From the Journal of M.V.

From the Journal of M.V.

The Iridonian waited in the shadows, a strong breeze blowing in from the window behind him. Tirelessly, he watched the Jedi sleep. At his side, a small gray remote hovered a few feet off the ground. He had been contacted by the medical droids in the small hospital annex the day before, and he had returned to the hospital to recover the Jedi, as he had sworn to do. An uneasy feeling persisted in the Iridonian’s chest, a feeling which the Force had stirred in him as he made the journey to Jaroon, a tiny, inconsequential jungle planet in the outer stretches of the galaxy. And now he was there, back again on Jaroon, back to find that the Jedi had awoken. Finally, the last of their troop had recovered.

The Jedi’s chest rose and fell gently under the stiff duvet; he appeared peaceful and whole, the last of his injuries having healed months ago. A reddish-blonde beard darkened his jaw, and his hair had grown out into soft yellow waves. Bao-Dur took a step toward the hospital bed, he had been waiting for hours for the Jedi to stir, and his patient, silent watch had provoked painful memories, memories he had hoped to forget.

“You will come for him,” she had said, standing in the hallway outside that very room. It was a year ago that she had left, a year ago that Bao-Dur had been given this mission.

“Yes, General,” the Iridonian replied, respectful even at the end. He was no fool, he knew this could be their last meeting and it was not in his nature to deny her anything. The woman nodded, meeting his eyes.

“This is your final task, your obligation to me is ended,” she added.

“Will you return if he wakes?” Bao-Dur asked.

“No. Where I am going, no one may follow. There is a very good chance I shall not return.”

Bao-Dur saluted the petite Jedi. The woman turned to go, holding her shoulders back despite the exhaustion in her eyes. Bao-Dur watched her take a few pained steps down the hall and then called out to her.

“Why are you doing this?”

“He must reach Dantooine. He has a destiny there and he will be needed. My destiny is apart, I must go to the Unknown Regions, I am our last hope against the Sith empire. I know it sounds crazy, but what choice do I have?”

She turned, hesitated, and then came back down the hall. Smiling, she hugged the Iridonian to her and they stood embracing for several minutes; Bao-Dur could not remember how long exactly. It was good to have human contact, to touch someone else. He could feel the Force moving through her, sliding into him, bolstering his heart with a little jolt of courage. This was her power, he knew, the power to bring out the very best in her companions. If he could have convinced her to stay he would have tried, but he knew that her mind, once made up, was a formidable, concrete thing.

“And if he asks after you?” Bao-Dur whispered. In his arms, she flinched.

“Tell him… Tell him that the Force unites us all.”

Bao-Dur watched her leave through a mist of tears, his remote hovering a few feet away, beeping mournfully. While he had been charged with a tricky task, the journey ahead of her was far worse. Bao-Dur feared that she was making a mistake, giving up the one thing that could see her through to the end, the one thing that might bring her back alive.

Now, looking down at the wounded Jedi, Bao-Dur knew that it would not be as simple as the woman had predicted. Perhaps she had known Bao-Dur would encounter difficulties with the Jedi, and it warmed him to think that she believed him capable of helping such an important man. She trusted him, that much was clear, but the responsibility fell hard on his shoulders; the Jedi would want answers and Bao-Dur was not certain he was prepared to give them.

The Jedi groaned, his eyes opening slowly, blinking, refocusing. Bao-Dur came to the side of the bed and forced a smile. Two crystal blue eyes stared up at him, sleepy and uncertain.

“Do I know you?” the Jedi asked.

“Do not strain yourself, friend, it has been a long time since you looked on my face.”

“Was I asleep?”

“In a way,” Bao-Dur murmured. “There was an accident, a crash. You were wounded and brought here.”

“How long was I asleep?” the Jedi stirred, his hands coming to his face, feeling the full beard.

“A year,” the Iridonian replied, swallowing hard, “You’ve been gone for a year.”

+ + +

Dantooine had not experienced such a stretch of gray weather in centuries. The plains were darkened by thick storm clouds which had arrived in late summer and stayed into winter. Rain fell daily, encouraging the young, newly-planted trees among the Jedi enclave to thrive. Their icy blue blossoms persisted into winter and had only just begun to fall, scattering the pathways with little petal tear-drops, filling the air with their lush, over-ripe sweetness.

The Disciple’s demeanor agreed with the weather; the clouds had come to mimic his mood. He had remarked, half-joking, to another Jedi that until he felt better the storm-front would remain. When Bao-Dur had brought him to the enclave, they found it in shambles with only a few Jedi working hard to rebuild the shattered halls and desecrated shrines. They had wandered the cracking pavement and marveled at the still-standing statues that were missing arms, ears, hands.

That had been months ago; now the enclave burst with new life and high expectations. Jedi trickled in from every corner of the galaxy. Some had simply been in hiding until the enclave was officially restored while others had only just felt the call of the Force recently. The Jedi had hesitated to announce the official re-opening of the enclave, but in the end, it was the Disciple who convinced them that hiding would only make them more vulnerable.

The wind picked up as the Disciple stood on a low hill overlooking the plains. After the initial flood of work to do, the enclave had settled down into a more relaxed schedule. There had been so much to do, clearing the Kinrath from the area, helping the residents of Dantooine rebuild their homes, establishing trade with nearby planets, training militia to help protect the citizens, cleaning out the destroyed enclave itself and ensuring the last of the laigrek nests were burned. Now, however, there was little to do but meditate, converse with the other Jedi, and send polite missives to suspected Jedi still in hiding. While at first the Disciple had looked forward to speaking with his fellow Jedi about the state of the galaxy, now he found himself infested with a restless energy.

The scent of the enclave’s trees reached him even here, apart, and his stomach tightened. He had expected the enclave to fill him with hope and a new sense of duty, but instead he felt oddly smothered. Bao-Dur had insisted on staying, offering to help rebuild the security system and install upgrades. The Jedi were grateful and even asked the Iridonian to stay and train, to strengthen his ties to the Force.

“You’re going to get sick if you stand out here all day. It’s freezing.”

The Disciple turned and found a pretty young Twi’lek peering at him. Despite his brooding, the Disciple smiled and bowed to the girl.

“Thank you, Mission. I had lost myself again in thought.”

“You do that a lot, huh?”

The Disciple nodded, starting down the hill toward her. Together, they walked slowly toward the enclave and the blustering wind eased. Mission had arrived in the months of reconstruction, volunteering her services as a tech expert and also demonstrating an impressive knowledge of the Force. Her time with the Jedi Revan had inspired her to feel inklings of the Force and gradually she had begun to wield that little spark. Mission did not strike the Disciple as a particularly disciplined learner, but she had a great deal of energy and optimism, which the Order was in desperate need of. She was also, predictably, the secret target of every male’s desire. The Disciple felt a vague attraction to her, as if it was his duty to find her alluring, and her feelings toward him remained hidden. However, the Disciple guessed that she preferred his company because of his neutrality; he did not openly stare at her, he seemed to truly respect her.

“Bao is worried about you,” she went on, playing idly with one of her belts. “He says you shouldn’t be wandering around in the cold.”

“I’m quite fully recovered, if that is his concern.”

“You know that’s not true,” she countered. “I mean you’re remembering lots of stuff, sure, but Bao says there’s still things you’re fuzzy on.”

“I know,” he murmured. Mission seemed to sense his frailty on the subject and backed off.

“It’s okay with me, though. Sometimes it’s good to forget. I get a little sad, ya know, thinking of Zaalbar all by himself. He’s smart though; I know he’ll be fine on his own. Maybe it’s me that needs him,” Mission said.

“A good observation,” the Disciple replied. “If you can recognize your dependence on his influence, you may eventually learn to outgrow it. We must all learn to draw power from our own knowledge; dependence on another can be dangerous.”

Mission grew quiet, perhaps too quiet. The Disciple was moved to silence himself, surprised at what he had said. He had never championed solitude, but perhaps his amnesia had wiped that slate clean. It was easier now to see the advantages in self-reliance.

“People need other people,” Mission finally stated.

“You are right.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, each reflecting on what she had said. For the Disciple, it was impossible to escape the feeling that an immense secret was being kept from him. He acknowledged, internally, that he was a man apart, separate from the new Order not only because of his extraordinary knowledge of the Force, but because Mission, Bao and the rest of them knew something he did not. Frequently he found that when he entered a room, the conversation fell silent and the Jedi would awkwardly begin a new discussion, different from the first.

The Disciple had not born this feeling silently. He had raged, sometimes to the point of absurdity, at poor Bao-Dur. The Iridonian insisted that the Jedi attempt to recall his memories on his own and without the aid of Bao-Dur, who worried that he would color the Disciple’s perceptions of past events. This evasion was successful until the Disciple’s own heart began to inform him of omissions. What did they know?

When they reached the entrance to the enclave, Mission stopped him.

“I need to ask you something,” she said, glancing around to make sure they were alone.

“You may ask anything of me, Mission.”

“Bao… Do you… Does he like me?”

“Like you? Of course, everyone here is devoted to you,” the Disciple replied.

“Okay maybe that’s not what I mean. Maybe… Just forget it.”

The Disciple attempted to call her back, but Mission had fled, bolting through the doors of the enclave and sprinting away, her blue cheeks tinged with humiliation. It was not until he reached the library and immersed himself in a new text by an Ithorian separatist that Mission’s question returned to his thoughts. The Disciple knew, of course, what she was hinting at, but he did not feel in the least qualified to speak for Bao-Dur, especially regarding matters of the heart. It had been in his way to remain out of these squabbles, choosing instead to observe from a distance.

There was something else, however, in her query that unnerved him. For some reason, it had stirred a memory, faint, on the very edge of his brain. He often found that he could not remember long stretches of his past, including, most regrettably, his own name. Bao-Dur informed him that he had never gone by his name and since he did not know it, it would be difficult to rediscover.

“My name,” he whispered, setting down the datapad he had been reading. The others in the library faded away, and he felt alone. He closed his eyes, searching, allowing the solitude to comfort him, strengthen him. And there it was again, the sense that a great secret loomed just over his head, on everyone’s mind, unavailable to him. The planet itself seemed set against him, as if a giant, invisible hand was pushing on him from above, forcing him toward the ground, shrouding him in ignorance. Though the Jedi in the enclave were powerful, the Disciple had trained harder, longer and understood the Force more intimately than any of them.

Concentrating, he spread his mind out, searching for the source of the secret, discovering that instead of one person hiding the information, many were. An entire network of minds worked to keep the secret, holding it somewhere, barricaded behind a joint wall of energy.

“Impossible,” the Disciple murmured, opening his eyes. They were conspiring, everyone with even a shred of Force ability on the planet; they were all hiding the secret together. But he now had an advantage, he knew, seeing this betrayal would allow him to search for its weak points without suspicion. He would have the secret, and he would know his past.

+ + +

It was almost too easy.

Once he understood the magnitude of the deception, the Disciple began to untangle the knot with surprising speed. He paid close attention to the nature of the conversations that cut off and he began to see a pattern. There were repeated words, ideas, phrases, things that hinted at a deeper significance. Often, the conversations were about a “she” or “Sith Empire.” The Disciple had learned that the Sith were growing an army somewhere, that their entire culture still flourished somewhere in the depths of space. This threat had been secondary to the problems immediately facing the enclave, such as the formation of the new Jedi Council, and the establishment of reliable ties on other planets. The Sith Empire was referred to in the future; it would have to be dealt with eventually, but for now the Jedi were too weak to be an effective countermeasure.

His search went on for weeks, during which he was uncharacteristically helpful and obliging. No one interpreted this sign correctly, believing him only to be recovering more and more and embracing his new life in the enclave. At night the Disciple wrestled with his own shattered memories, fighting incessantly to rebuild, remember, and confront.

Finally, in the coldest days of winter, the Disciple stumbled upon the final and greatest clue. He had had a subtle hand in bringing about the discovery, mentioning frequently to Mission that he felt occupied with his memories. Cunningly, he made her swear silence and proceeded to tell her that he was suspicious of his past, and that he had discovered a great hole that he was determined to fill in. The effect on Mission was not immediate, but the conversations persisted until one freezing, rainy evening. A full moon glowed behind the rain clouds, casting an eerie, milky light over the drenched enclave.

The Disciple had crept silently through the halls, cloaking himself in the power of the Force. He arrived outside Bao-Dur’s quarters and pressed himself to the wall, hearing at once the argument that raged inside. Closing his eyes he projected himself into the room and heard with perfect clarity the conversation between Bao-Dur and Mission.

“Look, I swore I wouldn’t say anything to anyone but I can’t stay quiet any longer. He knows, Bao, he knows we’re keeping something from him. He won’t stop talking about it, he’s obsessed,” Mission cried, exasperated. Bao-Dur’s pacing footsteps thundered in the Disciple’s mind, a ticking clock.

“Did you tell him anything?” Bao-Dur demanded, coming to a stop.

“No!”

“Mission…”

“I didn’t say a word.”

“Good.”

“What do you mean ‘good’? How can you do this to him, he’s your friend!”

“Mission, you don’t know the whole story, I know it seems unfair, but I was entrusted with a task - ”

“Task or no it isn’t right. So what if she’s in the Unknown Regions? Let him go! It’s not our decision to make!”

“It’s not that simple, Mission, he has a destiny to fulfill here.”

There was a pause and the Disciple’s heart began to beat furiously. It was coming, the secret, it was close enough to taste.

“Why was he out for so long?” Mission asked, a note of suspicion in her voice.

“What do you mean?”

“The others, you and the Exile and Mira, whoever, they recovered in a month or two, no problem, and go on their way. But him… He’s out for a year? It doesn’t add up.”

“Mission - ”

“Don’t ‘Mission’ me, bantha breath, you owe me an explanation, and you owe him even more.”

“I don’t know exactly why. There was an idea… The Exile thought maybe he tried to save her. It’s complicated, we don’t even know where the blast came from.”

“But you said it was Kre - ”

“I know what I said, but nothing is certain. Yes, the Exile believed Kreia’s death sent a ripple through the galaxy and the Ebon Hawk was caught in it. It wasn’t… It was mental, this energy. It knocked the ship around, sure, but it was meant to destroy us. The Exile… I don’t know, she thinks the Disciple intervened, anticipated the blast somehow and tried to throw himself in front of her, not physically, with his mind. Next thing we know we’re in a heap of metal on Jaroon and the Disciple is dying.”

“So that’s why his memory is gone? You think the blast wiped it out?”

“He was hit the worst; it would explain a lot.”

They were quiet for a moment and again the Disciple could hear his heart beating in his head like a herd of dewbacks on the charge. His breath was coming short, his concentration was breaking; he needed to hold on.

“You have to tell him,” Mission finally whispered.

“No.”

“What are you afraid of? That he’ll go ballistic and run away? Isn’t that his right?”

“We need him here!”

“Bao.”

“It wasn’t my decision, Mission, his destiny was already decided. You know I was just following orders. But I think I’m starting to agree. He has so much to teach; he should be here where he can be most useful. He was to be brought here and -”

“Bao!”

“Do you think I want to hurt my friend? It’s destroying me, I can’t sleep, I can’t think, I - ”

“He loved her!”

The Disciple could feel the weight of the Force that had been pushing him into the ground, the burden of the secret, lifting. His pulse was racing, adrenaline streaming through his veins, sweat pouring down his face. He needed to escape, lie down. He needed a chance to process all of the new information.

Shaking, he stumbled back to his quarters. Half of him was screaming with excitement, delight, at finally knowing the final piece of the puzzle. The other half of him, however, trembled with what little was left unknown. In his room he collapsed onto his bed, muscles twitching. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his mouth slightly open. For some reason he hadn’t expected all of it to come rushing back, but it did; like a bucket of freezing water being poured on his head, the memories bubbled to the surface. Bao-Dur had explained that it would take time for him to remember the past, that it would be a gradual, frustrating process. The Iridonian was wrong; he had simply been missing the correct key. For months, his brain had been his enemy, full of locked doors and shadowy windows. Now he held the key and the doors would be open, the windows thrown wide to let in the blinding sunlight.

The Disciple knew what he must do. He would rest for an hour and then he would confront the past.

+ + +

Bao-Dur’s shuttle still sat in the launch bay outside of Khoonda. The Disciple, cloaked in darkness and cold, snuck gracefully through the low brush of the plains to the hangar. He was not tired or hungry, only focused on his goal. Scraps of memory were binding together, leading him to the shuttle and the secrets stored in the ship’s cargo hold. The Ebon Hawk had been abandoned on Jaroon and the Disciple knew, through instinct or the Force that the shuttle they had taken to Dantooine would reveal even more than the conversation he had overheard.

The hangar’s locked doors yielded to the Force easily and he slipped inside the bay, unseen by the sleeping guards. Dantooine had become a peaceful place; no one was looking for a determined Jedi. The shuttle sat in the shadows, clean and ready to depart at any moment. He toyed with the idea of simply leaving Dantooine behind, but he knew that it would serve him better to plan his departure after knowing the full scope of his hidden past.

Boarding the shuttle was simple; the doors were no match for his probing mind. The interior was pitch black and smelled of cold metal. He observed a narrow hall of seats, consoles and storage containers. The last time he had been aboard the shuttle he had been barely conscience. He crept to the back of the craft, blending seamlessly into the darkness. The cargo bay was small and nearly empty except for a neat stack of crates in the far corner. He passed the medical supplies and a battered crate full of broken parts labeled: GO-TO. The crate he desired was hidden behind the other, in the farther corner under a heavy pallet of blaster cartridges. The Disciple lifted the pallet away with the Force, setting it down with a thud in the opposite corner.

And there it was. The rest of his life sat in an unremarkable box with a smooth silver top. A label had been there once, but it was now scratched, almost to the point of illegibility. Unknown Jedi’s Personal Effects. The hospital had crated up his things for Bao-Dur and here they had remained, hidden, forgotten. The Disciple picked up the box and cradled it to his chest. He fought the urge to open the lid and riffle through the contents immediately. No, he would take it to his quarters, take it apart bit by bit and carefully examine everything inside.

He returned to the enclave with unbelievable speed, dodging the sentry droids and militia like a swift, silent wind. The enclave was still, the Jedi in bed, resting their minds for the next day of training and meditation. The Disciple threw open the door to his room and locked it behind him; inside his chest, his heart knocked savagely against his ribcage.

Sitting on the bed, he placed the box carefully down on a stool and removed the lid. He realized then that he had been holding his breath since discovering the crate on the shuttle. The Disciple exhaled, forcing himself to relax, to breathe, and to take in the moment with an even keel. A sweet, dusty aroma drifted to him from inside the box. He reached inside and removed a faded Jedi robe that had once been a vibrant purple-blue. The Disciple set the folded robe aside and reached in the box again, this time pulling out a pair of lightsabers. He sparked them to life and found that they were both bright, vibrant green.

“Curious,” he whispered, setting them aside.

Peering inside the box he found a journal hand-bound in albino kath skin and one final thing, a package of parchment, scraps of paper, fabric and other oddments tied in a bundle with fraying twine. The Disciple felt a powerful flash of recognition and of pain. His curiosity was almost overcome by a great fear of what lay inside the bundle. This, he realized, was the critical moment; he could delve into its contents or destroy them and let his past sleep, perhaps forever. It was too easy, he thought, to burn the parchments to ash; he would confront the details of his past, even if it meant immersion in hurtful memories.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, the Disciple pulled on the twine and the bundle came free. He pulled the pieces apart and found a tall stack of letters among the assorted scraps. A ripped piece of paper fluttered to the ground and he reached to retrieve it, finding that it was a printed propaganda pamphlet, or part of one.

“Save Iziz! Stand with the Que -” was the only readable heading; the rest had been torn away. The Disciple stared at the scrap, puzzled, and then turned it over. He recognized the writing immediately as his own.

We are but shadows on this planet, dark figures casting our terrible spell over a people torn asunder. She attempts, rightfully, to quell their treasonous passion but finds the hypocrisy too painful to bear.

Onderon: he could picture it again. Iziz had all the markings of a once-beautiful place fallen to war and fractious citizens. Their stay had been brief, and that was all he could recall from just the scrap of paper. And there was the mention of “she” again. The Disciple knew he would soon learn who she was and feared the knowledge.

With shaking hands, the Disciple reached for the stack of letters and took up the top one, unfolding the creases gently. He scanned the date and found the letter had been written two and a half years ago, in the midst of his travels with Bao-Dur and the others. The letter was not addressed to anyone.

I hesitated to begin this letter, knowing in my heart that leaving a trail of feelings is counter to the teachings of the Jedi. But you have already expressed your opinions on that matter to me; you spoke with conviction regarding your belief that the Jedi are an imperfect lot. On this point we agree, most especially me, knowing that I write this letter to express feelings which are outright banned by the Jedi Order. Passion, desire, these are supposedly the traits better reserved for the Sith we hunt. But I must always ask why, and you have chided me for doing so, pointing out that such rabid curiosity is likely to land me in trouble.

Perhaps I did not write only to tell you of my feelings; perhaps there is a deeper meaning to this humble scrap of parchment. I know the old Jedi, Kreia, regards me as just a pup and I cannot help believing her. You are my teacher, the teacher I admired in youth and only grew to respect as time and my life advanced. I am in awe of you. I have always prided myself on my temperance, my evenness of thought and deed but I will freely confess that I feel unbalanced in your presence. Kreia teaches that we must confront our weakness and root it out, tear it from our soul until we are stronger, impenetrable warriors. This I cannot do, for if I am truly honest with myself and with you, then I would say that you are a weakness. But to tear you out, to remove you from my life? That is something I cannot do. What would I have if I lost our connection?

I drift from the point; in fact, I find it difficult to discover a point at all to these ramblings. I feel only a driving, drilling need to speak to you and in person… Well, we need not speak of my inability to articulate certain areas of the human experience. I succeeded in thanking you for removing me from my library tomb on Dantooine and I have expressed my sincere admiration in regards to your prowess as both a teacher and soldier, but I have failed in one very important respect. This failure runs deeper than you know, it points to the source of my power as a Jedi, and that source is my regrettable ability to force down, swallow, and hide the painful facts that lead to confrontation.

