in recent memory...and again came the visions.

Two years. The third question that burned through his mind was how quickly his companions had defied Kreia's vision of the future.

But the future is always in motion, much is yet to occur. Yet somehow, that didn't seem like much of an answer.

Stupid cryptic witch. Sighing, he rose from the floor, realizing the pointlessness of attempting to escape the voices of the past, and visions of the future. Clearing his mind, he decided to focus on the now. The Academy around him lay silent. A few of Sion's assassins had returned from time to time, curious about the lack of contact from their Master. Feeling the once-Exile's power over the Academy, they had all sworn allegiance to him, only to become the life which would satisfy his hunger. He would have no need of servants, slaves or any other subordinates, or so he had thought. Salo Kurn felt the loneliness consume him, a strange feeling for a Sith Lord. It was these feelings that, in part, kept him from going mad; he knew he was still human. And yet, they drove him further from reason, threatening to tear him apart. Could he even truly be a Sith Lord with such feelings?

But does such a title matter? he thought again, quickly scolding himself for any utterance of her teachings. He thought back to his first visit to Telos; a better time, remembering fondly the simplicity of the day's quest.

Things had since become more complicated. All that had driven him was revenge, from the very moment he saw Atris again.

"She loved you, you know, as one loves a champion," came Kreia's voice again. It was there, meeting her again, being taunted by his own saber, that he convinced himself he was so right, as he had almost convinced her. The decision to fight the war, to battle the Mandalorians, to choose Exile, it had all been right, even in light of Revan and Malak's actions. It was his reaction to her snide contempt, and the burning rage of more Jedi secrets that drove him; seeing the holo of his trial only planted more questions, more uncertainties, more doubt. After ten years of endless wandering, searching for answers, they gave him only questions. That was when he crossed a line from which there would be no return.

It was them. They are to blame, and they will pay.

Enamored with the fervor of hatred, he and his crew burned sky across worlds, searching out the few Masters of the old Order. The astromech droid, what its name was had escaped him after all this time, had brought valuable information from Atris' archives, and with it, Salo Kurn hunted down the last of the Jedi.

'Then you know that I have come to end you,' he told Zez-Kai Ell after satisfying his sadistic curiosity. Destroying the Exchange on Nar Shaddaa, blasting through any obstacle and suppressing any objection to his will, he had taken his first true steps down the Dark Side in his rabid search for the kind-hearted old Master. Justifying every cruelty as nothing but the price of accomplishing a goal, he blazed his way from the Landing Pad to the Droid Yacht before ending the old sage's life.

No, not ending, taking.

And it was all for a good cause. The galaxy didn't need any Jedi arrogance any more, as his friend had told him, and every suffering was worth ridding the Galaxy of the flawed teachings, self-destructive passivity, indifference and dangerous ideals that the Jedi Order taught. That was what he told himself then.

What a fool I was. He sought to understand the flaws of the Jedi. He only sought to help me. Only sought to save me. Or perhaps Salo Kurn was simply pitying himself.

Then there was Master Kavar, a courageous old soul, who too sought to understand the flaws of the Jedi and the Exile that was their product. But, he too harbored secrets, filled the Exile with doubt, and so he was destroyed, and at the cost of a planet too. No matter though, it was all for a proper cause, a true cause.

That's what I believed. And yet, he tried to sway me from...my dark design...he thought with a dead chuckle, and continued to wander the Academy.

Vrook. Vrook Lamar.

The last of the Jedi he had hunted down. The last in every way. Even to this day, even through all the doubts that pierced the darkness he wallowed in, he found no reason to regret ridding the Galaxy of one so short-sighted and painfully limited. Perhaps he regretted how, but not the fact that he had. No different than the foolish Darth Malak, Vrook was a Jedi who was obsessed with the Code and the procedure, ignoring the living force, and holding strong to the belief that even breathing led to the Dark Side.

Perhaps breathing in the presence of one so nauseatingly arrogant!

And yet, he felt sympathy for the old fool. All he had wanted was to make the Order strong again, to heal the Galaxy from the cancer that spread through it, and through the Order. Surely even he knew that the Jedi were at fault in some way or another, if only he recognized that he had been a part of the problem.

'You were -- afraid,' Kreia had told him. More visions came to him, even as he tried to clear his mind. The words had cut so deeply, even into his darkness. That was when he truly realized what he had become. Not even what he had found about his Exile, about how he had chosen it, how he had become a siphon who could not even feel himself, had hurt as badly as the realization that in his quest all he had become was his enemy. All he was, was what the Masters had called him all along.

They were right. All along, they were right.