I am not explaining myself well. Unfortunately, I find myself short on time and cannot devote anymore paper to this problem. In this way, I can promise to write again to discuss in greater detail what it is that keeps me, in the words of the Iridonian, “bottled up.”

Ever yours,

M. V.

The Disciple set down the letter, a horrible sadness resonating through his body. This was one of dozens of letters, perfectly preserved, addressed to no one. There at the bottom was the clue he had been hoping for: M. V. Still, the initials did not activate any memories. He fought the desire to crumple the note into a ball and instead picked up the second letter.

It is odd to look out from a moon and see a planet below. It feels somehow unnatural, as if I should be on the surface of the planet looking up at the moon, observing what phase it is in, admiring its radiance. But this is not a radiant place, not by any stretch of the imagination; it is an evil, foul place crawling with deceit and crime. You would caution me, I’m sure, in my quick judgment of Nar Shadaa, but can you give me evidence to the contrary? Perhaps I should search for its beauty, for you yourself try to discover the beauty in every moment and every shadow, and this is a worthwhile lesson I should attempt to learn.

Previously, I wrote to explain myself and failed to do so. I claimed it was for lack of time, but that was a lie. Believe me when I say that I do wish to reveal myself to you, but it is not an easy task. Recall that I was shut up in a library for a very long time, companion only to silence and learning. It was there that I taught myself to write with clarity and presence of mind, and though you chide me for using this archaic form of ink and paper, I find simplicity in it that is soothing, a kind of active meditation.

It is difficult for me to proclaim my feelings, this much is obvious, and here, at last, is the truth: I lost you once, in youth, watched you leave to pursue glory and war, waited for your shining return and was sorely, desperately disappointed. I told these disappointments to the Jedi that took over my teaching when you left and he was severe, punishing me for entertaining thoughts of passion. It was inappropriate, he said, to harbor any feelings beyond respect for a Jedi teacher, and furthermore, that I was allowing myself to give into passion, a path that would lead me to the Dark side. You can imagine my reaction, my crushed heart; I had desired only to reach out to another to receive solace for my pain and instead received chastisement and humiliation.

Perhaps if I had been older or wiser I might have recognized his speech for what it was: rote regurgitation of ideas he did not really understand. I might have realized that a man incapable of feeling love is not a man one should pay any attention to, but instead, these thoughts were in my head constantly as a young man, battling what I knew to be the correct path of the Jedi and what I knew to be true of myself: I loved you, selflessly, and with no expectations of returned affection. It was a pure love, unstained with the kind of ambition Sith apply to even their most transparent feelings. Being punished for feeling love, I could not understand this, and I blamed the Jedi teacher for setting my thoughts to wilder things. His horrified reaction only intensified my thoughts of you, and yes, they may be accurately called fantasies, for my blood had been set on fire and I burned tirelessly, thinking only of seeing you again. As you have probably guessed, he and I discontinued our lessons and I turned away from the path of the Jedi.

You must understand, I was an adolescent, and my infatuation can perhaps be explained away by youth and inexperience, but there was truth to what I thought; you are indeed a woman worthy of admiration. If my confession to the Jedi had been met with temperance, I might have learned to cool my passions and accept that I could not have you, but instead I was driven to secrecy. This Jedi taught me silence in all matters of the heart.

And so there is my confession, perhaps not elegantly rendered, but these events were ugly, condemning me to live a life of quiet pain. Even writing this letter I am not embracing freedom of thought and communication, but it is a step, no matter how small, in what I believe to be the right direction.

I fear I have said too much. Accept my apologies and accept my love even if you cannot return it.

Ever yours,

M.V.

He could feel the pain spreading from a deep, cavernous chamber in his heart. These were not things to be known, and he wondered in horrified silence if he had actually sent the letters. There was no clear indication whether or not they had been read. They were not addressed, but the intended recipient could not be mistaken. These could simply be copies of the originals or they could be the actual letters, returned to him or never read at all. Was this why she was gone? Had she read his words and hidden herself away to avoid hurting him? She, she… The words haunted him, annoyed him. Where was her name? Where was the face he loved with such intensity?

Suddenly, he felt very tired but the thought of sleep was remote, impossible. There would be no sleeping until he had combed all of the letters for clues. Did she know? He feared that pausing to rest would invite the memories to return. They would come, he knew that much, but he was not prepared to face the image of her in his mind. It was near, coming for him, hovering just outside of his mind, waiting, shimmering.

He hurled himself into the letters, sweat breaking out on his forehead and his eyes growing wet; the Disciple read them one after another, devouring every word and punctuation mark. Some were more revealing than others, but most were meandering meditations on their travels, their day to day activities. Many, he had to admit, were dull and uninspiring. He began to have the feeling that these letters were never written with the intention of showing the woman, that they were more like heart-felt self-examination. The last letter remained; he pulled it open, steeling himself.

It is now clear to me: you are determined to destroy yourself. I often wondered if you had room in your heart for two men, and judging from your behavior you do not have room for even one. There is such sadness in you, profound, beautiful sadness, and if I could, I would replace it with freedom. I know you believe you owe it to the universe to attempt this ludicrous mission, but please, I beg you, rethink this decision. Is it not enough that you put yourself in the greatest danger by bringing us all to Malachor V? Here I sit, surrounded by the charred wasteland of this planet, injured, unsure, waiting for you to return. And I know what is in your mind. You mean to leave us all and continue the fight on unknown battlegrounds; you wish to fight the sprawling, faceless enemy that has begun to threaten all life.

Do not go.

If you insist, if you persist in this absurd obsession, then I will follow, but only because you are not strong enough to face the Sith alone. There, I’ve said it. You are not strong enough to do this on your own, and no one person is. Revan made the mistake of abandoning Admiral Onasi to continue the campaign alone, and because of it she will fail. Listen to me now: She will return, defeated, because without the love of another we are all weak at heart. If you are concerned about my life, do not be. Even if you never speak another word to me again, I will be there to fight at your side. I am sick with love for you, determined to protect the one Jedi who had any faith in me at all. Rand will try to follow you; he will not relent as I will not relent because he and I have been thrust into this revolting battle for your attention.

Make your decision; you are draining the life out of us. We are only men, consumed with you, battered, starving, thirsting, and unless you show us your heart soon, we will crack. I have never liked Rand, but I would not wish him dead.

The letter stopped there, unfinished. The margins were stained with bloody fingerprints and ash and the penmanship was shaky. The Disciple put down the letters carefully, stacking them in order. He opened the journal but found that it was empty except for the first page, which read, “The Journal of M.V.”

There were a few ragged edges sticking out of the binding, leading the Disciple to assume that pages had been ripped out. It was an apt metaphor, he thought, the missing pages, the title with nothing to follow, just a lot of empty space and silence. Anger had been rising in him as he read the letters, and with the blank journal it finally exploded. He lunged forward across the bed, throwing the journal hard against the wall. He had begun crying, sobbing, without knowing how to keep it at bay.

“Stupid!” he screamed, “Impotent, stupid boy!”

The Disciple collapsed in a heap, breathing raggedly, sprawled on the bed covered in his old life. He didn’t mean to sleep, but suddenly he was terribly tired and he simply slipped away, tears still fresh on his face.

+ + +

Early morning arrived with a streak of silver across the horizon. A fresh group of rain clouds bloomed with gray flowers in the distance, spreading and reaching toward the enclave. The Disciple awoke amidst a scattering of papers and string. He yawned, unexpectedly calm. During the night his mind had been busy, visited in sleep by countless visions and memories. He rose that morning with her face in front of his eyes, her smile still bright and fresh in his mind.

In dreams he had seen her, remembered their nights meditating in companionable silence on the Ebon Hawk. They could sit together for hours, faces blank and serene while in their wandering minds a courtship unfolded. One would create a paradise from nothing and invite the other to explore it, roam its vine-covered paths and discovers its secrets. It was a slow, playful game of hide and seek that culminated in shared laughter and sweet, clandestine flirtation. This was what had led him down the path; these invisible pursuits had turned his innocent, boyhood infatuation into adult love. They danced an intricate waltz of hints and clues that disappeared during the daylight, hidden behind the thunder clouds of war and danger, a secret sun waiting for its day to shine.

It was easier to bear in many ways, knowing that he had chased her for a reason and that she had given him cause to do so. Atton had lusted after her openly and watched, red-faced with envy as the Exile and Disciple meditated on a nightly basis, often until the first pale glimpses of dawn. He felt refreshed by the memories, and once awake, debated the right course of action. On the one hand he knew she wanted to pursue the Sith alone to keep her friends safe from harm, he wished to respect her decision but realized something that she did not. It was possible that she knew she would fail without help and carried on anyway, but the Disciple suspected that she was in deep denial. The reality of the situation was obvious to him: she would need a partner to stay alive. It was indicative of her character that she would put her friends before her own survival, and he wished she had been more selfish.

Yes, he would see her face again, he would touch her small hand and bury his nose in her mane of golden hair, not in any meditation, but in the open, in front of anyone who cared to see.

The Disciple sat on his bed and continued looking through the contents of the box. He had heard of Jedi using the Force to absorb memories and thoughts from objects. It was an advanced technique with a slim chance of success, but he decided it was worth a try. He picked up the pair of lightsabers and held them in his lap. Vague feelings of power and might stirred in him, but that was to be expected. Nothing else came. He set them aside and picked up an orange ribbon that had been tucked into one of the letters. For a moment nothing happened, he could sense only the buzzing minds of the enclave, and then, slowly, an image came to him, as clear as if a person had just stepped into the room.

He stared, mesmerized by the sight of this vision, the woman he pursued, standing in his room, dressed in almost nothing. She wore a dancer’s costume, her hair tied up in braids and twists, the orange ribbons holding it in place. The woman was smiling shyly, avoiding direct eye contact as she stood in the revealing outfit. A voice crackled to life out of the air, it was Rand, somewhere behind the Disciple.

“Shoulders back. You’re a dancer now; you have to act the part or you won’t fool Vogga for a second.”

The Disciple could guess that he had been speechless then as he was now. The petite woman squared her shoulders and for a second her gaze met his. He wasn’t sure it was in the memory or that moment, but he felt a strange ripple all down his body, as if her eyes had flashed a clear message. It could have been lust, awe or fear or a combination of all three that he felt. His eyes wandered to the curve of her hip, the freckle next to her belly button, the glorious details that had never been revealed to him before.

Someone was at the door; he squeezed the ribbon and the vision dissolved into a haze of colored smoke. Dazed, he unlocked and opened the door before Bao-Dur had a chance to knock. The Iridonian did not seem surprised and he met the Disciple’s eyes without shame. Dark circles had appeared under his eyes.

“Can you forgive me?”

“Yes, in time, and on one condition,” the Disciple replied, ushering Bao-Dur into the room.

“Name it,” he said.

“You will answer all of my questions truthfully. You will not leave anything out, understood?”

Bao-Dur nodded solemnly and they sat in two chairs staring at each other. Bao-Dur took in the mess on the bed and then appeared to be studying his friend closely, trying to discern any changes.

“Where is the Exile?” the Disciple asked.

“In the Unknown Regions, confronting the Sith, that is all I know.”

“When did she go?”

“A month or two after the Ebon Hawk crashed, she left very suddenly, we were all told to stay away and leave her to her mission,” Bao-Dur answered.

“Where is Rand?”

Bao-Dur narrowed his eyebrows, it was clear he hadn’t expected the question to come up so soon, “Atton is on Corellia, but I have not heard from him in some time.”

“Were you assigned to me?” the Disciple asked.

“I was told to wait for you to recover and then bring you to Dantooine. It was my own decision not to tell you about the Exile, I wanted to spare you, yes, but I also wanted to honor her request for solitude. She was my General and I did what I believed to be in her best interest, and I did it for you, too.”

The Disciple nodded, smiling grimly. He shook his head, knowing exactly what the Exile had intended, to flee before he had a chance to follow. Perhaps if her betrayal was deep enough he would leave her alone and by doing so, save himself.

“Did she… Say anything? To me?”

“Yes,” Bao-Dur said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, “she said to tell you that the Force unites us all.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

They sat in silence, Bao-Dur visibly uneasy. The Disciple could ignore the man’s steady gaze, it was easy to block everything out with so much going on his head.

“Are you going to go after her?” Bao-Dur asked softly.

“You know I must.”

“Then I will come with you.”

The Disciple shook his head, studying the Iridonian. What a mystery this soldier was – half technician and half Jedi and loyal to the core. He wondered what his motive could be, and for a brief moment he felt a shiver of worry, perhaps he too had designs on the Exile. It was unlikely, he decided, but worth keeping in mind.

“That is not necessary, I am quite capable of finding her myself.”

“Really? You intend to pilot a ship into the Unknown Regions by yourself? Tell me, have you ever flown a ship?” Bao-Dur was not smiling, but the Disciple could sense his bemusement. It angered him.

“If you want my honesty, Bao-Dur, I believe you have done quite enough. I do not desire your pity or your help, this is a mission I must fulfill on my own,” the Disciple replied, “flying a ship is no great thing, if I must learn then I will learn.”

“Please,” Bao-Dur said, “you misunderstand. I want to help you and I want to help the General. Finding her will be difficult, and the Force may not be enough.”

“What do you mean?” the Disciple asked, growing impatient.

“I know where she went, before the Unknown Regions, I mean. She needed to refuel and gather weapons. One of us saw her last and I know who it is.”

+ + +

Darth Girish was no longer a young man but that did not prevent him from feeling childish giddiness at the prospect of engaging in his favorite activity. He was an odd looking man, with amber eyes and thick, sweeping eyebrows. His face was a collection of hollows and points that gave him the appearance of an enormous cobra. A black hood was always pulled up over his head, casting his greenish face in darkness. Like many Sith, he could not claim to love anyone or even mildly care for anyone and no one felt any kind of affection for him. Darth Girish occupied one of the many upper tier chambers in the K’Resh Spire, a black spike of obsidian that housed the most important operations of the Sith on the planet Lokan.

Although Girish had clearance to enter any of the prisons, temples and training facilities in the Spire, he had been purposely avoiding visiting the cell now housing the Sith’s most important prisoner. He felt a rare joy at the thought of what lay in that cell and he knew he had hours of interrogation, torture and cruelty to look forward to. His very favorite pastime was one he did not often get to enjoy: the breaking of young female Jedi. Few had made it as far as the new Sith Empire, and those that did were quickly caught and brought to him. He did not understand their thinking at all; wasn’t it obvious that it would take an entire army of Jedi to even draw the attention of the Sith? Still, they trickled in every once in a while, brandishing courageous but foolish notions of conquest. First came the Jedi Revan, so confident and strong but she had eventually given up and gone home to wallow in her failure. He had no doubt she would return someday and he looked forward to it. Girish regretted deeply that he had not had the chance to meet Revan personally and show her his impressive skills.

There was no doubt the young Jedi in the Spire’s prison would put up an impressive fight, she would resist his techniques until she was nothing but an empty shell and then she would either give in or wither away to nothingness. He licked his lips; he must wait, allow the proper period of anticipation, and then visit the Jedi to have his fun.

Meanwhile, he allowed the idiot apprentices to bring her meager rations of food and soften her up. They were given permission to kick her if they liked or spit on her, but they were not to harm her seriously, that privilege was reserved for the feared and respected Darth Girish. He had not even learned her name, but that did not matter, soon he would know all he wanted to about her, he would rip memories and secret fears from her soul and dangle them in front of her until she wept with frustration. It was almost too good to picture, and he forced himself to stop fantasizing; it might provoke him to go to her too soon.

Girish stood in front of the tall window that looked out into the valley below, a crater carved millions of years ago into the surface of this lush and beautiful planet. It was the perfect place, he decided, to launch their assault on the galaxy. This planet had every imaginable kind of vegetation and climate and he had sent battalions of Sith masters and apprentices to every corner of the planet. There, they would practice their skills in a variety of environments, preparing for absolutely anything the Republic might throw at them. Girish had toyed with the idea of throwing the Jedi female to a horde of Sith, letting her battle them until she was eventually felled. Lessons like these would demonstrate the power of a single Jedi to the Sith and encourage them to practice even more diligently.

He sighed, turning away from the valley filled with soldiers and heavy machinery. He was expected at the palace of the K’Resh royalty who annoyed him constantly with complaints. The Sith had taken over K’Resh and allowed the royal family to stay on the grounds that they did everything in their power to aid in the Sith cause. The royals had been stubborn at first but it did not take much to break them; he laughed at the memory of their youngest princess sprawled at awkward angles in a far below courtyard, broken and dead. They would whine to him about what a drain the Sith were on the economy, how their ties with other planets were dissolving rapidly, how they would be left vulnerable to war. It would be Girish’s job to reassure them that the Sith would protect them in the event of an invasion, but he would leave out the fact that the Sith would gladly realign with any other planet that offered a better deal.

The door behind him creaked open; the escorts had arrived to take him to the K’Resh palace. He strode from the window, smiling to himself. He could put up with any number of dull meetings with the K’Resh: soon he would be rewarded with the satisfying destruction of the Jedi prisoner.

+ + +

To watch her engage an enemy is to watch a master artist at work. Each stroke of her blade is an expression of power, each step she takes is with purpose; not a single action is wasted. She is an impossible contradiction: a thing of beauty which swiftly and perfectly extinguishes life.

The plan was never flawless to begin with, but now the Exile saw how she had delivered herself into the waiting arms of death. Who had she hoped to fool with her idiotic expedition to the Unknown Regions? But she knew the answer and it stung worse than the blows of the Sith that held her captive. She had hoped against hope to fool herself.

One can live without the Force.

She had lived without the Force before and it had nearly destroyed much more than just her life. It was difficult to see herself as anything other than an imposition; perhaps it would be easier on everyone if she simply disappeared, wiped herself out, erased the mistake of her existence. Would it be so bad to die? At least then the loneliness would stop and all the suffering that came with her responsibilities would be over. She was sick to death of worrying about everyone and holding herself up to an impossible set of expectations: she must save her friends, she must save the galaxy, and she must save herself.

Her captivity had been such that there was nothing to do except dwell on the past and fear the future. Part of her hated the past, she especially hated how no one seemed to be able to escape it. Even amnesia wasn’t strong enough to disconnect her from her actions in the war, her actions after the war and her pathetic personal life. Then again, trapped in a dungeon on an alien planet, what could she say was truly hers except the past? It was her last possession, and the one thing she knew was undoubtedly hers at that moment. Her future hung in the balance, perhaps out of her hands for good, but no one could rip the past from her. The few happy memories that remained were hers to keep.

If she slipped, if she thought of him for even a moment she would hate herself for getting into this unbelievable mess.

Thankfully, one of the Sith guards arrived to give her an evening meal. The metal door squealed open and the tall Sith strode over to where she sat chained to the wall. He forced a bowl of cold gruel into her hands and waited while she slurped it down. The Sith kicked her hard in the ribs and took the bowl back, spitting at her feet before leaving. She picked up the chain attached to her foot as the door slammed shut; it was made of a glowing blue material and she knew exactly what it was. Force-inhibiting chains, they were an ingenious invention. She had to hand it to the Sith, they certainly knew how to effectively imprison a Jedi.

The Exile stretched out her mind, feeling with the fingers of the Force for some kind of purchase on her situation. The chains seemed to glow, growing brighter as she exerted more and more energy. It was hopeless; her powers were useless here, too weak to give her any substantial information. She could use only her eyes, which took in the dank, damp cell with revulsion. It didn’t require the Force to understand that this was a room for suffering and that others had met gruesome ends there. She was almost glad that the Force was removed from her for the moment, otherwise she would be too busy trying to reach her friends through the Force. They did not deserve to leave their lives and journey to this cesspit of a planet, and she did not deserve their help.

There was almost no light in the room, just a tiny slit of sunshine that streamed in through a high, thin window. The walls and floor were slick with moisture and the whole room seemed to be frozen in stillness, cold and lifeless. It was difficult not to hope that someone would come for her, but who would? She had tried so hard to keep everyone away, to save them, and now there was no one left to save her. No, she could not rely on the selflessness of others; it would be up to her to get herself out of this cell. There was always a way, her travels had taught her that, no situation was ever as hopeless as it first appeared and there was always, always a solution.

Several hours crawled by and the Exile watched the slim line of sunlight travel around the room. She heard a sound at the door and lifted her head; she must stay awake, she must be alert and she must find a way out.

+ + +

The Disciple stared out the window as the ship made its slow descent onto Onderon’s forest moon, Dxun. As they neared the landing pad, the past seemed to rise up to meet him. There would be time, he knew, to explore those memories. For now he needed to stay in the present. He and Bao-Dur had come with the intention of learning where exactly the Exile had gone, and he knew their target might not be forthcoming with the information.

“This is Bao-Dur piloting the Ruby Thrush, we are embarking on our final decent, do you copy, tower?” Bao-Dur called into the com; a second later a low voice crackled to life on the other end and echoed in the small cockpit.

“Ruby Thrush you have clearance for landing, over.”

“This is it,” Bao-Dur murmured, not looking at the Disciple. The ship straightened out a little roughly, lowering its sleek body into the wide open hangar of the Madalorian camp. A faint crashing noise issued from the back of the ship near the cargo hold.

“What in the name of Yun-Harla was that?” Bao-Dur demanded, spinning around. The Disciple stood, placing a hand on the Iridonian’s shoulder.

“Land the ship, I’ll search the cargo hold,” the Disciple replied, taking up his lightsabers. He crept slowly to the back of the ship, past the navigational charts, medical bay and engine room. A muted rustling could be heard behind the door of the cargo hold. His hand reached slowly, silently and then flipped the locking mechanism outside the door. It flew open and he saw a flourish of blue. His lightsabers were crossed in front of his face to intercept the blow before he could even think enough to send the signal to his brain.

“Mission?” he blurted out, baffled. There was the Twi’lek, the blue blade of her lightsaber cradled in the green X of his. She stumbled backward, crying out in surprise, and sheathed her weapon.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” he demanded, advancing on her. Mission struggled to get to her feet, wiping furiously at a spot of grease on her forearm.

“Guess. I couldn’t let you two go off without me - You’d get yourselves killed!”

“You shouldn’t be here, Mission, this isn’t a game,” the Disciple said sternly, tucking his lightsabers into his belt.

"I'm a big girl," she countered, tipping her chin skyward.

"After we finish up here we'll take you back to Dantooine," the Disciple said. Mission balked.

"You most certainly will not!"

"Don't argue with me, Mission, you can't possibly understand how much danger you're in. Dantooine needs you right now, they need Jedi."

She shrugged and pushed past him, sassing her way to the cockpit.

“Dantooine needs Jedi, do they? Maybe you should take your own advice, pal. Besides, the enclave would be boring without you guys, I didn’t want to stay so here I am,” she said nonchalantly. “Hey Bao!”

The Iridonian was already facing her, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I cannot believe you, Mission,” he said, shaking his head. She patted his horned head good-naturedly.

“Relax, I can handle myself, remember? Hello? Star Forge?”

“We’ll discuss this later,” Bao-Dur muttered, turning back to the cockpit controls, “just stay out of trouble for now.”

The ship touched down with a rocking motion and Mission clutched Bao-Dur’s shoulder to keep from falling over. The Disciple ignored them, sweeping out of the cockpit; he could guess that they would share some kind of secret look, a tacit pact to keep the Disciple in line, but he was determined to have his own way. He had been kept in the dark long enough; there was no more room for secrets and lies.

A blast of chill air met him as he disembarked the Ruby Thrush. Four Mandalorians in full battle dress stood waiting. They saluted, their weapons sheathed. The Disciple bowed low to them and then spotted a taller, broader Mandalorian approaching from the open hangar bay doors; the escorts moved apart to allow the larger man through.

“Mandalore, thank you for receiving us,” the Disciple said, bowing again.

“As a former partner in battle you are always welcome here. The Mandalorians owe you their respect and gratitude for aiding in the troubles of our kind. I must warn you, however, that you may not find the answers you’ve undoubtedly come looking for,” Mandalore said, stepping forward. Just then Bao-Dur and Mission arrived behind the Disciple.

“Ah, I see you’re not alone. Just as I thought,” Mandalore said with a little laugh. “Allow my men to show you to the guest quarters. Stay as long as you like.”

“We won’t trouble you for long,” Bao-Dur promised, glancing at the Disciple.

Mandalore nodded and turned to go. The Disciple, Bao-Dur and Mission followed a few steps behind. The Disciple could sense their apprehension as well as their deep concern. Mission’s appearance added a new and frightening dimension to the journey; Bao-Dur’s feelings for her might change his willingness to proceed and his ability to do all that was necessary. Mission was still a young woman with a long life ahead of her, involving her in their search for the Exile might mean her premature death. She was, after all, a Jedi, and Jedi were a vanishing commodity.

Dxun had not changed much since they had last seen it. The Mandalorians were sharp, terse and aggressive as always. Still, they treated the visitors with respect, recognizing their hand in helping Mandalore and the planet of Onderon. It was a humid day and many of the soldiers were inside escaping the oppressive heat. As they travelled through the grounds of the camp the sound of the surrounding woodland rose up around them, a mysterious cacophony of grunts, squealing birds and buzzing insects.

They were each given a separate room, which the Disciple was thankful for. He would need time to collect himself and his dreams had become troubled; he often awoke covered in a cold sweat, throwing his fists and invisible enemies. They would need to hurry, the Exile was in trouble, that much was easily felt through the Force, and yet she was hidden somehow, just a fuzzy dot somewhere in the middle of a vast darkness. Finding her seemed more and more unlikely, yet he knew it was imperative to try.

The Mandalorians brought the visitors a light lunch and Bao-Dur and Mission ate together in her room. The Disciple kept himself apart, picking at his food with absolutely no appetite. He would wait until evening to approach Mandalore and he would go without Bao-Dur. Despite his new devotion to honesty, there were things he did not want to share with the Iridonian yet, but if he needed to confess his feelings for the Exile to get the information they needed, then he would. He hoped Mandalore would understand and had an inkling that he would.

The Disciple placed the tray of food on the low bedside table and began to pace irritably. The quarters he had been given were small but adequate, with one East-facing window and a comfortable bed. He suspected these were the clean, Spartan quarters given to every Mandalorian regardless of rank or circumstance. In a way, he felt the Jedi and Mandalorians were very similar, they were both zealously devoted to an impossible ideal that meant their teachings were under constant scrutiny and criticism. It was amusing that they had fought against each other so brutally when in reality they were more alike than they wanted to admit.

He looked out of the window and watched the Mandalorian soldiers sparring. They threw each other around like ragdolls, fighting tirelessly; for what, the Disciple did not know. What battles could they hope to fight, broken and fractured as they were? The heavy armor they wore must have been horribly uncomfortable in the sweaty heat and glaring sun. The Disciple shuddered anxiously, remembering a time when he had watched others sparring from a window not unlike this one.

The sound of the fight had broken into his dreams and he sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes and glanced out the window to see two people wrestling in the early-morning sunshine. One of them was tall and muscular, with a crazy shock of chestnut hair; he wore only a pair of gray shorts. The other wrestler was much smaller but holding her own, with shiny golden hair swept up from her neck with a faded red scarf. It was a strange sight, the little sylvan nymph tossing the man over her shoulder, throwing him to the ground. A dark feeling roiled in his stomach and the Disciple knew it wasn’t hunger that made him feel sick.

He had leapt from the bed, naked, and thrown on the loose slacks and traditional waist cloth of the Jedi and stormed, barefoot, out of his room.

The Disciple crossed the field to the sparring ring carrying two mugs of piping hot Jaffa cider. Spicy wisps of steam rolled off of the surface of the mugs, concealing for a moment the rich, earthy smell of the nearby woods. As the Disciple approached the ring he could hear laughter and the slap of skin on skin as the wrestlers continued their match. Atton caught sight of him first and hesitated, giving the Exile an opening which she eagerly took, pushing him backward over her outstretched leg. As Atton tumbled to the ground she too saw the Disciple and paused, waving to him and shielding her eyes from the sun with her other hand.

“What’s that you’ve brought us?” she called, jogging up to him. The Disciple handed her a mug.

“You’re a saint! You sly thing, where could you have possibly found this?” she cried, sticking her nose into the mug to inhale the tangy steam.

“The Mandalorians seemed to have developed a taste for it,” the Disciple murmured, admiring the way the sunlight played along her collarbone. Atton slowly crawled to his feet, rubbing his backside. The Disciple held out the mug to his rival with a blank expression and Atton took it with a little grimace.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

“You’re very welcome,” the Disciple said pointedly. Even if Atton couldn’t contain his antipathy, the Disciple, at least, would be polite. And he couldn’t help it, he was sizing Atton up. This was the first time he had seen the boy without his clothes on and he was forced to admit, his rival was formidable in that respect. Atton had kept in good shape and had a slim, wiry frame that suited his jaunty attitude. The rogue stood with his hip jutted to one side, blowing on the cider to cool it down.

“You’re up early,” the Exile observed cheerfully, sipping her drink.

“Yes, I rose to meditate and saw you two out here. I thought I might join you for some morning exercise,” he lied, flicking his eyes to the Exile’s face. She smiled and he knew at once she had caught him in a fib; she said nothing.

“You both have excellent form, are you hoping to go up against the Mandalorians?” the Disciple asked, changing the subject, keeping his eyes off of Atton and his steely glare.

“Yes, well, I am at least. Atton was nice enough to help out; I need all the practice I can get,” the Exile said, laughing. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her whole body seemed to fluoresce with the radiance of exertion. She wore one of the Republic’s old military grade harnesses for women; they left little to the imagination but were sturdy and part of every female soldier’s uniform. Her hips and thighs were clad in a pair of thermal shorts made of an odd, clinging material that the Mandalorian’s stocked.

Atton seemed to notice the Disciple’s rather thorough examination of the Exile and cleared his throat rudely.

“I see, well I thought I would offer myself as another opponent. You may encounter a variety of fighting techniques in the ring and it could serve you to practice assessing those differences,” he said, throwing a sharp look at Atton, who rolled his eyes over the Exile’s shoulder.

“That’s not a bad idea,” she said, draining the last of her cider. He might have only imagined it, but he thought that for a moment her eyes lingered on his broad chest and then glanced at the thin line of hair leading down from his navel. Atton took her mug with a plastic smile and made sure his shoulder was in the way when the Disciple passed.

“I’ve got your number, buddy, you may have a cute little accent but I wouldn’t get so cocky just yet,” Atton hissed at him as he walked by. The Exile was in the ring already, stretching, and the Disciple took the opportunity to throw a quick, bored glance at Atton.

“You’ve been outclassed, whelp. Do have the good sense to accept defeat graciously.”

Atton started as if to tackle the Jedi but checked himself, instead letting the Disciple walk on into the ring. The Disciple was surprised at himself, he had never addressed Atton’s rival status so directly and it made him feel oddly powerful. Grinning, he turned his attention to his opponent, who was bent over at the waist touching her toes. It was obvious to him that Atton had had limited success against her for more than one reason; not only was she an agile fighter, she was also easy on the eyes, bearing a striking resemblance to a fawn in a sun-struck meadow, smooth and lean, a superbly beautiful young thing.

The Exile dashed toward him without warning and the Disciple had to drop himself, like a stone, into the deep ocean of the Force. It was like diving into a lake of cold, crystal-clear water. He saw her advancing in slow motion, and calculated her rate of advance and the position of her body. As if time had slowed to a grinding halt, he picked up on the forward tilt of her torso and added up the amount of pressure it would take to offset her balance.

The Disciple squared his feet and stood in profile to her, his arms bent and ready to strike. But the Exile had anticipated his reaction and suddenly dove forward, tucking and rolling before springing up behind him. He tried to spin fast enough to catch her, but she had already struck, kicking him hard in the spine. The Disciple reeled forward, grunting, turning to face her and hopefully intercept her next move.

Suddenly she was there, in his head, inside of him. She came at him then, her face a mask of serious concentration. As she sprung toward him she also twirled, extending her leg to catch him in the face. But the Disciple had read her, let her into his mind and tricked her into believing he was waiting for a blow to the legs. His left hand caught her and he held her by the ankle. A quick flash of recognition darkened her face as she realized she had been outmaneuvered. The Exile tried to correct her balance, but the precarious position would send her flying no matter what.

The Disciple shot his hand forward, catching her around the neck and he threw her, leg and all, to the ground. They landed together with a hollow thud. He allowed his weight to travel with her and he ended up on top of her, pinning her bent leg against her chest, his right hand still holding her neck. Their eyes met and for a moment he saw real fear. They had never had this much physical contact before and it was almost overwhelming to the senses; never before had he felt such incandescent buoyancy. It was like a sudden awakening, the Force flowing freely through their bodies, intertwining them, their minds locked together. The Disciple realized he was shaking. He was holding her neck very gently and he knew what she was thinking: If he so decided he could crush the life out of her then and there. It was a mark of her deep trust in him that she did not struggle.

It had all seemed to happen so slowly and deliberately but the entire fight had taken place in the blink of an eye. They lay in the wet grass, both of them gasping for breath. The red scarf had come loose and her golden hair fanned out around her face. He looked at her lips, they were just barely parted and her sweet breath tickled the underside of his chin. Swallowing nervously, he felt her pulse racing in her throat and his palm absorbed the erratic bum-bum-ba-bum. The heat of her body coiled around him, calling to some deep, hidden part of him, insisting, until an animalistic surge of lust swelled in his chest.

He pressed her deeper into the grass; he might have stayed there all day, holding her to the ground, mingling his sweat with hers. But he knew secretly that they could not stay frozen that way; he knew he must choose whether or not to fight off the wave of dangerous urges that planted feverish, ecstatic suggestions in his brain. His fingers itched to tear at her clothing and clutch her to him until she understood, until she saw just how far he was willing to go to secure her love.

Just then, the Exile reached toward him, tentatively, as if he were a cornered animal that would start at any sudden movement. With her free hand she tenderly placed a piece of blonde hair behind his ear. The spell was broken.

The Disciple sat back on his heels swiftly and stood, wiping the back of his hand across his damp forehead.

“Forgive me,” he whispered.

The Exile stayed on the ground, watching him, a golden statue in a sea of green.

Tell me I am mad, I will believe you. Who in this universe could keep their wits about them knowing that you exist? Tell me who could, when you are near, smiling and charging, fighting and dancing, whirling through our lives like a sudden storm. We are all dying, but you are dying magnificently, bathing us all in your light as you implode, the last, the greatest dying star in the galaxy.

“You two finished?” Atton muttered, his arms crossed over his chest defensively as he watched the Disciple step away from her.

The Disciple marched over to Atton and yanked the empty mugs from him before striding away, silent and consumed.

Meditation envy. That’s what the bounty hunter Mira had called it. But it was more than that, the Disciple knew, sitting in his empty room, looking out at the Mandalorians sparring where he had once held his love in the dew-slick grass. He and Atton were foils, two fools mixed up in a game neither of them could control. Atton shared his feelings with the Exile slyly, always sarcastic, always giving his little hints of affection with a sneer in case she rebuffed him. He played at the rogue but his feelings for her were true. The Disciple had not underestimated Atton Rand, he simply hoped the Exile saw his own love for her for what it was: A pure and exquisite light.

He should have kissed her, (that much was obvious) he should have been more assertive. On the whole he had handled the situation indelicately. Why hadn’t he acted when he had the chance? She had been in his sole possession in that moment, even with Atton there, standing like an idiot off to the side, she had been his own as he held her warm little body in the morning air. And there she had trembled, vulnerable, waiting, like a frightened sparrow in his big, clumsy hands. But he had backed away from her, and perhaps she had interpreted that as a sign that he lacked courage to… To what?

If only she had known, he lamented, if only she had felt the hot, terrible wanting that had made his heart nearly burst with hunger. He should have devoured her.

He would not flub a chance like that again; there would be no more room for cowardly hesitation. It could be his inspiration, he decided, to have another moment to act. He could change things, pour his heart into finding her, out there somewhere, alone in the wilds, and perhaps he could prove to her that apathy was unacceptable, that inaction meant death.

+ + +

What is it that I could give you to change all of this mess into something comprehensible? The days pass, the knot tightens and still nothing, nothing makes sense. If I reach out for you with cold hands, if somehow you feel a fraction of my suffering, will that bring us, at last, to the end? We fall in love, we destroy ourselves; we destroy that which we covet the most.

It was like falling through a freezing cold rain, feeling the ground rising up to meet the free-falling body, then realizing that there was no ground at all, no end to the electric stabbing that passed freely through veins, blood, flesh. The Exile found herself smiling, however, through the unbelievable pain.

I deserve this, she thought, purifying fire, torture, I deserve it all.

Darth Girish smiled, too, but for very different reasons. Through the smoke that rose off of her singed skin she could see his rodent’s face. His eyes were just holes now, flashing embers somewhere far away, probably in a private paradise. It was clear he felt immense pleasure, that torturing her was even better than sport. Yes it was much better, it was art.

Strangely enough, she didn’t know what the Sith wanted from her. They could just kill her and be done with it instead of insisting on this pointless torture. What did she have left to confess? There was nothing of consequence, really, just personal secrets that would mean nothing to these conquerors. She possessed no useful information, there was no master plan, there was no one coming to crush the Sith and deliver her from her own mistakes.

Over the loud bursts of lightning that ran all over her body, the Exile could hear the Sith Lord laughing. It was incredible, she thought, how he could just keep laughing and laughing, never running out of breath, never pausing to rest his voice. It was difficult to see anything, her vision fading in and out as her eyesight began to fail, but she could make out a few figures standing over the Sith’s shoulder, perhaps apprentices present to watch a true master at work. Despite the presence of the younger Sith, the master seemed completely unaware of them.

The Exile wasn’t sure why they were trying so hard to hurt her. Vaguely, in the back of her mind, she was aware of a hidden room where she could stay until all this ridiculous pain was over. They didn’t understand, not really, that she was untouchable in the physical sense of the word. No amount of lightning or fire or poison could destroy her, but she wasn’t certain why. Perhaps it was because she had a destiny left to fulfill, perhaps it was because she simply didn’t want to give up. But the Sith master continued, chuckling and smirking as he administered what, to anyone else, would have been a fatal dosage of pain.

“You are breaking,” Darth Girish murmured to her, “Yes, that’s good, let go of your life, become an empty vessel and I will fill you with new purpose.”

The Exile would have spit in his face if she had the energy left, instead, she let her eyes roll back into her head, allowed the charade to continue and let the Sith think that she was close to losing herself. Suddenly, the pain stopped and the Sith stepped away. She was unable to sit down, and instead slumped against the wall, chained up and restrained.

These visits continued on and off for the next few days. The Exile was given the impression that each time, the Sith, who called himself Darth Girish, expected her to yield and beg for her own life. Perhaps he overestimated her self-worth, for she never did, never asked for mercy and never pleaded with him to stop. She endured the sessions silently, listening with morbid curiosity to the sounds of her own spine tingling with electricity, to the sickening sizzle that resonated outward and echoed in the tiny room. It seemed odd that Darth Girish did not become frustrated, other Sith might have screamed at her to give up and give in to their dark teachings, but his voice never raised above an awed whisper, and he would merely grow tired of electrocuting her and leave.

It was during his fifth visit that the Exile found herself in the midst of a strange vision. She had heard of others receiving messages within the deepest reaches of pain, a sort of last resort to try and steady the mind or call for pity. The room dissolved for a moment, and the Exile stood on a flat, windy plain; dark, acrid sand filled the air and it was difficult to make out anything but the black streamers of dirt and sand that whipped past her on every side. Then, a shape appeared on the horizon, moving toward her deliberately. She stood, her knees knocking together, and waited for the figure to reach her.

As the specter approached, the Exile felt an immense rush of calm and her body ceased to tremble. A moment ago she had been caught up in pain, desperately fraught with uncertainty over her ability to withstand such cruelty, but now all signs of apprehension disappeared. It was a man, tall, with broad shoulders and he was cloaked in a misty gray robe. His face was obscured by a black mask which had an unnatural sheen; upon the mask, a serene, blank expression had been carved in a very simplistic style. She could not explain why, but she felt at once that she and the stranger were equals.

After a moment, the stranger began to speak and his voice, articulate and soft, calmed her further.

“There is something you should know,” he began. “We can never really understand the mechanism of life, Exile. Not you, not me and certainly not the fallen witch, Kreia. It is foolish to assume that even the most learned of us can see the whole picture. Surely you know, that there are those born who are so strong in the Force that all of us, without exception, feel the wake of that power.”

“Who are you?” she asked in a whisper. The stranger shook his head from side to side slowly.

“You have led a troubled life, wandered a twisting, unforgiving path. That path was determined from your birth by those who sought to stop you, and although you have escaped, they will try again,” he said.

“By whom?” she asked.

“Look,” the stranger murmured and he slowly broke up into a million grains of colored sand, joining the swirl enveloping the silent, desert plain. The Exile opened her mouth to speak but quickly silenced herself, seeing before her a new scene. The desert had gone and now she stood in a grassy field dotted with bright magenta flowers, buzzing with insects. Several yards ahead of her stood a young man, well-proportioned, with strong shoulders and a solid stance. He wore the simple brown robes of the Jedi and his buttercup yellow hair flowed behind him. Suddenly, the Exile noticed a shape growing larger in the sky above them, breaking through the heavy cream-colored clouds. It was a ship, she realized, some kind of troop transporter that had fallen out of the atmosphere and careened at an alarming rate toward them; the ship was bound to crash.

But the young man stepped toward it, welcoming it, his haughty stance indicating that he was ready to embrace the doomed craft. The ship’s reentrance into the planet’s atmosphere was causing a tremendous amount of noise and the ground began to quake, forcing her onto her knees. She shielded her eyes from the sudden blast of dust and watched, dumbstruck, as the young man stood and raised one hand toward the ship. It looked enormous now, hanging close to them in the sky but it was slowing down, shrieking to an unnatural halt. The ship hung there, motionless and everything went silent as the young man stood with the ship in his thrall. She could not guess what he would do next, and she did not expect what came next. He turned his head slowly over his shoulder and looked at her, saw her, as if he had known all along she was kneeling there. When she saw his face, the Exile gasped.

The young man turned back and opened his fist; the ship, as if dropped like a fat marble onto a table, plunged to the ground. She did not have time to see the surge of earth and grass that exploded underneath it, for the vision was gone.

Girish had left her. The Exile hung lifelessly from the wall, not immediately noticing that one of the Sith students lingered in her cell, clutching a small decanter of water to his chest. She raised her head when she heard him breathe sharply in through her teeth. Through her blurry eyes, the Exile could make out his rough shape and see the jug of water that he clasped, like a last prayer, to his heart. He hesitated, pressed up against the far wall, still frozen in his spot after the door clicked shut.

“I’ve brought you water,” the student said. His rich, kind voice was a welcome relief after Girish and his unrelenting malice. The Exile nodded and the student approached slowly. She lifted her chin and let him pour a little of the cool water into her mouth.

“I don’t suppose you’ll accept an apology?” he asked. The Exile shrugged and the young man laughed nervously, drumming his fingers on the side of the jug. She had never seen someone with such an open, sweet face. He had a strong build and mischievous green eyes; she guessed at once that he was probably very popular among the young Sith women. It seemed odd that he did not have the grayish skin and predatory eyes of the other Sith.

“What inspired this kindness?” the Exile murmured.

“Girish is insane,” he said in a whisper, kneeling beside her, “I cannot understand how you have lasted this long. None of the others have, they usually join him by the second day, or…”

“Or die?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “They usually die. I know you probably don’t trust me, but you will learn to. I think… I think I’ve made a terrible mistake in joining these people. They’re murderers.”

“And you joined the Sith expecting, what? Parties and ice-cream?”