It was after that, aboard the Hawk, that he felt redemption in reach. Visas had come to him.

'Where they look at you and see the death of the Force, I look at you and see hope for all life.' And for a moment, he felt as if he would be saved.

'I want to see what makes the Handmaiden's tone change when she speaks to you; Stay, and look upon me,' Visas had pleaded.

'Then let us look upon each other.' And for a moment, he felt hope.

But then, we returned to where it all started.

Atris had sealed his fate once and for all. She had leaked information of his whereabouts to the Exchange and the Sith. She had destroyed the greatest of the Jedi as a result of her hunger for battle, and still looked down upon him as a tool of the Dark Side. And there was also the point of Brianna. He must've stared at her body for hours before confronting Atris one last time. The thought that she had been taken from him, by one such as her, no less, only fueled his hatred, and made her so much easier to blame. Though Brianna survived the encounter, he would still never forget that empty feeling, seeing what he thought was her lifeless corpse dripping blood onto the Academy's floor.

That was when he realized: Atris was the cause of all his suffering. She was the cause of every horror that he had been made to inflict upon the helpless citizens of the worlds he had ravaged, the source of every hurt he had been made to feel. For that, he killed her...slowly. It was a memory he managed to drown out most of the time, but every so often he could hear the Sith holocrons hissing in cacophonic disarray as he plunged his saber deep into her heart, removed it, and did so again. And again. And again. And even then he felt guilt, though it was quickly washed away by the desire to find yet another scapegoat.

What have I done?

Salo Kurn fell to his knees, glaring at the Red Circle of the Trayus Core, embroidered with pride upon the chamber door, the gray walls mocking him by reflecting his color.

Hatred consumes me, I battle it, and yet it remains. I hate what I have become, because I hate what I did; and what I did I did because of my Hatred. A vicious, unending cycle. And all this time, stewing in it, searching for the last piece; Revan, who was my beginning and my end. It all comes back...to Revan.

The once-Exile stood, twisting his features into fury again. The time for meditation was over. The Academy was of no more use to him. Its echoes drove him to madness, and it would not help him in his search. A search that now consumed him. With Revan gone, nothing would remain of his past, there would no more pieces unresolved. The one who enthralled him with promises of war would pay the price. The great Jedi, the Prodigal Knight would suffer again for paving the path that had ultimately brought him here.

I have come this far, and now only one more must be ended, only one remains to be destroyed, and all my past will be resolved. Only one remains to suffer, to break at my heels.

For the first time in over two years, he left the Academy, tasting the thin, stale air of Malachor. Dressed in Sith Robes, and sporting black Arkanian Blinders, Nihilus' mask clutched in one hand and a Lightsaber clutched in the other, he pulled a comlink from his pocket, considering sending, at last, the signal to Bao-Dur's remote.

'In case you ever remember who you are,' Bao-Dur had said, handing him the comlink. It would be two hours before Malachor would at last join those it had consumed, giving Salo ample time to pull a ship, even a snub fighter, from the planet's gravity well.

No a voice told him. It was not time for Malachor to end, not yet. Only time for the one to end.

She will break at my heels. Revan will fall at my feet, and then, only then, will I rest, will I finally have strength to release myself.

The lights of Coruscant shone brightly, a luminous night painted by artists that towered into the sky. Places of pleasure and business stretching down further than the Force would allow anyone to feel, and towering like hollow metallic giants, mirroring a warmth and buzz of life, and yet, reflecting a cold artificial existence. It was the perfect home for her. The others had all come and settled, doing what he would've had them do, especially careful to forsake the mistakes of the old ways.

Two years. After two years she was done running, sick and tired of hiding. Just over two years ago, a great man had shown her how to stop running, and finally, she understood how, though the price had been great.

And to think, all this makes me miss that stupid Wookie, Mira thought to herself. The Disciples of the Last of the Jedi had all come to Coruscant, and after lengthy debate in the Senate, the new Jedi Order was to be established. Though Bastila Shan had been confirmed alive, she was still elusive, and so they would go on without her. It was better that way. After two years of running, it was time to return to familiarity, time to release herself from her own Exile.

The one-time Mandalorian, many-time bounty hunter, and Disciple of the Last of the Jedi gazed up into the endless sky of metal, their silver and grey colors mocking her by reflecting the color of her heart. Then, without warning, she saw flashes of jagged cliffs, jade quagmires, and a solitary figure, cloaked in black, standing over a bottomless pit, hand raised above it.

No, it..it can't be. She staggered back as if struck, and collapsed over a table. Reaching up to the counter of her quarters, she held on for dear life, feeling her mind close to blinding rapture. And then came the visions.