“Look, that isn’t fair, I thought it would help my family,” the young man said, and for a moment, the Exile almost believed the earnestness in his eyes. The chains, she remembered, the chains kept her from discovering his real motives. He pulled a hand through his nut-brown hair, scratching his scalp nervously. Outside, a few Sith guards could be heard laughing. The young man glanced over his shoulder before giving her a final sip from the decanter.

“I’ll come again, I promise. We’ll talk more.”

The student jumped to his feet and trotted to the door, casting a regretful look over his shoulder as he left the Exile alone in her cell, plunging her into darkness.

+ + +

“Go ahead, have seconds,” Mandalore said, sitting down across from the Disciple. “You’re looking scrawny.”

“Thank you,” the Disciple said, smiling across the table at his warrior friend. They had eaten dinner with plenty of good-natured chitchat, Mandalore having significantly more to say considering the Disciple had been asleep for much of their time apart.

The Disciple had to hand it to the Mandalorians, they trained hard and they rewarded themselves with incredibly rich food. It was good, he decided, to eat a meal privately with someone he respected, someone who did not look at him as if he were a broken, untrustworthy thing. They sat across from one another at a small, hand-carved table in Mandalore’s private chambers. The walls were littered with an astounding variety of war memorabilia, from fragments of grenades to blood-stained shawls and blaster triggers. The Disciple had never pegged the man for a sentimentalist, but in a way it made sense; the only things Mandalore had left were his war wounds and his past battles. Mandalore seemed to pick up on the uneasiness of the Disciple’s sudden silence and set down his mug of water.

“Those two friends of yours giving you a hard time?” he asked.

“I cannot blame them,” the Disciple said. “This is all very… Awkward. By trying to protect me they only made my life more difficult, but I do believe their hearts were in the right place. Still, it’s hard not to feel like I’m the butt of some cosmic joke.”

“How do you figure that?” Mandalore asked, raising one eyebrow.

“I sense some larger truth is constantly slipping through my fingers, just as I’m certain I’ve remembered something important, it disappears. It’s unbelievably frustrating. Maybe I’m not really remembering anything, maybe I’m just hoping,” he said, skewering another chili dumpling onto his fork.

“Trust yourself,” Mandalore said, lowering his voice despite their privacy. “We went through a lot of crazy bloah on the Hawk, there were a few times I didn’t think we were going to make it out alive… I never thought I would see that frak storm on Onderon resolved peacefully but, damn it, the unexpected can happen.”

“You know why I came, I suppose,” the Disciple murmured.

“You’re going after her,” Mandalore said, nodding. “I knew it was just a matter of time before you showed up asking questions. I’m prepared to tell you what I know, but I want you to swear something to me first.”

“What is it?” the Disciple asked.

“Don’t go looking for her. But if you insist on dying and you do go after her, don’t tell her I squealed. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t like it,” Mandalore said, deadly serious.

“I can agree to that,” the Disciple said. “I know the chances of survival are low, but what alternative is there? Consider how much she sacrificed for us all, it doesn’t sit right with me to let her fight an entire empire on her own. I must go, even if it means death.”

Canderous was staring at him, his eyes slightly wild and unhinged. Suddenly, the old warrior cracked a smile and slammed his hand down on the table, sending his cutlery flying.

“I like you, kid, I always have. You and that Rand character had some issues, but you never balked from a fight and I like that. And hey, you should keep the beard, it’s a good look, you can always trust a man with a good beard.”

“Thank you,” the Disciple said.

“All right, here goes. After the Hawk took a header on Jaroon she took off pretty quick. She came with me, here, to Dxun. Apparently she wanted some weapons, which was fine with me, but I didn’t know she meant half of the damn armory,” Canderous said with a fond chuckle.

“How long did she stay?” the Disciple asked, forgetting all about his half-full plate.

“About a month, she trained pretty hard with the boys, they put her through the works but nothing seemed to faze her. She was a maniac, with focus like I’ve never seen before. I wanted to ask her to stick around, fight some battles with us for old time’s sake, but she couldn’t be persuaded. Right at the end she hesitated, like she knew she shouldn’t go and that she wouldn’t be back,” Mandalore explained.

“What was her… State of mind?”

“Focused, like I said, but she was sad, too, like she didn’t really want to do any of it but she had no say in the matter. I’ve seen that look before; seasoned warriors get that look when they know they’ve fought their last battle. It wasn’t good to see, especially knowing where she was headed,” Canderous looked away as he finished, picking up his knife from the floor.

“And you didn’t try to stop her?”

“Stop her? I always knew you had a sense of humor hiding in there somewhere. Look, kid, you knew her, she was stubborner than a drakka boar when she wanted to be. I wasn’t keen to see her go but there really wasn’t anything I could do about it,” Canderous said. The Disciple studied the Mandalorian and fought the instinct to continue arguing. It was clear that Canderous was disturbed by the whole despicable situation – true, he was the Exile’s friend but it was not his place to stop her. Obviously, the Mandalorian had cared for her, it was evident in the way he lowered his tone respectfully whenever he mentioned her name, it was clear in the way he defended her actions tirelessly.

“Are you still having trouble… Remembering things, I mean?” Canderous asked softly.

“Sometimes,” the Disciple began, “At night I have long dreams, sometimes I’m not certain if they’re memories or just my imagination. I described a few of them to Bao-Dur and he confirmed that they actually happened.”

“Do you want my honest opinion?” Canderous asked, resting his elbows on the table.

“Please, I welcome it.”

“That woman, she’s the kind of woman that doesn’t need a man, not for anything. But if she wanted one, she could do much worse than you,” Canderous said. The Disciple wasn’t certain how to interpret the odd confession but it struck him that the Mandalorian had given him a rare compliment, cloaked in apathy as it may have appeared. The Disciple nodded, a wan smile spreading across his face.

“Thank you, I think.”

They clinked mugs together. The Disciple was about to drop the subject of the past altogether when he had a sudden idea. An image of a journal, ripped apart and blank came to mind.

“Do you remember me giving her anything? Letters? Papers? Anything?”

Canderous sat back in his chair mulling the question over his water. After a moment he sat forward quickly, his sharp eyes afire.

“We were celebrating with all the wine the queen gave us after Iziz was restored. You all had gone to bed but she was determined to drink me under the table, personal goal I guess. She was doing a pretty good job, but by the end of it we were both a little… I mean, the truth was flowing just as free as the wine, if you know what I mean, and with everyone turned in for bed... Anyway, she said something about poems.”

“Poems?” the Disciple cried, perhaps a little too quickly.

“Yeah, poems,” Canderous said with a smirk, crossing his arms over his chest, “I think they baffled her a little, to be honest. She didn’t know what to make of them.”

“Oh,” the Disciple groaned, wincing.

“Not like that, kid, I don’t remember much of it, I wasn’t exactly in top form,” Canderous said, trailing off. He seemed ready to end the subject and then added, “But I do remember one thing. She said something about being called a muse, I think she liked that or something, she kept repeating it.”

The Disciple stared at the Mandalorian, who suddenly blushed deeply and looked away.

“Hey, don’t ask me why I remember garbage like that,” Canderous grunted, hugging himself defensively. He looked away, smiling to himself about some private memory; he scratched idly at his thatch of gray hair. It was nice to see the old warrior smiling; it would be easy, the Disciple thought, for him to simply retire and let the Mandalorians disappear quietly into history. He could easily be an obscure and decrepit drunk somewhere, recalling how things were, how mighty he once was, but Mandalore did not give up and for that, the Disciple had to respect him.

As he looked at the other man, the Disciple felt an electric urge rising, felt it pressing against his throat until he sighed, let go, and let the Force out. There was a memory of the Exile in this man’s brain, and it was impossible to say whether or not he was telling the whole truth about the exchange. Judging from his guarded, scrambled thoughts, there was more too tell. It was done delicately, his surgical invasion of Mandalore’s mind, but the memory was fresh on the man’s brain and came easily, nearly jumping into the Disciple’s lap.

“Muse,” she was saying, biting down on her lip, her yellow hair disheveled and tumbling over one shoulder. Her speech was gently slurred and she blinked rather more than usual, “It’s sort of nice, I always considered myself a bit on the tyrannical side. Muse is a clever euphemism, don’t you think? Of course I’m not sure it’s about me…”

“Right, obviously it’s not about you, it’s a meditation on the many charms of Mr. Atton Rand,” Canderous said. They both erupted into a prolonged fit of laughter. Four empty bottles of good Iziz wine littered the card table and there was little semblance of a pazaak game actually going on. Her cheeks were flushed when they finally stopped laughing. She pushed a hand into her tangle of blonde waves.

“Well, that’s embarrassing,” the Disciple murmured, looking down at his lap.

“Forget it, like I said, I think it made her happy. There wasn’t a lot to smile about then.”

“There still isn’t,” the Disciple finished.

“Look,” Canderous said, standing. “Get some sleep, we’ll talk over coordinates in the morning. I might be able to track the ship, at least to the first destination. It was mine, after all.”

The Disciple nodded and stood, thanking Canderous for dinner. The Mandalorian escorted him to the door.

“Please, don’t say anything about the… poetry, to Bao-Dur, I don’t want him to think this mission is just about me. I want to keep things in perspective, even if I have my own agenda; I want to put a legitimate face on all of this. She was our leader, she deserves our loyalty even in the darkest of times,” the Disciple said, looking Canderous in the eyes. The Mandalorian nodded and put a heavy hand on the Jedi’s shoulder.

“It’s our secret, kid.”

+ + +

You remarked to me once that you did not understand poetry, that it has always left you feeling a little bereft, as if the meaning had fluttered away before you could catch it – a cunning, sparkling butterfly that teasingly called to you, just out of reach. But my poems are simple, and that I can promise. They are merely a list, humbly collected, of the ways in which you have pitilessly stolen my heart and the means by which I have devised to steal it back. I could, with accuracy, call you witch, temptress, underhanded siren of tempestuous seas. But I would rather call you, and more fittingly I believe, muse.

The Sith student kept his word; he came back the next day and brought water and food with him. Somehow he had managed to sneak in a satchel of dried meat and oats, which was better food than the Exile had been given in a week. She ate in nervous silence, half-fearing that the food might be laced with poison, but she was unable to call on her Force powers to search his mind for hidden evils. As she devoured the spicy dried meat, the Sith knelt beside her, holding the water carafe and explaining his reasons for aiding her. He seemed mesmerized by her face, staring at her all the time until she pleaded with him to look away; the endless torture and food deprivation had left her gaunt and tattered.

“My family once ruled K’resh and most of Lokan. When the Sith arrived we were not prepared at all for their invasion and their… Evil. It was swift and terrible, they killed whoever and whatever they wanted. They turned my home, our home, into their private battleground. Now they take over everything, eating up planet after planet… They’re insatiable,” the young man said, taking a sip of the water.

“You’re a member of the royal family?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” he said. “But it isn’t as impressive as you might think. The Sith killed my little sister and my oldest sister rules now. That’s why I came here, to join the Sith, I mean, I had no chance of gaining the throne and I thought maybe… It’s foolish, but I thought I could gain some favor with the Sith, get them to ease the trade lock up and persuade them to let us contact other nations again,” he explained, his brow deeply furrowed. The Exile had picked up on the man’s nobility earlier, he possessed a very upright air for a mere student; Sith apprentices were beaten and harassed into submission, they skulked around like mistreated dogs, but this young man maintained his dignity. She looked at his sweet face, his stout head with the deeply concerned eyes and pink, boyish lips – what had inspired this prince to volunteer his aid? And his voice, his voice sounded familiar but not in any immediately significant way.

“And your name?” the Exile asked.

“Khai’Shel niK’Resh,” he replied, inclining his head. “But you may call me Khai. And yours?”

“I no longer have a name,” she said, smiling sadly. “I am my mission, and that is all. There is no use naming something that is marked for death.”

“That is exactly what I am hoping to remedy,” Khai exclaimed, his voice an excited whisper.

“Don’t hope for me, please. You’re young, you can get out of here, escape. Just leave, Khai, nothing is keeping you here. If you get off the planet you could leave the Sith behind. Go somewhere far away, somewhere they will never find you and have a life,” she said. Her eyes watered; how she wished she could follow her own advice. Khai shook his head and grabbed her hand, pressing it urgently.

“There is a way to save you,” Khai said. “There is always a way.”

“I might have thought that at one point, I’ll admit, but these chains are too powerful. Without the Force I will not be able to free myself,” she replied. “Besides, why would you help me?”

“Because your kind have always been dear to my family,” Khai replied. “We too can yield this thing you call the Force, but for us it is very different. Those who are born with it are blessed, they are the Prophets, and they are our only guide in the dark times. I see now that my hopes were silly, that joining the Sith was dangerous and childish.”

“They aren’t just going to let you walk out of here with me,” the Exile said. She was beginning to think that this young man was a bit insane or even more likely, delusional. It could also be a trap, she realized, some Sith machination to knock her off guard. Kindness was often taken too literally by the Jedi, and taken at face value friendship could be manipulated and twisted into an evil, hurtful thing. She would not fall prey to this young man’s scheme, however open and trusting his countenance was.

“Give me a chance; I know I may not seem like much to you now, but I have powerful friends on the outside.”

“You’re going to help me just because I use the Force?” she asked, incredulous.

“The Sith talk about you in whispers, they speak of you as if you were the coming of doom, as if you are the end of their world. They fear you and what my people need most is a weapon that inspires that kind of abject terror. I am a proud man, Jedi, but I can recognize salvation when it looks me in the eyes. You are beautiful, Jedi, you glow with an inner light even wrapped up in those dreadful chains,” he said, touching a strand of her hair worshipfully. “Tell me, if I can find a way to release you, will you help my family rid Lokan of the Sith infestation?”

The Exile briefly considered telling him the truth, that even if she were to escape, the Sith had likely colonized many other nearby planets, perhaps entire systems, and his family would be crushed under heel if they were even suspected of harboring a Jedi. If Sith like Girish existed elsewhere than the chances of the Sith threat dying out was almost nonexistent. She had been prepared to encounter cruel men, yes, but she was still surprised by the force of their hatred. And yet, even with the Force inhibited, she sensed something in the young man that encouraged her to believe him. Someone had once told her that small acts of kindness would heal the galaxy and perhaps it was important to keep faith in those seemingly meaningless deeds. This prince’s eyes were sincere, yes, but there was something else, some nagging in her heart that said he had an important part to play in her destiny. Rousing herself, she gave him a dazzling smile.

“Yes, Khai, if you find a way to release me then I will gladly stand by your family and do whatever I can to destroy the Sith,” she said. It wasn’t a complete lie; after all, she had come to this unknown planet with the intent of confronting the Sith Empire. There was another desire in her, she knew, a feverish desire for liberation. She would do anything she could think of to be out of this dank, painful prison and even the long shot would suffice. Desperation, she knew, was a terrible companion and she silently reminded herself to remain cautious and vigilant.

Khai beamed at her, clasping her hand in his.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you. I will not let you down. I swear to you, before the week is out, you shall be free.”

+ + +

“You’re still awake?”

Mission turned around quickly, finding Bao-Dur standing in the corridor, dressed in a thin sleeping robe. She smiled with what little energy she had left and nodded to the seat next to her. Perfectly sensible of his body outlined beneath the robe, she kept her eyes glued to the table. The Ebon Hawk was speeding away from Dxun, guided by the coordinates generously provided by Mandalore and his team of analysts, who gave them their best estimate of the Exile’s journey. Mandalore had seemed sad to see them go, clutching the Disciple’s wrist with fatherly tenderness.

One sleeve on the Iridonian’s robe was pulled up, revealing the blue glow of his electrically attached arm. Mission had often wondered what would happen if she stuck her fingers into the jet of blue light, but she had never felt bold enough to ask him; she assumed the answer would involve her losing one or all of said fingers. He sat beside her and glanced at the row of pazaak cards; she had been playing against herself. In the next room the Disciple was silent, asleep for the moment.

“I don’t sleep much anymore,” Mission murmured, shuffling the cards skillfully and dealing them. Bao-Dur took up the cards she dealt, keeping his eyes firmly locked on her.

“You have to stop worrying about him,” Bao-Dur said gently. “He’s remembering more and more. He’ll soon be set right again.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re optimistic. Anyway, it isn’t that,” Mission said, whispering. “It’s about Revan. I received a transmission from Zaalbar an hour ago. She’s left the battle, she returned to Coruscant. She and Admiral Onasi disappeared; no one knows where they’ve gone to.”

“What? She’s defected?” Bao-Dur hissed.

“Your Exile is on her own, Revan’s gone home.”

“I knew it,” Bao-Dur said, shaking his head in despair. “I knew this would happen. These women get it in their heads that they can take on the whole world, that somehow they don’t need anyone’s help - ”

“Excuse me, what do you mean these women?” Mission asked, setting down her cards.

“Revan… The Exile… It’s ridiculous. It will take an army to destroy the Sith, many armies, not one bull-headed woman,” Bao-Dur replied. Mission set her mouth in a firm line, studying the Iridonian closely. They had grown closer during their brief stay on Dxun, but not to the point where she could take what he said at face value.

“It has nothing to do with them being women. Besides, she’s your General. You said yourself she was a frakkin hurricane on Malachor. Anyway, I don’t see the Republic falling over themselves to offer any armies for the job; Revan was just trying to save lives by sacrificing her own,” Mission countered.

“Oh and that worked out brilliantly, didn’t it?” he scoffed. “Now she’s run off with the Admiral of the Republic forces. Don’t you get it, Mission? Revan’s sending a message: It’s hopeless, turn back now, have a life while you still can.”

“You can’t speak for her,” Mission whispered fiercely. “You never even met her, I did. I know she went to war with the best intentions and when she figured out she was in trouble she left. Wouldn’t you do the same? What if you went to fight the Sith by yourself? Can you imagine how lonely that would be? And what if I was waiting on Dantooine for you?”

Mission covered her mouth. She had gone too far. It was never supposed to be about them, and she knew better than to hint that they figured into the equation. They were supposed to be delivering the Disciple, dropping him like a proton bomb on the Exile in the hope it would give her the extra edge she needed and tip the balance of the war. Whatever happened to she and Bao-Dur was inconsequential in the midst of so much responsibility, and she didn’t want to invite too much intimacy. It was pointless, she knew, to encourage him when they might be dead any day.

Bao-Dur smiled sadly at her and moved his chair closer.

“Say that again,” he murmured.

“Say what?” she asked, blushing deep blue and looking away.

“…That you would wait for me.”

“You know I would, Bao, but that’s not the point. We might be heading for big trouble, in fact, I know we are. What’s the use in starting something now, here, at the end?” she asked, fighting back tears. A memory winked at her from far off, a vision of her standing among friends and compatriots on an alien beach, a love-struck Captain and his Jedi love hand in hand while their friends looked on. What had Master Bindo said? She didn’t want to remember, it would only make things more difficult.

“You’re young; you shouldn’t talk like you have nothing left. We can’t exist just for other people. We can risk our lives, sure, and we can help the Disciple, but someday we have to be selfish, Mission. I can be selfish, and if this is indeed the end, then I’d rather go out smiling, selfishly, wouldn’t you?” Bao-Dur asked, placing a warm, inciting hand on her knee.

“No,” she said softly, turning back to him. “Forget smiling. I’d much rather go out kissing.”

“Kissing? Kissing who?”

Bao-Dur grinned, leaning toward her, falling hopelessly into her orbit. Mission wanted the tension to last forever, for that moment to stretch on and on so she could keep feeling his mouth getting closer, keep smelling his warm-earth scent.

Then a sound ripped through the hull of the ship, and for a moment, Mission thought they had collided with an asteroid. But it was the Disciple; he was awake and screaming as if he were being torn slowly in half. She jumped out of her chair, sprinting into the sleeping quarters where she found the Disciple sitting bolt upright in his bunk, sweat pouring down his neck. The cords in his throat stood out and he was clutching at his chest. In the dim glow of Bao-Dur’s arm he was cast in a ghostly blue light. He looked even paler than usual, caught up as he was in his fit of hysterics.

“What is it?” she demanded, sitting on the bed beside him, feeling his feverish forehead.

“We must hurry,” he whispered, choking on the words.

“We’re going as fast as we can,” Bao-Dur replied, filling up the doorway.

“No,” the Disciple croaked. His eyes were wide, filled with something, some terrible knowledge or sight that Mission could only imagine. “The danger… A snake in the bed, from the bowels of the earth in the… We must hurry.”

“What are you talking about? Did you see something through the Force?” Mission asked, smoothing his hair away from his damp forehead. She had filled this role before, calming Revan on many of her sleepless, nightmare-ridden nights.

“She needs us, Mission,” the Disciple murmured, letting out a deep, shuddering breath. “The Force is crying, sobbing, as if already in mourning. Can you not hear it?”

Mission looked over at Bao-Dur who licked his lips nervously in the dim light. He nodded at her and she winced; now two of them had felt it and she knew it was only a matter of time before her command of the Force sent her the same desperate message. She turned back to the Disciple and pushed on his shoulders lightly until he lay down again.

“Try to sleep,” she said, forcing a motherly smile. She hated playing the grown-up; why couldn’t Bao-Dur take care of his friend sometime? “We’ll get there as soon as we can. Until then, we just have to believe… Everything will work itself out. It has to.”

+ + +

All this long afternoon I’ve kept the snow cake you gave me wrapped in its pink paper; it remained hidden away inside my pocket. You ate yours right away and a little dollop of cream sugar stayed on your lip like a pearl. It reminded me of childhood, of sitting outside the enclave in a gentle snowfall, aching to know where the snow came from and wondering how it had got so cold. In my young mind I decided that it simply was created that way, just like that bit of sugar, a small thing, magical and existing only to be understood later.

The Exile began to grow concerned when Khai did not return for two agonizing days. During that time Darth Girish visited only once, but it was the longest session yet. He had brought along a torture droid, an ominous, hovering black globe with an arsenal of alarming attachments. The droid prodded her with needles and white-hot blades; at the end of the afternoon her arms and legs were covered in cuts, welts and long rivulets of blood. In between using the droids attachments, the Sith blasted her with Force lightning, reveling in her gasps and cries.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered to her before leaving. “Tomorrow, my dear, will be your last day with us.”

The Exile shivered as he left. She tried to spit after him, hating his voice, hating the way it dripped with intimacy and pleasure. The Exile winced, hoping she wouldn’t bleed to death before Khai came for her.

Khai. She began wondering if the young man would ever return. Dath Girish, she assumed, would have informed her if the student had been caught trying to free her, it would have been one more demoralizing tidbit to whisper lovingly in her ear. No, Khai was alive and maybe, just maybe, working toward her liberation. Unfortunately, the clock was ticking; Girish had run out of patience and her death was eminent. She had been foolish to rely on Khai and entertain even for a moment the possibility of his success.

The night that followed was her darkest yet, in the prison, and in all the memories she had. It felt like the right time to allow the thoughts she had been keeping at bay to return, envelope her and lull her into a deep, consuming place where she could bask in her impending demise. With death so near, there was no point in keeping secrets from herself, not anymore. Yes, it was time, she decided, smiling even as the tears wound down her cheeks; she would let the memories return, let all of her misplaced hopes and aspirations come flooding back. The Exile could finally spend the night in mourning for what could have been.

How appropriate, she thought, that the night was coming on and the miserable slit of sunlight on the floor of her cell was vanishing into a purple nothingness. She wondered if the moonlight would penetrate, if she would at least have that small comfort. It was better that she could not use the Force, for if she could, she would be tempted to search for her companions over the vastness of space and find what they were doing, check in on their lives and see whether or not they were going along happily, playing out day to day activities like normal people.

Instead she could only speculate. The Exile could guess that little had changed, that things went along as they did before she left for the Unknown Regions; she hoped, at least, that that was the case. The chains, she could only curse them in vain, knowing that she was powerless while attached to them, understanding that her connection to the Force was directly linked to her connection with him.

“It’s time,” she said aloud to the shapeless dark.

She had always pictured them very specifically. Like two far off and distant figures in a hazy meadow, they moved slowly toward each other, parting the fog, listening to the noisy cricket song. They were like two comets, firelight and shimmering dust streaming behind them, headed on a crash course that could destroy them both in a beautiful, blinding explosion. That was the perfect image, she thought; that slow, exultant progress toward him was everything. Somehow, the dwindling space saved them, kept them from forbidden knowledge. If they space evaporated… If they met…

It was ridiculous, she realized, really very ridiculous, how disconnected Jedi were from their bodies. In many ways she had mastered her body a long time ago, it was hers alone and no one could deny that she was a formidable opponent. But many parts of her body were as alien as a foreign language. She understood biology and her body, certainly, but not in the way she knew it could be. Some women knew themselves and glowed, radiated with the knowledge.

There were feelings that were so completely out of bounds that she couldn’t even think of a way to articulate them. And there again were the two figures moving toward each other; once, they had come so close to that tempting and forbidden thing, the knowledge that kept them suspended in a timeless, crawling chase. Like the silly Jedi they were, they had balked, tucked tail and fled, from each other, from the enlightening they both secretly obsessed over. She had convinced herself that knowing him, truly knowing him and discovering his secrets would destroy any appeal of the relationship. Wasn’t mystery, after all, the most sought-after thing?

“Let it come,” she said.

If she didn’t speak the words aloud she might never be able to unlock the door in her subconscious. But as she spoke, the tightly shut door opened a crack and then flung open wide and she saw him again in her mind and in memory: Her beautiful one, the one she couldn’t stop denying herself. Wasn’t it the way of all cowards, to look on a desired thing and fear possessing it?

Maybe she had craved the pursuit and when his feelings came, when the poems began to turn up, shyly folded on her bunk’s pillow… Maybe she abandoned all hope of chasing him down and forcing him to see her, truly see her. He was already in love with her, the work was done, she was all but guaranteed his affection and that above all else, frightened her. If she asked for it, she could have his love.

“Take my life,” he had said to her, crumpled on the floor of the Ebon Hawk after they had crashed on Malachor. She was about to face her nemesis and face her death and there he was, little more than a pile of bones and blonde hair, offering what was left of his soul.

“Just take it,” he begged, turning onto his stomach, a gash on his forehead weeping blood. She had never heard his voice reach that register, that note of desperation. “It was yours alone; for the love of all that’s good, take it.”

She didn’t even know what he meant. Killing him was unthinkable, unspeakable, but perhaps that wasn’t what he meant at all. Such sacrifice in one so pure and able, it just didn’t make sense. He would live to fight another day and so would she… And perhaps that had happened because of his incomprehensible offering. Was it just a symbol, or had he given her something, something tangible and permanent that day?

No, she couldn’t have him, didn’t deserve him, and would never deserve someone so full and vital. He lived and breathed her and she delighted in it, but she had a job to do; she could never give of herself to just one person, it was her destiny to be broken apart and loved by all.

This realization did nothing to comfort her. What did provide a modicum of solace, however, was the memory, faded now with time and use, of two Jedi, hopelessly lost in the thrill of pursuit, tumbling in the grass on a balmy morning. Dxun. Why couldn’t every place provide such perfection? The figures in the meadow had nearly met that morning, the comets nearly collided. Just the taste of that possibility excited and terrified her, planted seeds that she would prohibit always from growing. She had tasted his sweat on her tongue and found it too intoxicating to endure, and she had touched, fleetingly, his spun-silk hair and felt the undying fire of his eyes. Surely love was there, but something better, something like love and another wilder thing, like two distinct elements combining into an explosive, passionate and higher property.

It was all present, there in the damp grass: The woman unmasked and the parts that made up a man. And yet more existed, something startling underneath the flesh and muscle and bone, a pulse like a tribal dance inviting her to come closer, come into him, wander and get lost. And she had nearly heeded that call; because of that, her heart ached now for what might have happened had she just been a little bolder, a little stronger, a little less the warrior carved of immutable stone.

She might have loved, and yes, she might have lost it just as quickly, but losing a thing that she never really had… The Exile moved closer to the wall, holding herself against it in the hope that some small vestige of warmth remained, but there was none.

“Just let it come,” she whispered.

And so it came, slowly at first, but then more sharply: The Jedi in repose, the martyr on his saintly bed.

“I love you,” she had said to the deeply dreaming man, the man who might never awake. To never see his eyes on her again and never feel that total heat… “I love you and it hurts so much. If you could hear me… In there… But you can’t.”

She knelt over the box full of his possessions. The journal lay on top, tipped coyly to the side. The Exile snatched it up, flipped quickly through the pages filled up with cramped writing, filled to overflowing with ink and poetry. She nearly tossed it back onto the pile, but in a moment of weakness she took hold of the pages and pulled, hard, until they came away in her hand. Glancing around, she stuffed them into the folds of her robe and replaced the journal.

“I hope you understand,” she said, molding her palm around his cheek. “I might need these.”

That face. She stared at him and he looked so calm, she thought, so stony, as if he had already died and been immortalized in pure marble. She put her fingers in front of his nose and felt the little puffs of air that told her no, he was alive, some scrap of life remained in his still body. The Exile bent over him and pressed a kiss to his forehead and stayed there until she felt the first tears springing to her eyes. She turned to go.

At the door the Exile hesitated, burning, and spun around to face him again. She stalked across the room to his bedside and wiped at her wet face, panting and glaring down at him with a terrible snarl.

“How dare you, how dare you leave me!” she screamed. She clawed at her own face. “Just… I hate you, I hate you so much! Do you know that? I wish you would die and let me be, let me have some peace. But I’ll never get that, will I? You’ll never let me go, never, you’ll insist on this ridiculous game until I’m finally dead from it. You’re heartless! You’re killing me. I… Oh, Gods.”

She felt the strength leave her legs and she collapsed for a moment, holding her head against his warm side. Then she stood brusquely, collected herself and left, shutting the door behind her.

There was nothing to be done now. She could only lay crumpled in her cell, letting the waves of anger and disappointment wash over her. It was unavoidable now; she had held something precious in her hands, a fragile glass ball filled with light and music and she had crushed it. Now the broken glass of that delicate ornament stung her hands, made her bleed, made her expire. Had Revan experienced this kind of hopelessness? The Exile hoped obliquely that Revan had made it out in time to embrace what really mattered. She admired her former General; Revan might have had the intelligence to see that a solitary Jedi could do nothing against the massed hatred of the true Sith.

“Forgive me,” the Exile murmured, closing her eyes. “And forget me.”

+ + +

Snakes. Wet, cold snakes – she could feel them touching her legs, wrapping around her toes, peering at her with red, glowing eyes. They were everywhere, multiplying, not biting but watching, waiting, hissing and hissing and begging to be heard. Awful, just awful, to feel them everywhere, sliding against her, making her throat go dry and rasping. Could they get in her eyes? Could they fill up her head?

She jolted awake, heart pounding, feeling an icy shiver running down her spine and into her legs. Her eyes adjusted to the early morning light and she sat up slowly, rubbing at her temples. There were no snakes; it was just a dream. A dream, she thought, and maybe more.

The room was warm and still and the sheer curtains let in a pale yellow light that filled the space with a sweet, inviting glow. Stay in bed, the light seemed to say, go back to sleep. Beside her, a tall figure dozed peacefully, snoring on every other inhalation.

Good, she thought, I did not wake him.

She stood, pulling one of the silken bed sheets off of the large bed, and went to the window. Below, the surface of a smooth, pearly ocean stretched out, covered with thin, cottony wisps of clouds. It was so beautiful, so different from anything she had ever seen. No more death, that was her new mantra, no more killing, no more hands dipped in blood.

The barge drifted lazily over the tropical planet, hanging in the atmosphere just above the clouds to provide a breathtaking view. She glanced at a thermal reader on the wall: It was a perfect seventy degrees in the room. A tall, leafy fern cast a ragged shadow on the pink wall beside her and two empty glasses with a patina of orange liquid sat on the table across from the bed. It was like gliding in an oyster shell, she decided, hiding inside an opalescent treasure, floating just above a perfect, undisturbed ocean. It was probably teeming with life, that ocean, but on the surface it was smooth and calm; there were millions of fish in there, maybe billions, maybe water snakes.

She shivered and glanced over her shoulder, hugging the silky sheet to her chest; the end of it just barely brushed the tops of her toes. His outline was stamped into the bed sheets as he lay on his side, knees tucked up to his chest. It was still surprising to see him there, to wake up with his warmth touching her arm. They had been apart for so long, it had felt like an impossible age, stretching on and on, bringing her nothing but misery. And now they were together and she knew, truly knew, it was for forever.

How ridiculous to think that she could just run away from what she herself had begun. And now she was paying for it. She had meant to keep him all to herself and whisk him away where no one could find them but that was a dream, impossible. The Force could not be outrun, it followed her everywhere and it had finally caught up to her, bringing with it a deep, resonating wound. The Force was crying out with those dreams; they were a warning to Jedi and Sith alike that something big and something bad was just on the horizon. She hoped with the full power of her soul that it was not too late. Smiling sadly, she gazed at him slumbering beneath the sheath of purple silk. She hated to wake him, but it was time. Her mind wandered toward him, calling him gently from sleep.

“Carth,” she murmured, and he woke almost instantly, turning over to look at her. He blinked away his drowsiness, rubbing his knuckles over his bearded jaw.

“Honey?” he whispered hoarsely. “What are you doing up? Something wrong?”

Carth’s honey-brown eyes took her in, saw the look on her face and his whole body went limp.

“No,” he said, drawing out the word in frustration, “no, no, no.”

“Admiral,” Revan admonished gently, “You knew. You knew it might come to this.”

She came to sit beside him and he scooted closer to her on the soft bed; like a scolded puppy he put his head in her lap and sighed with his entire body. It was so good to have simple things, just having him there, open to her, hers to love and comfort… But it was difficult to get used to. She wasn’t at all accustomed to hanging-on to good things.

“This was supposed to be just us, you know? I’m so tired.”

“I am, too, Carth, but I can’t let her die. It’s hard now, but we would pay a far worse price later.”

Carth’s body stiffened and she put her hands in his thick hair, running her fingers over his scalp to ease his worry. Even with their lessons, Carth was horrible at closing off his mind to her; Revan could sort through his thoughts as easily as putting her hands into a bath of running water. As he lay against her he played idly with the silver band on his left hand.

“What?” she asked.

“I’m just still getting used to it, that’s all,” he said, looking up at her. “Married. I never thought we would actually do it.”

“Buyer’s remorse?” she teased, pinching his ear.

“Hardly, beautiful,” Carth said with a laugh, pulling her down into the bed. He rolled on top of her, pinning her under his weight. She knew this look of his; he meant business, and he wanted to look in her eyes to be sure she couldn’t escape him.

“Promise me something,” he murmured, placing warm kisses along her shoulder.

“Anything.”

“If we do this, it’s the last time. We made a pact, remember? No more war,” Carth said.

“You’re giving in rather easily, don’t you think?”

“I know you, Eva. You get an idea in your head and that’s that. I’m not going to argue, there’s no point. I just want you to promise me this is the last time. Your friend… She’s really in trouble?”

“She went to finish what I began,” Revan said, swallowing thickly. “I can’t just let her die, alone on that miserable planet. I should have been able to end it myself and I failed. But I think together, really together, something can be done. I don’t know if you can feel it, Carth, but it’s beating against my head… There’s something inside of me, something stirring, and it’s time to let it out.”

“I’m coming with you,” Carth whispered into her neck.

“Of course you are.”

Carth rolled off of her with a groan and went to the desk in the far corner. Revan sat against the headboard and watched the golden light slide languidly down over his naked back, his muscled thighs, and his toes. He grabbed a com-link and stretched his arms over his head.

“I’ve turned you into a nudist,” Revan mused.

“Yeah well,” Carth said, turning around and leaning against the desk, allowing her an even more intimate view, “You can still change your mind since I’m ninety percent sure clothes will be required for this mission. Up to you, though.”

“I’ll make the coffeine,” Revan teased, sliding out of bed, gliding away like a coquettish mermaid. She touched his shoulder gently on her way out the door. The com-link buzzed to life as she left and Carth squeezed his head between thumb and forefinger, letting out a deep breath of consternation.

“Dustil? Yeah, it’s me. Get your things together and meet us on Corellia. What? I don’t care; your vacation is officially over.”

+ + +

In the end, all we have is what we’ve given. Whatever part of me lives in you is what matters; that will endure beyond all pain, all fear, all manner of time and age. We give away pieces of our heart and lighten our own load, and just when we feel we’ve given away too much someone arrives to give you sections of their own heart. It is a tenuous balance, the give and take, the parts of my heart that are my own and the new fitted slivers that you have offered in silence. But at last we are whole, and filled up, a patchwork of stars and dreams.

Morning. The tiny piece of sunlight pierced the dank cell and drew the Exile from her restless dreaming. The Force was hurting. Even draped in the chains she could feel it, and she knew, vaguely, it was hurting for her. It was only just dawn and she wanted to go on sleeping, immersing herself in what she could remember of her former and better life.

At first she thought she was imagining the sound, a sound like the earth being wrenched open, like a skull splitting down the middle, but then, as the sleep fell away from her eyes and ears, she realized the sound was real and coming from the wall beside her. The entire room began to shake and tiny fissures appeared in the smooth ebony wall, climbing up from the floor and jutting down from the ceiling. The noise grew, rattling her brains, as little clouds of dust shot out form between the widening cracks. Voices, she could hear voices behind the trembling wall. The Exile tried to scuttle backward, away from the splits in the wall.

A thunderous pounding began, shaking the room and the cells around her. The Exile clasped her hands to her chest, sweating, wondering if this was death at last or something else entirely. She could hear the Sith soldiers shouting outside the door behind her and she heard banging on the handle; they were coming for her and the only thing in their way was the flimsy lock.

“Please hold,” she begged the lock. “Just hold a little longer.”

Perhaps this was salvation, this ungodly racket. The crack closest to the end of the wall was now almost a foot wide and jagged. The pounding continued, growing in intensity until her entire body shook with each clap of something against the outer wall of the spire. The Sith were growing more frantic, scratching at the door, shooting at it. Deep dents were appearing in the surface of the door where their vibroblades and blaster rounds were gauging. They would breach the door soon; she would be finished.

Then the jagged opening exploded and parts of the wall shot inward, littering the floor with sharp debris and bits of rock and plaster. The Exile coughed, covering her mouth as the dust particles rose in a thick cloud all around her. Sunlight bled into the room, lighting up the floor and far wall. The voices outside were just as loud as the Sith now.

When the dust settled the Exile crawled on hands and knees to the opening and what she saw ripped the breath straight out of her lungs. She cried out, flinging her hands forward in joy.

There was Khai, but not as she had ever expected to see him. He was no longer dressed in the bland robes of a Sith student, now he wore a brilliant cape of gold trimmed in purple and his robes were the color of a lavender, moonlit sky. The Exile now discovered what had been pounding so fiercely against the wall; Khai sat astride a magnificent winged serpent, its metallic green and brown scales glinting in the dawn’s glow; behind it, a barbed tail stretched into the sky. Two other beasts with riders flanked the prince. Great gusts of wind met her face as the beat flapped its leathery wings and regarded her with shiny yellow eyes hidden behind a black studded halter. The prince maneuvered the beast closer to the crack and hailed the Exile.

“You didn’t think I’d forgotten about you, did you?”

She laughed, ecstatically, tears rushing down her dirty face. He withdrew an enormous hatchet with a red blade from the scabbard at his side and edged toward the cell until the serpent was nudged up against the outer wall of the spire. With both hands, he brought the hatchet down on the glowing blue Force chains once – twice – and on the third chop they splintered apart. The Exile nearly collapsed from the sudden rush of feeling: It was glorious, like being catapulted toward the sun, absorbing all of the heat and radiance exploding in her body at once.

“Can you stand?” he called, extending his large hand.

The Exile threw off the chains and stood, not shaking, not even hesitating, and strode to the winged serpent. Khai took her hand in his strong grip and pulled her, with a grunt, onto the beast and behind him. The Exile grabbed Khai around the waist and settled into the saddle. Inside, the noise of the Sith soldiers was reaching its pith, but they were already taking off, flying high into the air and away from the spire. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes watering from the wind whipping at her eyes, and saw the cell grow smaller and smaller, its wall destroyed and crumbling.

“Here,” Khai shouted, and he threw a soft, light blanket over both of them. Inside the blanket it was much warmer and she could see a slit of sunlight where there was a whole in the garment, allowing Khai to see and navigate.

“It’s a camouflage cloak,” he called to her, “These Morgreks can blend seamlessly into the sky, it’s their natural protection against larger predators.”

“Larger predators?” she shouted back, astounded. She heard the prince laughing heartily.

“The blanket will help us blend in with them, the Sith won’t be able to detect us, we won’t give off any signal and in this light they won’t be able to see a thing!”

The Exile felt herself smiling, and she tucked her head against the prince’s shoulder, her body shaking with relief. It was so good to have the Force back, to be herself again, and to feel her old power returning, minute by minute, to her starved body. She could hear the other riders and their Morgreks and feel the air rushing against her from all sides. One of the animals let out a trilling cry, and she laughed, never expecting to hear a snake purr with the thrill of flight in her lifetime.

They sped through the air at amazing speed, using the wind to travel even faster. At last, they descended, hurtling toward the earth at an alarming rate and then alighting, softly, in a cooler place. Under the blanket she could feel the air grow chill. Khai pulled the cloak off of her and the Exile saw that they had landed in a shady grove under gnarled, black trees. Everything around them was silent and the cold air from the trees’ shading branches added to the strange stillness. Khai dismounted and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her safely to the ground. He called something to the two other riders, who were also concealed in camouflage, but the Exile could not understand it, he was speaking a language she had never heard before.

“We should be safe now,” he said to her, keeping his arm around her waist.

“Where are they going?” the Exile asked, reaching out to pat the Morgrek’s spiny scales.

“They need to feed the Morgreks and get them back to the hidden pastures,” he explained, leading her toward an enormous building. The Exile had not even noticed the palace before, but now it was impossible to miss, rising up in front of them like a silver mountain.

“We’ve been hiding the Morgreks from the Sith, but it’s difficult, you saw how big they are and they don’t exactly appreciate being tethered up,” Khai said.

“Thank you,” the Exile murmured, remembering herself.

“I made you a promise, it’s only fitting that I deliver on it,” Khai replied soberly. “We’ll enter the palace from the back, I hope you weren’t expecting fanfare. We need to keep a low profile.”

“Of course,” the Exile whispered. “You’ve put yourself in so much danger already.”

“I’ll explain everything later, right now you need food and rest.”

The Exile didn’t mind his strong hand on her waist; it was it was a comfort, as she was beginning to feel weak with hunger and excitement. He led her through a pair of small doors hidden in the side of the sprawling palace. The doors opened up into a low-ceilinged tunnel lit by warm yellow lamps. She could see very little in the dim hall, but soon the tunnel opened up into a much larger, grander reception room.

The Exile gasped; she had visited many planets and seen many things, but this place was unbelievably magnificent. The K’Resh palace made the seat of Iziz look like a backwater juma hut. Everywhere were towering columns carved with soaring figures, some featured fearsome riders atop Morgreks, brandishing enormous barbed spears. Every wall and column was sculpted out of a sleek, violet stone that seemed to have its own inner sparkle. The floors were ebony marble, veined with silver and magenta.

“Well?” Khai pressed, “What do you think?”

“It’s miraculous. Your family actually built this place?” she breathed.

“Yes,” Khai said, leading her through the reception hall to a slim, elegant staircase. “It was created many thousands of years ago, obviously. But this is the pride of my family, the jewel of our reign.”

The prince took her up the stairs and down a carpeted hall to a pair of intricately carved black doors. A rustic scene of families picnicking and hunting had been designed and carved into the wood. Before he could touch the handle, the doors opened and two female servants appeared, bowing deeply.

“Here we are,” the prince said cheerfully. “Now, everything is arranged for your stay. Security has been doubled and our spies are placed to make sure we know what the Sith are up to. For now, please rest, the servants, Cleus and Alphon will see to you.”

“Thank you, again, for all of this. I only hope I can be of some service,” the Exile replied, drawing her shoulders up.

“We will talk later and you will meet my sister, the Queen. Then there will be time for plans and worries,” Khai said. He bowed low to her and made an elegant motion with his hand before pressing a light kiss to her knuckles.

The Exile watched him go until his cape disappeared around the stairway corner. Cleus and Alphon guided her gently into the room as if she were made of glass and might fracture at any moment. They were both plain looking girls, with mousy brown hair and red lips, but Alphon had a glint of intelligence to her hazel eyes and the Exile could sense that she was the cleverer of the two. The girls were dressed in simple white tunics with turbans covering most of their hair. They undressed her with deft little hands, throwing away what was left of her clothing.

Alphon gasped at the Exile’s state.

“I should call for the healer,” she murmured in heavily-accented Basic.

“There is no need,” the Exile replied kindly. “I will tend to my own wounds.”

Alphon nodded and she and Cleus escorted the Exile through the room to a back chamber that was built out of creamy white stone. The chambers the prince had provided were exquisitely beautiful and the Exile felt her dirtiness hanging around her like a shameful cloud. She sighed with relief when she saw the deep, oval bath tub filled with piping hot water. A ‘fresher would have sufficed, but this was much better; yes, it was the perfect place for her to rest and collect her thoughts and strength.

The servants helped her into the bath and then began scattering fragrant horrok lilies on the surface of the water. The girls poured thick syrup into the water that smelled unmistakably of late summer and ripe, exotic rainfalls. The lilies floated along like delicate orange dancers, bumping into her knees and shoulders. When the bath was to their liking, they left briefly and returned carrying a tray heaped high with delicacies of all kinds. The Exile self-consciously nibbled the food as the servants finished fussing with the bath; when they finally bowed and left her alone, the Exile ate ravenously, all sense of moderation and decorum vanishing.

When she was finally full of spiced meat and soft herb bread, she slid deeper into the bath and groaned, ecstatic, feeling like she was at last out of imminent danger. Blushing, she thought of her desperation the night before, and how she had virtually given up on her own life, letting the feelings she had been suppressing rise to the surface and overcome her. It had been an unforgiveable moment of weakness, but there was truth in it, of that she was certain.

Relaxing in the sensuous bath, she came to the conclusion that the Jedi were fools for allowing their bodies to molder and go to waste. Sitting in hot water was rapturous – why didn’t she do it more often? It was time she stopped monitoring her thoughts so fastidiously. It was time to welcome everything, every sight, sound and sensation. And it was time to imagine what it might be like to share her life, or even just a bath, with someone else.

She opened her eyes, lost in her imagination, and grinned, finding a pair of serene blue eyes watching her from the other side of the bathtub. What would he say in a situation like this? Would he too finally let himself go and give himself up to the enticing water? She could imagine him pushing a lily toward her playfully. Their legs would brush under the water and he would run his hands through his wet hair, keeping the strands out of his eyes, before brashly parting the water between them.

“These poor lilies,” he might say, “they look like weeds next to your beauty.”

Perhaps he would take hold of her feet and squeeze them, or he might extend his hand to her shoulder and the warm tingle of his healing Force powers would skitter across her skin, tickling her like a spring shower. After a while he might hold one of the sweet fruits to her mouth and she would take it from him, her lips brushing his soft fingertips.

She could never go back to how she had been: Shut up, turned off, completely out of sync with her body and its needs. That cowering relic in the cell, that was the old her, the person devoid of passion and spontaneity. She would fight this battle and see it through to the end, but that was all; after that, she would be her own person. The Jedi were fools, the Sith were fools, they could keep their teachings and live forever in denial, and without her.

When the bath water began to cool, the Exile wrapped herself in an absorbent robe and went to the mirror hanging above a sink. She studied her appearance in the crystal clear reflection and rubbed at her gaunt cheeks hopelessly. There was something in her eyes, something different, not necessarily dangerous, but new and unexpected. The Exile rummaged through the drawers beneath the sink until she came across a pair of grooming scissors; they were small but they would work for her purpose.

The Exile gave herself one last look and then took hold of a large bunch of her hair. Yes, there was something new about her, and it pulsed with untapped potential, lying like a coiled animal just beneath the surface of her skin. This, she knew, was power, and she couldn’t help feeling it had arisen from her long overdue confrontation with her feelings of love and loss.

She bent over, still gripping the hair, and began cutting. Heavy locks of blonde hair filled the basin as she cut. The Exile grabbed more hair and sawed off more and more, watching the heaviness fall away, feeling her head lighten until all that remained was a roguish shock of short blonde hair.

“I can see my face,” she whispered, touching the mirror’s surface. When her fingertips made contact with the glass she felt a strong jolt, like a kick to the stomach. Images flashed through her mind. The boy. The ship. The field. The streaming yellow hair. Yes, she looked entirely different, still freckled, still with the same round nose and cornflower blue eyes, still the same shapely lips - perhaps the most astounding change lay in what seemed to have disappeared. It was her innocence, she knew; the time for innocence was gone.

She shivered, turning away from the woman in the mirror, determined to keep it together. But it was impossible to shake, the feeling that some burst of knowledge and understanding was drawing near…

The Exile dumped the hair into a rubbish container and rinsed the back of her neck. She smiled at her bold decision. This, she knew, was progress. Satisfied, she padded into the bedroom of the guest chambers. A bed had been provided but strangely enough, she did not feel tired at all. Her wounds were healing, her strength was returning and with that strength came her deep connection to the Force and its web of mysteries. There were Force-sensitive individuals here, in the palace, she could sense it. It was difficult to discern how many, but certainly no more than a handful. Prophets, Khai had called them, something akin to Jedi who were relied upon to lead the K’Resh in times of trouble. Perhaps these Prophets could aid her; she knew at once that her ability to lead others would be priceless in this case.

The Exile looked through a sparse closet and chose a beautifully woven crimson robe that fell in clean pleats to her knees. The quality of the fabric was better than most of the Jedi robes she had come across; but that was not very surprising. The Jedi placed no value on material possessions. She picked out a black brocade belt and tied it in the wide, flattering style of the Jedi. Over all of this she pulled on a light, white robe in a linen that was almost weightless. The expansive hood was embroidered with silver thread, forming a sort of bright halo around the edges. Even garbed in the rich garments she felt naked; her lightsaber, the weapon she had worked so hard on, was gone, probably forever.

Khai arrived soon after she was dressed and asked after her. She followed him out into the hall and through a winding series of corridors that finally led to the grandest room of all. It was the royal reception room, and it glittered with riches and history. An enormous chandelier hung in the center of the domed ceiling, casting a pleasant glow over the room. The ceilings were covered in paintings of K’Resh’s past victories in battle and diplomacy and the figures were so lifelike that the Exile couldn’t help but stare admiringly. At the end of the long, carpet walkway, a stepped dias rose up. One chair was set on the platform, a foreboding throne made of that purple stone she had seen before. In front of the chair, dressed in an expansive gown and glittering purple robe, stood the Queen.

“Just bow, you owe her no other respects. She is as grateful as I am for your escape,” Khai whispered, hooking his arm in hers. Together, they walked slowly, regally down the carpet. The hall was empty except for a few guards, who stood statue-still in front of the exits and entrances. It was odd, the Exile thought, that no courtiers or advisors filled up the majestic hall. Their steps echoed loudly; the room was unnaturally empty.

“You look lovely, don’t be nervous,” he whispered, grinning. “May I ask what inspired the hair?”

“New beginnings,” she replied vaguely.

When they reached the steps to the throne they found the Queen waiting, tall and imperious. The Exile bowed at the waist, low, and received a polite nod in return. She studied the Queen and gently prodded against the woman’s mind; she was Force-sensitive, at least enough to keep the Exile out of her thoughts.

“Welcome,” the Queen said, gesturing expansively. Her voice was low, sensuous. “I am Queen Raziya’Shel niK’Resh, and you are very welcome in our kingdom. Please, come this way.”

“Your Majesty,” the Exile murmured, bowing her head again.

Along with Khai, they stepped up onto the throne’s platform and then descended a hidden staircase behind it. There, a small table had been set up and a large meal prepared. They each took a seat and servants appeared to fill their glasses with a dark, jewel-toned wine. The Exile studied the Queen and found that up close she was a beautiful, if severe-looking woman. She did not have the gentle openness that Khai possessed, but they had the same prominent, stream-lined nose. The Exile had seen a similar weathered beauty on other rulers, who bore their responsibility proudly, earning noble wrinkles at their eyes and mouths. The Queen’s dark curls were intricately woven into a spiked, golden crown. She covered a yawn and struck a languorous, feline pose in her chair.

“I expect you think our choice to free you a little silly, Jedi?” the Queen asked, picking up a round little piece of toast. The Queen’s command of the Basic language was perfect.

“I’m afraid I do not take my own freedom lightly, Your Majesty. I am deeply grateful for what you have done,” the Exile replied carefully. Sovereigns were often tricky, unpredictable people with sharp tempers and she had experience navigating their tremulous egos.

“Exactly so,” the Queen said, smiling. “You are clever. I like clever people. The Sith are dangerous but they are not clever at all. They invited me once to dine with their senior officers and it was dreadful. Everyone was either deaf or gray, like a dead fish.”

“Deaf?” the Exile asked, smirking.

“Yes, they don’t listen at all. If you ask me, they like the sounds of their own voices a little too much,” the Queen replied. Khai sat quietly, focused on his food.

“Khai’Shel is a silly boy but he can handle a Morgrek well enough.”

“I am indebted to him for his bravery,” the Exile said. Khai glanced at her shyly and then looked away, embarrassed. The Exile found it odd that the Queen treated her brother with such disdain, after all, they were almost entirely alone in the fight against the Sith; she had expected them to be closer. A deeper awareness of the situation was dawning on the Exile, and she began to understand something was wrong. In that moment, she wanted desperately to have her crew with her. Aboard the Ebon Hawk she could conference with any of her trusted friends and extract their suggestions and opinions, but here she was alone. She did not betray her new feelings; she would continue the charade until she understood the motives of the Queen and her younger brother.

“By now you have certainly felt that we too possess some power. Your kind call it the Force, I believe, but those who wield it here are simply known as Prophets. I myself might have been a Prophet, but I did not manifest early enough in life,” the Queen explained. The torches around them grew dimmer, ushering in evening. Khai continued his humiliated silence, sulking like a reprimanded schoolboy.

“Where do these Prophets reside? I would like very much to speak with them,” the Exile said.

“We evacuated them from the temple last year and moved them to a secret location. They communicate with me through a bonding connection. It is their duty to update me daily on what they perceive. For some reason, they were not strong enough to anticipate the Sith invasion; you can imagine my disappointment, but there you are,” the Queen said. The Exile was shrewd enough to sense Khai’s growing uneasiness and she immediately stabbed into his mind; he was recoiling into himself, afraid, backing away from his odd sister. The Queen leveled her younger brother with a scathing look.

“So an entire temple full of Prophets failed to see the Sith coming?” the Exile asked.

“Ridiculous, I know. It was tempting to punish them, but the K’Resh fear and respect the Prophets. Their failure, however grave, could most certainly be explained by the Sith tricks, perhaps they cloaked themselves as they moved toward our planet,” the Queen offered.

After an awkward silence, the Exile decided to break the ice.

“You both speak Basic very well.”

“Thank you!” the Queen cried, delighted. “Of course I insisted that we all learn the language of the Sith and of the Sith’s enemies.”

“’We all’?” the Exile repeated, confused. What a curious way to refer to her and Khai, unless she meant the entire kingdom, but that seemed unlikely; her servants had barely been able to communicate.

“Well,” the Queen blurted out, hesitating, “myself and Khai, and our dear little sister who was killed shortly after the Sith arrived.”

The Exile looked to Khai, who sat frozen in his chair, back rigid, his face bloodless and stricken. She would not probe the matter, but she would remember it. They fell silent and ate, uncomfortable and suspicious of one another. She was waiting for the Queen to reveal the plan but no such talk occurred. As the meal came to a close and the Queen seemed anxious to leave, the Exile spoke up.

“So what would you have me do? Surely we should strike the Sith before they realize I am here?”

The Queen straightened up, her nose wrinkling. It was as if she hadn’t expected the question at all.

“You are still recovering, we shall talk of war and fighting tomorrow,” the Queen said, forcing a smile. She stood suddenly, and the Exile and Khai stood too, waiting until the Queen had gone before looking at each other.

“You need to tell me what’s going on, and you need to tell me right now,” the Exile growled, turning on him.

“I – I don’t know what to tell you, I - ”

“You what? Saved my life so your sister could play games with me? I deserve an answer and I demand that answer now. You have managed to evade my anger until now, little prince, but do not mistake my gratitude for compliance. There is a rage in me you would not like to see unleashed,” the Exile pushed her chair out of the way and advanced on the prince. He shrunk away from her, shaking his head.

“You don’t understand, the Queen means you no harm! I mean you no harm! We must move forward carefully, the Sith are powerful - ”

“Oh spare me your excuses,” the Exile hissed. “Something is going on and I intend to find out, with or without your help. Are you so afraid of your own sister that you cannot stand up for what is right?”

The Exile did not wait for him to answer. She marched away, making her own way back to the guest quarters. The door crashed open in the wake of her temper; she hated being lied to, whispered about, and trapped. She had been blind, outrageously stupid, following the prince without taking a moment to question his real intentions. He was a pawn, some tiny piece of a larger, sinister puzzle. The Exile threw her first into one of the pillows on the bed and it exploded in a shower of ivory feathers. That stirring she had felt before was uncoiling now, waking up, nudging her toward a magnificent caving in.

“Not yet,” she whispered fiercely in the fading light.

She stretched out on the bed and shut her eyes, meditating, waiting for an answer to appear. In desperation she sought her friends, sending her mind out over the galaxy. Strangely, she found that they were cut off from her. Her Force powers had returned, why could she not sense those she knew best of all? She wondered if there was a barrier up, either created by the Sith or the K’Resh, and this thought only deepened her suspicion.

The prince did not come for her; that was good. The Exile didn’t trust her temper, not when she was concentrating on unraveling the mess she had gotten herself into. Out of the fire and into the inferno, indeed. At least the Sith were straightforward! They meant to kill her, that was clear enough, but she could not guess what the K’Resh had in store for her. She could leave but where would she go? Her ship was no doubt in the hands of the Sith and without a weapon or transportation she was totally open to being recaptured by either side. Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself, she was running out of decorative pillows to demolish.

Forcing herself to relax, she slipped into a deep, penetrative meditation. For a while nothing happened and she simply floated in the emptiness of a blank mind. Slowly, slowly an image came to her, a sort of vision or maybe a prediction. She saw a snake, dark and gloomy, hissing quietly in a deep, forgotten pit. Serpents, she knew, were an omen of danger or violence, but for some reason she felt no fear as she watched the snake, it did not seem to threaten her. It was sad, abandoned, unable to remove itself from the steep walls of the pit.

We all, we all, we all…

The Exile sat up, refreshed, awake. That was it! That was where the answers lay.

Night had fallen and her room was bathed in inky darkness. She slid out of bed and pulled her robes tightly shut; it was time to act and it was time to use her powers.

It was like sliding silently through water, cloaking herself in the strength of the Force, gliding by sentries and servants, who looked up, wondering where the light wind had come from. Her only concern was the Queen, who might be strong enough in the Force to sense what she was up to. But the Exile was clever, and she kept a game of pazaak going constantly in her head, using Atton’s useful trick to keep her mind barricaded.

Finding the latched door to the underbelly of the palace was not terribly difficult. The extent of her Force powers allowed her to project eyes into every dark hall and twisting corridor, seeking, searching, and sending out a hundred deft fingers. It was hidden almost in the open, behind the main kitchen in a refuse room, a simple, cracked cellar door. The lock dissolved like melted gold in her grasp and she dropped down into the passage silently.

The Exile moved quickly, not knowing whether the Queen would sense her plans and follow. She knew, however, that she was on the right track. She felt a strong magnetic pull, as if the Force had taken her by the hand and begun showing her the way. The passage wound down and down, coiling back on itself until the Exile could feel roots poking out of the walls around her and smell a dark, heady earth smell. It was freezing, absolutely shut off from light and heat. As she came closer to the bottom she could hear a horrible scratching, as if two metal dancers scraped against each other. She shuddered.

When she reached the end of the stairs she nearly fell off; the drop was steep and she found that many of the stairs had crumbled away from disuse. It was difficult to see anything, but she pressed on, determined, wondering what could possibly be so foul that it had to be kept in a deserted cellar like this one. A cutting, nauseating stench rose up from the back of the cellar and she grabbed her nose, choking. At the sound of her voice, the scraping noise stopped but it didn’t matter, the Exile could see now what was before her.

“Hello.”

The Exile forced the bile down, refused to wretch and insult the creature that sat, cross-legged, in a shallow pit before her. She had caught sight of him from the ropes of glowing white light strewn all around his bent body, and as she got closer she felt her heart rate accelerate; they were Force chains, glowing shackles like the ones she had been secured to. They did not glow pale blue as they had when she wore them, they pulsed with blinding white light around this creature.

“Do not be afraid,” the creature spoke softly, and the Exile saw that it was a man, or what was left of a man. He was so badly mistreated now that his beard had taken over most of his face and he was covered in dirt and stinking filth. Her heart cried out to him and she stumbled forward, kneeling to reach for his face. He smiled beneath the beard as she touched his bruised cheek. By the light of the chains she could make out his high cheekbones and straight, prominent nose. Intelligent brown eyes stared back at her. He had been handsome once, gloriously handsome, an older, more refined version of Khai. But now he was a monster, a chained up, forgotten beast. He looked vaguely like Khai, yes, but he was familiar in some other, more obscure way.

“I know you have come to free me,” he continued and as his voice drifted through her mind, a bolt of lightning struck the Exile. Suddenly the man’s bizarre familiarity locked into place. The boy. The ship. The field. The streaming yellow hair.

“I know your voice,” she whispered. “It was you, wasn’t it? That was you behind the mask in my vision.”

“Yes,” he said. “You were so close to the edge, I could feel your soul fading. I’ve been watching you, watching close ever since you came here, and when I felt you were about to die I used what little I had left to reach you.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, smoothing the matted hair back from his face.

“I would have done more, but the chains…”

She looked again at the white, glowing links and realized that the chains could barely hold him; they were straining to contain his power and lit up so brightly from the task. The Exile swallowed nervously; it was all beginning to make a twisted sort of sense.

“You’re Khai’s brother, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I sat on the throne when the Sith invaders appeared in the sky,” he replied.

“You were the King?”

“Raziya deposed me. For months the Prophets were warning us, for months I had struggled with the advisors and the generals to plan a defense but Raziya changed all that. She stopped me at every turn; it was hopeless. I could not understand why, could not understand why she wanted us to suffer and burn.”

“But she said the Prophets had no idea the Sith were coming,” the Exile replied.

“Lies, lies, of course she is lying. She knew as well as I did what was coming for us but she wasn’t interested in making a stand. The Prophets are gone, all of them except for me. Raziya trapped them in their own temple and set it aflame. I was here, useless, unable to stop their screams of agony, their terrible pain.”

“But why? Why would she do all of this?” the Exile pressed.

“For money, of course,” he lifted his forearms weakly, displaying the chains. “The ore to make these chains is found only on our planet, that is why the Sith came and that is why they stay. My sister had made some agreement with them; she would supply the ore if they kept her in power and gave her part of the money. She was tricked, of course, and she may rule now but the kingdom is penniless, ravaged by the Sith, cut off from every planet we once called friend.”

“And so she imprisoned you?” the Exile asked.

“She knew I would not sit idly by while she destroyed the kingdom out of greed. I was ambushed by my own men, wrapped in these forsaken chains and stripped of my crown. Here I have remained, rotting, dwelling on my failure to act. If I could have stopped her…” he trailed off, sobbing quietly into the Exile’s shoulder. She could feel the Force in him, even with the chains, and the tremendous strength of it shocked her. No wonder they had gone to such lengths to hide him, he was a tornado waiting to be set free.

“The boy,” she said softly. “Who was the boy?”

“I wish I knew,” the man whispered, his eyes open wide with awe. “To wield such power and halt a ship of that size in midair… He must be a Prophet of infinite means.”

“But the words you spoke… It was you, you showed me the vision! How can you not know who he is?” the Exile demanded, desperate to know.

“Forgive me, you must forgive me. When the vision took you it took me, too. I was simply the messenger. A shadow overtook me, a feeling like drowning. I began to choke, I thought I was dying, but then I was there before you, speaking words I did not understand. I reached out for you to try and save you, that much is true, but I had no idea the vision would overtake me,” he began to cry, shaking his head. “I wish I could tell you more.”

The Exile held him to her, feeling his remorse and sadness. He grew suddenly frantic in her arms, pushing away from her.

“You should leave, they will find you soon and I could not live with myself knowing I caused your downfall.”

“Rest now,” the Exile replied. “We will deal with them in time, but first, tell me your name.”

“Athan.”

The Exile was about to speak but a faint, far off sound drifted down into the frigid cellar. They were coming. Athan grabbed her wrist with both hands and pulled her closer; the brightness from his chains intensified.

“Is there another way out of here?” she asked in a whisper.

“No, I’m afraid this is the end.”

“We will meet it together, Your Majesty. Do not speak, let me handle the Queen. I think I have an idea.”

+ + +

“Bao, get your ass in here, you need to hear this!”

Mission had nearly fallen asleep during a round of pazaak with herself but now she was wide awake. She had been piloting the ship while Bao-Dur and the Disciple rested. They were approaching their destination but it was important that someone always be watchful in the cockpit in case the Sith discovered their arrival and sent a welcoming party. They had been taking cockpit duty in shifts and it was her turn to keep watch. Now Mission stared, disbelieving, at the flight console. A tiny red light blinked, indicating an incoming hail from another ship. Bao-Dur stumbled into the cockpit, half-dressed, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

“What is it?” he groaned.

“Hey check this - ” Mission stopped in midsentence, turning to face him. “Okay, wow, next time you need to warn me when you’re gonna do that.”

“Do what?” he asked, yawning, dropping down into the seat beside her.

“Show up… Like that… A girl needs a heads up, know what I mean?”

The Iridonian glanced down at his bare, muscled chest and chuckled, shrugging.

“Just keeping you on your toes, little Twi’lek.”

Mission rolled her eyes and pointed at the blinking light, “You’re not going to believe this transmission but I’ll play it for you anyway. Make sure and tell me if you hear the same thing because I might just be losing my damn mind.”

She hit a switch and the recorded transmission crackled to life; a low, gruff voice filled the cockpit.

“This is Admiral Carth Onasi, identify your craft. I repeat, this is Admiral Onasi, report your position and cargo, over.”

Mission squealed with excitement and delight even after listening to the transmission several times already. Bao-Dur stared at the speaker as if it had just sprouted leaves. Mission nodded, sharing in his blank, mystified stare. She played the transmission again, and then again. Bao-Dur sat back in his chair, shocked.

“Well answer him!” he finally barked, scrambling to put on a headset. Mission let out a little shriek and went to work, preparing to patch a message over to the Admiral. She lowered her microphone into place and took a deep, steadying breath.

“Carth! I can’t tell you how good it is to hear your voice! “

“Mission!?”

“This is… I mean, can you believe it? Wait - why do I have a funny feeling we’re going to the same place?” Mission’s smile could be heard loud and clear in her voice. Carth’s hysterical laughter filled up the cockpit. In the background Mission was sure she heard someone else, a woman, and she jumped out of her seat.

“Revan? Revan is with you, isn’t she? Holy frak, I knew it!” she cried into the microphone, suddenly feeling lighter than air; the doomed mission might have half a chance. She beamed at Bao-Dur, and she knew he was thinking the same thing: They might just make it out alive and together.

“Affirmative, precious cargo onboard,” Carth replied over the com.

“Send us your coordinates, we’ll wait for you at the landing sight,” she said.

“Revan says there’s a decent field to land in, I’ll send over the coordinates. The planet is called Lokan, it’s a Sith industrial and military command headquarters, one of many, apparently. Keep your eyes peeled when you land and do everything you can to jam your scanners. The landing area is far enough away from the Sith base to give us some time to regroup. Revan’s been trying to reach your friend but so far no luck, we’ll send a message when we know more.”

“Thanks, Carth, safe travels,” Mission replied, pulling off the headset with a huge sigh of relief. She was shaking, with surprise or happiness, she couldn’t tell. Bao-Dur was already out of his seat and running down the hall to the sleeping quarters. Finally, she thought, some good news for the Disciple.

+ + +

Bao-Dur found the Disciple awake, or mostly awake, floating just above his bed, meditating. He hesitated to interrupt his friend but decided it was information well-worth telling. He took a step into the room and the Disciple floated back down to the mattress, disturbed.

“Something’s happened,” he murmured.

“Yes, Revan and Admiral Onasi have sent a transmission. They’re joining us,” Bao-Dur said. The Disciple turned to face him, nodding. They were silent for a moment and Bao-Dur’s shoulders fell; he had hoped the news would at least make his friend smile, but the Disciple was unreadable, as usual. Bao-Dur took this as his cue to leave. The Disciple had been extremely quiet the last few days, lost in concentration, pouring every ounce of his energy into finding the Exile. It was exhausting him, that much was obvious, but it was impossible to argue with the Jedi, who went about his task with unwavering determination. Bao-Dur turned to go.

“Thank you,” the Disciple said softly.

“We’ll be landing in an hour,” Bao-Dur replied, closing the door behind him.

When Bao-Dur was gone, the Disciple felt his heart leap with excitement; they were reaching their destination, soon the restlessness would be over and he could finally do something. It was torture, sitting in the ship all day and all night with nothing to do but search the Force for any sign of the Exile. The wound in the Force had eased, or at least the crying had died down, but now it was more difficult to find any signs at all of where she might be. It was unfair, he thought, that the Force could send him cryptic visions and horrible, rending feelings of impending death and then grow completely quiet. But this was what happened, he realized, when you came to rely so heavily on the Force. He wished he could find some other way to communicate with Exile, reach her through some other means.

Knowing that Revan would be joining them, their chances of success were better, certainly, but it was also likely that her presence would draw the attention of the Sith forces. He had hoped that their relative unimportance wouldn’t even register with the Sith, but now that the infamous Jedi Revan was arriving, subtle and discreet intervention was no longer a viable option.

Still, despite the vague visions and unreadable dreams, the Disciple could feel something tangible kindling inside; he sensed a transformation coming, like the unstoppable change of seasons, for good or ill. He could not tell whether it was a change he had brought on himself or if it was the Force creating some new power inside of him. The Exile had taught him to always be open to the Force and to one’s own changing power. It was amorphous she said, ever-changing, ever-renewed and one could wake to find they were stronger and more powerful than before. He wondered if perhaps this growing, gnawing feeling inside of him was the will of the Exile, a seed she had somehow planted without him knowing.

She consumed his thoughts, and he poured over the letters daily, searching for clues. What Madalore had told him on Dxun… It was not hopeless, his love for her, something may yet still come of it. But not knowing, not having a good hold on the memories of her… It made him feel dangerously open, as if finding her might only make everything worse. The tower he had built up was in danger of tumbling down. What if she had no feelings for him at all? What if they saved the galaxy but destroyed his dire hopes in the process?

The Disciple picked up one of the letters. He had written it on years ago on Dxun, holed up in his room, writing to her furiously, writing a letter that she would never see.

I know you love it here. The jungle fuels your soul. You feel a kinship with the prowling beasts and the untamed Mandalorians who watch as if you were a ticking bomb, ready to explode at any second. Trouncing through the jungle with you, surrounded by green and shadow, swallowed up by the undergrowth, I wondered if we could simply vanish into the trees. Who would find us if we chose to leave? Let it eat us up, I thought, let us wind ourselves into the vines and branches and return to who we truly are, who nature intended us to be. Let us forget all of these teachings and rules and just give ourselves over to the animals and wild trilling calls of the unknown. I looked at you, dripping with sweat and rain, radiant, and I thought: We could be happy here. No, we could be happy anywhere.

Some mornings he woke in a panic, feeling as if he had misplaced something terribly important. He would scramble out of bed and realize that he had been dreaming and the loss was in his head. The panic would shift into a nauseating stillness and doubts would worm their way into his brain, nagging until he reluctantly confronted them – what if he found her and the spark was gone? What if her time in the Unknown Regions had left her incapable of loving?

The “what ifs” continued piling up until he forced himself to go back to sleep or meditate or distract himself with a book. He wanted to share all of it with Bao-Dur and Mission but it never seemed like the correct time; he often felt distinctly unwanted as they began to discover feelings for one another. The Disciple was afraid of disturbing them and ruining whatever peaceful time the three of them had left. Peace, he winced; he hadn’t enjoyed a peaceful moment in so long. At least, he thought, the torment would be over soon and for good or bad he would know what the Exile wanted. And if Bao-Dur and Mission were falling in love then that was okay, too and he would force a smile and congratulate them and do his best to keep from falling into a deeply spiraling depression.

No, he had to be strong and stay optimistic. His grasp of the Force waned when he was too caught up in his own mixed up thoughts, he would have to set his doubts and fears aside and concentrate on the task, on finding the Exile and helping her defeat the Sith. That was priority number one, and if afterward he had to deal with her indifference then he would confront it then.

He clutched at his stomach, grimacing. It was happening more often, the roiling sensation that made him believe something cataclysmic was coming and it was originating inside of him. Sometimes he would do a double-take when he glanced in the mirror, finding that his eyes were brighter than usual, glowing and even though he had lost weight from worry and lack of sleep, his skin was still ruddy with health. It didn’t make sense – where was this bizarre power coming from?

The Disciple packed up the letters and left the sleeping quarters. Bao-Dur would need assistance getting all of the weapons ready for their assault. When he drifted into the garage he found Bao-Dur hard at work, soldering a reconnaissance droid back together, Remote offering help here and there. The Zabrak put down the soldering iron when he heard the Disciple enter and pulled off his goggles.

“Hey, I’m glad you’re here,” Bao-Dur said. He followed the Disciple’s eyes to a long worktable where scattered bits of crystal and metal lay glinting under a work light.

“Is that what I think it is?” the Disciple asked.

“Yes, the General will need a weapon,” Bao-Dur replied. “I was going to do it myself but now that you’re here… Well, it would be fitting, don’t you think?”

“You want me to build her a new lightsaber?” the Disciple asked, drawn against his will to the worktable. He picked up a fragment of silver crystal and held it in his palm, it was warm and pulsing like a clear little heart. Confused, he picked up another sliver of crystal, this one was dark green.

“I recognize these,” the Disciple murmured.

“That’s because they’re leftovers. The green one is from the crystals you chose in the kinrath caves, and the silver shard is from the Exile’s.”

“Her personal crystal?” he breathed, staring, awestruck, as if it were a holy relic.

“Yes, I kept the shards just as a precaution. It’s not unheard of to lose or break a lightsaber and I wanted to have extras in case. The shards aren’t big enough to function on their own, but I thought we could work some magic and fuse those bits together. With what’s left of yours and hers there should be enough to form one, maybe even two entire crystals,” Bao-Dur explained, crossing his arms over his chest. The Disciple was quiet for a moment, studying the bright twinkling shards, letting them glow invitingly in his palm. He could sense the power within them and feel how they were reacting to one another.

“It might actually work,” the Disciple said, turning a shy smile on the Zabrak.

“Well, let’s get to it. There’s no time to waste.”

+ + +

It was probably the worst possible scenario, the Exile decided. The Queen had arrived in the cellar, screaming orders in a high-pitched hysterical voice, enraged, bringing with her an entire battalion of soldiers. They rushed the Exile and clapped her in Force chains. They attempted to yank her from Athan but she held fast to him and insisted that he come along. She might have tried to defend them with her powers but the entire palace guard would be alerted by now; no, if they brought them out of the cellar she would have a better chance in the open.

“Deliver us both to the Sith,” she had pleaded. “I want to die next to Athan, please, honor that request.”

The Queen had hesitated, but the Exile was growing reckless now; there was simply nothing left to lose. She had been sensitive of the Queen’s feelings before, not pushing too hard into her mind when she felt the barrier, but now she dove in, driving the spike of her power straight into the woman’s brains. It was exhilarating to violate her, firing the Exile’s hungry soul. The Exile waded through the disgusting mire of the treacherous Queen’s thoughts until she found a way to take root and twist until the Queen acquiesced and she and Athan were both escorted roughly out of the cellar.

Athan cried out when the first glimpses of light bore into his eyes. He huddled close to the Exile, who led the way, letting him lean against her for support. She had seen their fate when she had pierced the Queen’s defenses; they would be taken to a neutral zone outside of the palace, and there they would wait for the Sith entourage to arrive; there they would be executed. The Queen was still deluded enough to expect a reward but the Exile suspected that once the Sith discovered her double treachery – stealing the Exile and harboring both she and another Force wielder – she would be killed or abandoned to obscurity.

As the Exile and Athan were taken out of the palace and into the daylight, Khai caught up to them. He was pale, sweating, wringing his hands anxiously. The Exile shot him a bored look and refused to acknowledge him further.

“This is a mistake, Raziya, they could help us! How can you do this, your own brother!” he screamed, clutching at his throat, trying to stay in step with her. The Queen flicked a hand at him, ignoring his pleas. But Khai was persistent, following after her, nearly stepping on her heels. The Exile pitied him, and after searching his thoughts she found that he had truly believed rescuing the Exile would help his people. He had grossly underestimated his sister’s greed. He might have been a good king if not for his crippling naiveté.

“Just listen,” he cried, “the Sith aren’t what you think. They’re not our friends. They’ll kill you just for having contact with the Jedi! Please, be reasonable, we can still turn this around we can still -”

Raziya stopped suddenly and lashed out, cuffing her brother hard across the cheek. He fell to the ground, landing with a squelch in the mud lining the path. Khai sat up quickly, holding his red face, staring up at her with wet, insane eyes. She turned to face him, lifting her robes to keep them out of the mud and, more specifically, to keep them away from her younger brother.

“That is where you belong, Khai’Shel, at my feet. You are a pathetic nuisance, just like your brother. This is why I must rule, because neither of you possess the finesse required to be a sovereign. You had best decide where your sympathies lie, and soon, or you will suffer the same fate as your weak mongrel of a brother and his nosy Jedi friend!” she spat, whirling away and continuing down the path. The clouds were thin, barely concealing the sun that beat down on them as they traversed the long road away from the palace.

“Where is everyone?” the Exile breathed to Athan. She had noticed that there were no citizens anywhere, just a few stray animals rutting in the mud.

“In the mines,” Athan whispered back. “The Sith raided the farms and merchants. There is no work left, only the mines.”

The effect was eerie. It looked and felt as if the entire kingdom had been abandoned. A flock of mottled blue birds flew over head, their long tails streaming behind them like pennants. The Exile saw Khai pull himself out of the mud and watch, defeated, as they marched by. She could feel the coiling beast inside of her rear its head; the time was fast approaching when she would have nothing left to rely on but that very inner monster. It killed her to think that this foolish Queen would destroy both she and Athan. But she could sense Athan’s energy pulsing too and feel that the Force was strengthening him, returning to his battered limbs. This had been her hope all along and her sole reason for insisting that he accompany her to be executed. She didn’t understand why they were both experiencing this surge in the Force, but it gave her a shred of hope to cling to as death rose up on the horizon, tiptoeing ever closer.

The slow march to the neutral zone was beginning to grate on her nerves; if only they could skip to the end. During the walk she attempted to calculate just what it might take to level the entire battalion of soldiers and the added threat of the Sith. Undoubtedly Girish would be meeting them; he was a powerful, formidable Master but everyone had a weakness. He was old, experienced, but old. The Exile had never faced him in the open, only in a cramped cell, chained to the wall like a feral animal. Now, she thought, the real test would come.

Suddenly, the trees on either side of them began to thin out and then disappear altogether. A ragged circle had been cleared, an abrupt ending to the surrounding forest. The Sith were already waiting for them, standing in a neat row along the horizon. They were dressed in black, still and ominous against the afternoon sun. There were not very many, that was good, but that could also indicate they had only brought their finest warriors. No matter, she thought, all would be decided soon.

The Queen stopped them at the edge of the clearing and went forward by herself. She bowed curtly to the Sith and then waited for them to approach. Darth Girish and another stepped forward, dragging their heavy robes along the ground as they moved like a storm front toward the Queen. The Exile wasn’t really surprised by what happened next, she had even considered it inevitable. Darth Girish raised one withered hand and a bolt of lightning, as thick around as a tree, struck the Queen in her chest. Her scream was cut in half and she crumpled like a dried leaf to the ground.

“Impertinent whore,” she heard Girish mutter. He gestured for the guards to come forward and they did, however tentatively. It was no surprise that they did not rush to the aid of their queen. Athan had barely reacted, only wincing a little when his sister fell. The Exile could sense Khai drawing near and knew that he intended to go to his sister.

“No,” the Exile told him through the Force, invading his mind. “Turn around. Gather the full strength of the Morgrek riders and return to fight the Sith alongside your brother and I.”

It worked. Khai did not enter the clearing; he was safe for the moment.

The sentries shuffled forward with the Exile and Athan until they were standing in the center of the clearing. Girish looked extremely out of place in the bright light, as if a bat had crawled out of its cave to fly about in the glaring afternoon sun. He smiled as he drifted near to the Exile and extended his hand to brush her warm cheek.

“I knew it was only a matter of time before you were returned to me, dear, your fate, I’m afraid, lies with me,” Girish whispered. Athan bristled at her side, refusing to budge.

The animal was snarling inside of her now, bucking against her ribs, aching for release. What was it? A calling? An urgent summoning from the Force? Kreia had never mentioned anything like this; but Kreia, she recalled, didn’t know everything. Perhaps it was vain to think the Force would interfere so directly in her life, no, it must be something else, something she alone had disturbed. But it had spread to Athan, who practically trembled with the potency of this awakening. She wanted to vomit it was pushing so hard at her insides, heavy and insuperable. As she steadied herself and raised her head, the colors surrounding her sharpened, everything was a little brighter, closer to the eye; there was no separation at all between her vision and her brain.

Darth Girish chuckled low in his throat, wearing his usual ghoulish smirk; he inched closer.

“Don’t look so nervous,” he cooed. “You won’t die here, no, not just yet. And I won’t tell you just how you will meet your end. But soon you will know, when I’m inside of you, taking you, then I will reveal everything.”

Athan was practically exploding out of his skin but the Exile snatched up his hand and squeezed it. For the moment it worked, and Athan diminished, but Girish persisted, breathing his sour, icy breath down her neck.

“Your friend seems to think he can destroy me, how noble. I wouldn’t want him to continue in his sad little delusion,” Girish said, taking a step back. “So allow me to aid you both and end this painful, pitiful fantasy.”

The Exile cried out as the bolt of lightning coursed through Athan’s body and into her own. She dropped his hand and he fell, screaming, to the ground, contorting wildly as the lightning twisted around his spine, shooting through his arms and legs. The Exile knelt and grabbed Athan around the shoulders, hugging him to her.

“Let go, Jedi,” Darth Girish hissed. “Let go! It is not your time to die. Let. Him. Go!”

Girish blasted them with another piercing flood of lightning. The Exile hugged him harder, absorbing part of the blow. Her torture in the spire had been cruel but this was the full blast of Girish’s power and the Exile could feel Athan fading, retreating into himself. He was giving up, but the Exile held fast to him, holding him so close that he could feel her heart pounding into his shoulder, beating out a strong, constant rhythm. She was losing him, losing him to the darkness and to Girish’s evil.

“Stay with me,” she whispered to him desperately. “Stay to the end.”

“Silence!” Girish thundered, blasting them again. “Why would you sacrifice yourself for this broken husk of a man?”

Girish did not sense what was in Athan, that was good, and the lightning was beginning to have the opposite effect on her. Instead of pain, she felt only a pure, rising rage. The animal inside of her was practically uncontrollable now, so close to release, aching to be free of its weak cage. She was afraid for a moment, scared that this thing was not just a feeling but a real monster waiting to rip her apart and escape. But as the lightning flowed over them the control gradually came and she knew that what she stood to unleash was not separate from her at all.

This was so much more than the power she felt at Malachor V, more than the wars, more than the destruction of Nihilus and Sion added together, and greater still than crushing Kreia at the Trayus Core. There was nothing at all like this in her memory, never before had she felt like a vessel filled up with the beating hearts of a thousand furious Jedi. It was crawling up her esophagus, clawing at her throat from the inside, stabbing its red hot talons into her flesh until the sensation became too much and nothing but a wisp of the pain remained. No, it wasn’t painful anymore, it was empowering, glorious, an unstoppable thundercloud bursting out of her chest.

“Now,” she whispered to Athan.

And in her arms, he went still.

+ + +

“It’s a great pleasure to meet you,” the Disciple was saying, shaking hands with Admiral Onasi. What a striking-looking man, he thought, impressed not only by the Admiral’s undeniable charisma, but also by his firm, sincere handshake and searching eyes.

“Good to have you all onboard,” Carth replied, hugging Mission tightly. Behind him a beautiful woman was disembarking, robed in mossy green with an aquamarine-colored belt. The Jedi female pulsed with power, practically consumed by a blinding halo. He wondered if the others could see it, or if only those strong in the Force could see just how magnificent she was. It was as if a little star had fallen from heaven and now walked among them. She brought one hand up to her head and swept the heavy hood back from her face, her curling strawberry blonde hair fell about her shoulders.

“Revan!” Mission squealed, pushing past the Disciple to throw herself at the Jedi, who returned the embrace with a distinctively sophisticated, refined dignity.

“So you’re a Jedi now I hear,” Revan said kindly to the Twi’lek. Her voice was low for a woman but still feminine, with a deep undercurrent of confidence and leadership. In many ways Revan reminded him of the Exile, which made sense, considering they had fought in the same war and chosen very similar paths. It was hard to imagine this woman practically on fire with the Force killing millions out of spite; all traces of her days as Darth Revan were gone. Carth and Bao-Dur began talking strategy as a handsome young man sauntered down the ramp from Admiral Onasi’s ship.

The Disciple didn’t need to ask anyone to know that this was Carth’s son; they were almost identical, but Dustil had a more mischievous, rebellious tilt to his lean shoulders. He went to stand beside Revan, standing a bit behind her, respectfully.

How fitting, the Disciple thought, that Revan would take her lover’s son as a Padawan. The Disciple could sense the young Jedi’s impressive power and also sense that Carth’s son, like many Padawans, was not very obedient. He was dressed in a jet-black robe and flashy embroidered leather obi. His belt sat low on his hips at a jaunty angle and his dark brown hair had been shaved down close to the head.

“This is Dustil Onasi,” Revan told him quietly, indicating that they should shake hands. The Disciple took a closer look at Dustil and saw that he had his father’s eyes but a rakish smile all his own.

“You must be Mi - ”

But Dustil was cut short as the sky ahead of them lit up, flashing off of the clouds, sending an explosive mushroom cloud of silver-blue lightning into the air.

“What the frak was that?” Mission screamed, covering her mouth and stumbling forward.

“No!” the Disciple cried, feeling an icy hand grip his heart. “No.”

They stood with their mouths open, frozen, as the sound finally reached them from the blast. It was deafening. The Disciple covered his ears, feeling as if a bomb had dropped on his head and shattered his eardrums. The blast was still visible as the sound faded. It had obscured the tall castle behind it but now, at last, the haze of lightning was beginning to vanish. The ground around them quaked violently, the shockwave travelling through the forest and all the way to their feet.

“Revan!”

The Disciple spun around to find that Revan had crumpled to the ground. She sat up trembling, holding her stomach as if she had been hit by a blaster bolt. He moved toward her, ready to assess her wounds and use his healing powers, but then he too felt the knot of pain screeching in his stomach and he fell to his knees. It was her, it was the Exile, and she was at the core of that explosion. Yet she lived, he could feel her there, sense her glowing faintly on the horizon.

“What’s going on?” Carth demanded as the others hit the ground. Mission got to her feet first, reeling.

“The Force,” Revan murmured, still grasping her stomach. “I feel different.”

“As do I,” the Disciple said, slowly standing.

“Different? Define different please,” Carth said, holding Revan to his chest. Bao-Dur was up and dusting off his jacket; he stumbled over to the ship. He began unloading the crates of weapons.

“Everyone, take as much as you can carry,” he shouted, pulling the lids off of the crates.

“No,” Revan said, putting up her hand. “Carth can take the blasters. We won’t need them. I know what’s happened and I know what it means.”

+ + +

Sometimes I dream of a comet falling to the earth. It doesn’t make a dent in the ground at all; and when I finally find where you have fallen, the comet is you, covered in a haze of twinkling light, curled into a ball and then suddenly awake, rousing yourself from a deep, full sleep. I’ve often wondered what it would feel like to crawl inside of a star, to look outward and have everything be a little brighter, rimmed in a glittering pallor and a million winking prisms. Someday I will have the honor of climbing inside of a star and seeing with a star’s eyes and feeling the healthy, constant glow of life emanating from every corner of the universe. I will be inside of a star and I will sigh and go to sleep, and I will finally be at home.

For a moment, the Exile thought she had gone blind, and discovering that she could not see her legs or the ground her throat constricted tightly with panic. She grabbed for her useless eyes, but slowly her sight began to return and she blinked disjointedly, looking around, finding that there was no longer a man huddled in her arms. She could hear loud, ear-splitting noises, an incredible racket right beside her. The Exile glanced up and saw that Athan was standing there, shoulders back, facing an endless column of Sith soldiers, drones and Dark Jedi covered from head to toe in black. They were advancing at a deliberate march, but Athan did not flinch, did not betray even a flicker of fear.

The Exile climbed to her feet and found that her robes had been torn to shreds from the explosion. The explosion. It had been her, she knew it, knew it as well as she knew the sight of her own hands. The beast, the animal was on the loose and the monster was no longer some abstract feeling, it was synonymous with her; there could be no separation; she would keep a thin leash on the wild thing and use it, bend it to her every bidding. Glancing around, the Exile noted that there was no trace of Girish, the Queen or the K’Resh sentries anywhere, just a deep, white scoring on the dirt of the clearing. They had simply been annihilated, vaporized by the power of the Jedi’s strange awakening. An unsettling, clammy mist hung in the air around them and the Exile had a feeling it was a fog of blood.

“Have you ever felt anything so beautiful in your life?” Athan asked, referring to the blast.

“Yes,” the Exile replied cryptically. “Glad to have you back.”

“The chains… I never thought I would be rid of them. Now we may stand together. Will you fight with me? You have done so much already; I hesitate to ask you for more. But will you free Lokan of the Sith plague?” Athan asked. Looking at him, the Exile could make out the shape of his ruggedly handsome face beneath the gnarled beard and patina of grime. He was his former self, a king, or perhaps something even stronger and more potent. They clasped hands and the Force flowed between them freely.

“To battle,” the Exile whispered, and together they strode slowly toward the oncoming ocean of enemies. Suddenly, a metallic trilling filled the sky and they looked up to see Khai at the head of fifty Morgreks and riders. Their incredible mass almost blotted out the sunlight as they passed over. The Exile waved to them, noticing that Khai was in full armor and brandishing a long spear with a mean-looking barbed sickle at the top. He pointed the spear forward and the Morgrek riders went into a controlled dive, heading straight for the Sith. A barrage of small, thick armor-piercing arrows pelted the Sith, loosed from the back set of riders who were armed with enormous golden crossbows.

“Brother,” Athan murmured reverently. “You have brought about a change of heart in him, it is miraculous.”

“It’s not a miracle, I don’t think,” the Exile countered gently. “There was courage in him all along, he just needed a little prodding, that’s all.”

The Sith were firing back on the riders and the Exile watched as one of the Morgreks was clipped in the wing and came to a shuddering halt in midair before cart wheeling toward the ground. The Exile began walking more quickly, faster, faster, with Athan beside her, until they broke into a run. The Exile had never rushed into battle without a weapon before but there was no chance now for second thoughts; she would have to be the weapon.

They met the first wave of Sith droids with a crunch of lightning that sent mechanical arms and legs flying in every direction. One of the droids managed to get close to Athan, only to be pulverized into a fine, silver dust by a Force wave so powerful it blew the Exile’s hair back. It was incredible, the power, the almost unwieldy, freakish nature of it all. Her blood was on fire, her command over the Force unstoppable. She felt no drain on her power whatsoever; there was simply no limit anymore to her gift. Somehow, she had broken through a wall that she hadn’t even known existed. Now that she was on the other side, she knew there was no conceivable way of going back. She had a vague inkling in her mind as to what had caused this sudden surge but there was no time to debate it, the battle called.

+ + +

The Disciple’s heart felt as if it would explode as he and the others neared the vast Sith army. It ached not from exertion, but from the flashes of lightning in the distance that he knew to be the Exile. They were coming so close, and soon they would collide with the Sith forces and fight their way to the Exile at last. His mouth was uncomfortably dry with anxiety; the moment of terrible truth was almost upon them. He might soon learn that she was lost to him forever.

“Don’t stop this momentum,” Revan called over her shoulder. She was leading the charge and they were now full-out sprinting toward the hill to the side ranks of the army. In his vision she was little more than a flash of green and blue until he used the Force to slow time and make out the individual parts of her body all working together to propel her forward at unfathomable speed. He and Dustil were close on her heels, Bao-Dur and Mission flanked them and Carth brought up the rear, struggling to keep up even while riding on a sleek new Republic-issue speeder. The Disciple had to admit, they made an imposing sight: The charge of furious Jedi and the powerhouse Admiral flying over the ground on a black metal demon.

“Are you prepared for this?”

Revan was in his head, bolstering him, fretting over him. But the Disciple did not need any assistance; he was aching to test out the raging animal that had awakened in them all.

“It will be an honor to fight at your side,” he communicated back.

Revan impacted the first few Sith bombardiers with a resounding thwack as the closest one was shot backward into three of his comrades and his belt, lined with grenades, dropped onto another battalion of soldiers and exploded, sending body parts hurling into the air. With one agile move of her hand she had killed twenty men. The Disciple’s palms itched and he reached for his dual lightsabers; they felt like old friends in his grasp and they sent a tingle of anticipation down his spine. He was eager to try them out and test his minor adjustments to their composition.

Revan was doing an admirable job of clearing the way for the others, who entered the battle lightsabers flashing. Dustil had unsheathed his vibrant blue lightsaber with his right hand as he sparked to life a shorter, quicker saber in his left. He fought with beautiful finesse, slicing through soldiers as if they had no weight or resistance at all; his skill with the blades was masterful, artful, and he didn’t stop, moving through the techniques fluidly, like a dancer on stage at their most important show.

A plume of smoke rolled in from behind and Carth’s speeder turret ripped through an advancing group of Dark Jedi. They tried their best to deflect the rounds of fire but the gun was simply too powerful and mowed them down in a matter of seconds.

“Down you go!” he thundered, urging the speeder forward into another crowd of Sith.

Bao-Dur and Mission stayed close to the Disciple, they were not seasoned Jedi like he and Revan. They were still exploring their powers and learning to fight well with their lightsabers but their battle instincts were good and he knew they would hold their own. Bao-Dur seemed to be embracing his new-found strength with gusto, laughing with the insane thrill of battle as he froze three men in place for Mission, who darted forward and decapitated them all with a flourish.

The Disciple whirled to find a group of Dark Jedi closing in on him. He had never excelled at taking on multiple opponents but this was a new battle and he was a new man. There was no doubt left in his mind that he belonged there, destroying evil and fighting to rejoin his one love. They inched toward him, crouched in a defensive fighting formation, their red blades glowing brightly in the harsh afternoon glare. Suddenly, one of them shot forward to take him from the left. But the Disciple was deep inside the liquid embrace of the Force and he was ready. He felt the lightning tingling in his toes before it rocketed upward and he was lifted clear off the ground; he clenched his fists and the forks of white heat snaked around the Dark Jedi’s body. Shocked, the Jedi made a short gurgle and then was whipped backward, his upper half moving faster than his lower and he was broken at the middle, his spine separating with one ringing crunch.

What did I just do?

He had never had command over this kind of power before and he was already drunk on it. The Disciple turned now to the other Dark Jedi who circled him and he smiled, ready to savor the intoxicating, transporting vibrations of these new-found abilities.

They advanced over the fallen Sith, trampling over heaps of bodies and piles of broken droids. The Sith were already taking heavy losses, but they continued to attack in wave after endless wave, emanating from beyond a low hill in front of the spire. They were pouring out of its depths. The Disciple watched as a troop of strange riders on serpents flew over head, dropping crates of explosives onto the soldiers’ ranks.

Suddenly, the line of Sith between they and the Exile grew so thin that he could make out her figure in the murky clearing ahead. The Disciple came to a halt and at his side Bao-Dur and Mission froze too, Mission’s jaw hanging open.

“Oh my…”

“Is that?”

“Unbelievable.”

There stood the Exile, imposing and upright, a pillar of pure, terrible light daring the enemy to attack her. Her fists were clenched at her sides, her chest rising and falling with the force of her breaths. The Disciple could feel her incredible energy from there; he could feel every beat of her heart and every twitch of her fingers. It was a breathtaking vision, the Exile advancing on an entire army of Sith, one shoulder of her robe completely torn off, wearing only blood-soaked tatters and an expression of eerie serenity. No, the Disciple corrected, focus. She was like nothing he had ever seen or expected to see, a force of nature, a human tornado, a dazzling alluvion created of wind and storm, fire and rage. The sea of Sith in front of her seemed to bend, as if the first ranks were hesitating to approach this woman who had already leveled countless numbers of fellow soldiers.

And then it happened. The Exile took a deep, steadying breath and crouched low, whipping her head forward and then back in a long, screaming roar. At first, the Disciple felt nothing, and then all at once he was knocked onto his knees from the sheer violence of the Force scream she unleashed. He watched as the first four lines of soldiers before her dropped, ravaged, their clothes ripped completely off of their bodies, blood spraying out of their noses and mouths.

But the Exile didn’t pause to take this in, she simply kept walking, her hands erupting with blinding rivers of lightning that made the earth tremble and the air crackle with electricity. The Disciple had read ancient myths about alien Gods that descended from time to time to meddle in the affairs of men and stalk the battlefields leaving miles of destruction in their path. The comparison was too easy to make, but there it was, the unstoppable woman striding forward and drawing on power that seemed to rise up from the dark core of the planet itself. Her eyes were lit up, and it was impossible to reconcile the carnage in her wake and the peaceful, placid expression on her angelic face.

One of the Morgrek riders swooped low, skewering a Sith soldier on his spear. But he had miscalculated the dive and the spear caught in the Sith’s armor, stuck. The rider was jettisoned forward, off of his beast and into a roiling crowd of Dark Jedi. They descended on him immediately, mercilessly, fueled with terror from all that they had seen. The Exile dashed forward. The Disciple went for the fallen rider, too, hoping he could make it in time.

It was too late, the rider’s helmet had been ripped off and the Disciple saw the face of a noble young man, scared and defeated. He flailed, catching the Disciple’s eyes, screaming for help and then for mercy as the Dark Jedi began electrocuting him. The Exile reached the group as one of the Sith executed the young man with a hard, final strike through the chest. There was no time for the Dark Jedi to react to the Exile, however, because they were already soaring through the air, blown backward with a flick of her hand. She cradled the young man’s head and wiped the blood from his lips.

“Khai, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. He opened his eyes, his lashes fluttering on his pale cheek.

“I – I don’t - ”

“I will not forget your bravery, nor will your brother,” she said, and he was gone. The Exile lifted her head, tears streaming down her face, her mouth set in a firm, cruel line and her eyes blazing. She was about to let another Force scream rip out of her throat but she stopped short, her eyes landing on a curious figure, robed in gray and white, his blonde hair whipped backward by the rising wind. The smell of death surrounded them, the catastrophic noise of battle raged in every direction but in her mind, in his heart, everything had gone silent. The gore and terror fell away and they were the only two souls on the planet.

The Exile gently let the rider’s head fall out of her lap and she stood, slowly, facing the man with her shoulders back. Her mouth trembled as she stepped over the body of her fallen friend and came toward him. He had never seen anything so heart-stopping in his life, the warrior woman, the unknowable goddess; he felt her essence envelope him and he breathed in the otherworldly feeling of her closeness.

“Mical,” she whispered.

“Nuala.”

She tumbled into him, falling hard against his chest. He held her fast, squeezing her, trying with every muscle in his arms to make them one thing, take her into his body and make them one inseparable thing. His face was wet, he was probably crying, but there was nothing in his mind. There was only the woman in his arms and the ecstatic heat exploding in his chest. His, his, she was his, enfolded in his arms, and his at last. The awakening in them had made him stronger, surely, but holding her there made him feel absolutely invincible.

“How did you - ”

“Revan, she’s here with us. We came to find you,” Mical whispered. He pulled her away so that he could see her face. Grinning uncontrollably, he touched her cropped hair.

“You have such lovely ears. I never knew.”

The Exile cupped his cheek, staring, disbelievingly. He had braved death and doubt to find her. Behind them, a shuddering blast sent a group of Sith soldiers spinning into the sky. It was Athan, boldly striding forward; Revan had joined him and together they were a terrible reckoning.

“Stay back,” Revan called. “We’ll deal with this. Join us when you’re ready.”

The Exile, Nuala, nodded, bowing low to her Jedi peer. Mical had taken something off of his belt and was holding it out to her. He pressed it gently into her hand.

“What’s this?” she asked, testing the weight of it.

“Just a little gift,” he said.

Nuala flicked the switch and the double-bladed saber glowed silver tinged with green. She spun it a few times, getting used to its heft.

“But that’s my crystal in there and… Yours. Where did you find them?”

“Bao-Dur, but there will be time for all of this discussion later. I know the battle is calling and we will fight on no matter what, but first I must ask you, I literally cannot wait another moment…” His heart clenched, he could feel the old doubts returning from the darkest abyss of his mind, feel the thrum of terror and disappointment beginning in his limbs. The “what ifs,” the damned bloody “what ifs” resurfaced, beating against his brain. He stared at her, his mouth ash-dry, waiting, waiting…

“Of course I love you,” she murmured.

“I know,” he said. And as he said those words, he felt for the first time a spark of confidence and certainty shining in his eyes. She seemed to notice it too and smiled, touching his hair, his nose, his chin. He wanted to devour her then and there but there wasn’t time, there simply wasn’t the time… The Disciple turned to go, ready now to face whatever lay ahead of them and get it out of the way; there were so many things he wanted to do. But Nuala grabbed his wrist, pulling him back.

“Wait, aren’t you forgetting something?” she scoffed, raising her eyebrows. Without hesitation, he grabbed her face with both hands and kissed her, hard, without any of the old, breezy sentiment he had professed to her before. No, it was passion, radiant, dangerous, filled to overflowing with the pounding primal ache in his heart. He tasted her tongue, her sweat, her blood and it branded and fired his soul, flooding his veins with promise: Yes, this was what he had come to do, this was what he wanted, and she was his, the doubts could sleep and he could live. Mical had never imagined he could kiss someone like that, that his courtly ideals could disappear in a flash, but it was right and it was good. At last, he pulled away, reluctantly, and searched her face.

“Well now I know how it feels to kiss a wookiee,” she said, scratching at her tickled nose.

The Disciple grinned and put his arm around her waist, pulling her toward the battle. Together they threw themselves with renewed vigor into the fight. Carth zoomed across the field, spraying the incoming enemies with a torrent of blaster fire. Revan, Dustil and Athan were unstoppable, carving a deep path through the ranks of the Sith, using the full range of their power to rend the foe.

But something was wrong; he couldn’t see Mission or Bao-Dur.

“Mission,” the Disciple whispered. He had been so consumed with finding Nuala that he hadn’t felt the ripple in the Force.

“Come on,” the Exile called, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward two figures in the distance, alone and crumpled on a hill.

As they approached the two figures, Mical felt his heart twist painfully. Bao-Dur sat in the tall grass, a beautiful young Twi’lek laying across his legs. Her face had been blackened with ash and her lips leaked a thin line of blood; a purple gash in her shoulder and side told him everything he needed to know. Bao-Dur looked up as they approached him, his eyes streaming tears, his clothing covered in Mission’s blood.

“General,” he whispered helplessly.

Nuala knelt beside them and touched Bao-Dur gently on the shoulder. It only seemed to make it worse, for he began to cry harder, clutching Mission to his chest.

“She’s alive,” Mical whispered, placing a trembling hand on the Twi’lek’s neck. There was a pulse, but it was fading. Mission wasn’t looking at him at all, she was staring at Bao-Dur and smiling, faintly.

“Are there any more medpacs?” Mical asked.

“I used them all up. Nothing made a difference.”

“What happened?” Mical demanded, molding his palm around her neck, channeling a stream of healing waves into her body. They weren’t going to lose her, they couldn’t, not when Bao-Dur had risked so much to help him find his love. It wasn’t fair. He swallowed a lump in his throat, fearing that this was simply the way of the Force; he had found his love, and because of that, Bao-Dur would lose his.

“I – I don’t know. We were fighting and then we were separated. One of the explosive crates landed too close and I couldn’t see her, I couldn’t… There was smoke everywhere, and blood, so much blood. When I found her, there was a Dark Jedi and I…” he trailed off, kissing Mission’s face desperately.

“Spare them the details,” Mission wheezed, grinning, before coughing up a wad of blood.

Nuala shot Mical a look and he shrugged, still holding his hands to Mission, concentrating all of his energy into healing her. Bao-Dur wiped the back of his hand across his nose and mouth, sputtering.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I should have…”

“Shut up,” Mission whispered.

Mical glanced at her two biggest wounds and saw that the flow of blood was beginning to slow down. One of the gashes seemed to be less raw around the edges and beginning to close. He was almost there, so near to helping her –

“Heads up,” Nuala breathed, springing to her feet. A group of six Dark Jedi had spotted them, isolated on the hill, and decided to try their luck.

“There are two more,” Bao-Dur murmured, watching the enemies approach. “Stealthed.”

“See to your woman,” Nuala whispered kindly. “Don’t you dare think about getting up, Mical. Mission needs you, I can take care of them.”

Mical nodded, pressing his hands harder against Mission’s neck, willing her to live, pouring everything he had into her body. He had never succeeded in saving someone with such advanced wounds, but if ever there was a time to do it, it was then. Bao-Dur trembled beside him, heaving long, deep sobs.

“She’s so young,” he choked, and Mical had to block it out to keep from comforting his friend.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Dark Jedi intercepting the Exile. She had come to a stop before them, letting them advance on their own time. For a moment he thought he was imagining it, but no, the Exile was actually glowing, the color of her skin and robes gone. The air around them began to fizzle and snap with electricity and he could see ropes of blue and silver lightning skimming over the surface of Nuala’s body, spinning around her like the rings around a planet. The Dark Jedi also noticed this and began to slow down, one even stopped altogether and began to flee.

This was the sign she had been waiting for. The Dark Jedi froze, shocked into place as the Exile’s hands twitched ever so slightly and a blinding flash of light enveloped her and her stock-still enemies. When the light died down the Jedi were on the ground, charred piles of flesh. Bao-Dur had gone silent watching all of this, and closed his mouth suddenly, realizing that he had been gaping.

Mical strained to focus on Mission, feeling drained as the last pulses of his energy flowed into her. It wasn’t enough. The wounds were closing but they were still seeping blood and the light in her eyes was dying down. He wanted to scream in frustration, he couldn’t let her die, it wasn’t possible.

“Bao,” Mission was saying weakly.

“No, don’t say anything, we’re going to fix you, I promise, I promise,” Bao-Dur whispered. Mical felt his chest tighten, his powers were failing, he had nothing left.

“It’s okay, Bao,” she said. “I’ll wait for you on Dantooine.”

Bao-Dur shook his head, unable to speak, clutching Mission to his chest and rocking her. In his hands, Mical could feel Mission leaving them. How could the universe be so cruel? The Exile returned and knelt beside them.

“Here,” she whispered, placing her warm hands on top of Mical’s. “Together.”

The Disciple could feel the energy hitting his hands first and then spreading into Mission’s neck. Mical watched, dumbstruck, as Mission’s skin began to knit back together. After a moment, the wounds were nearly closed and the Twi’lek seemed to be stirring. Bao-Dur hugged her close to his chest, cradling her head in his large hand.

“Take her to the ships,” Nuala murmured. “Put her in a kolto tank immediately. She’ll last that far.”

“Yes,” Bao-Dur nodded, a smile appearing behind the tears. “Thank you.”

“Go,” the Exile said gently, standing.

Bao-Dur got to his feet and Mical lifted Mission into his arms, handing her carefully to the Zabrak, who seemed more optimistic by the second.

“Take good care of her,” Mical said, squeezing Bao-Dur’s shoulder.

They watched the Zabrak carry Mission away; Mical felt the Exile’s fingers intertwine with his. She took a deep, shuddering breath and he sensed her deep sadness.

“It isn’t your fault,” Mical said.

“Of course it is. Bao-Dur was my Padawan, he isn’t ready for battle on this scale. I should have taught him better, I should have…”

“It was his decision to come. I asked him to stay behind,” Mical replied. “No one is to blame.”

Nuala nodded, peering at him. He sensed that she was taking him in, admiring him and it made his chest glow with pride.

“Come on,” she said, tugging him. “The fight isn’t over.”

+ + +

Mical had dashed forward into the fray, frying a Dark Jedi who had clumsily dropped his lightsaber. He reached out and his fingers formed a tense claw; he raised his hand and across the way a heavy artillery droid lifted off the ground and with a light flick of Mical’s wrist, the enormous droid smashed into two others, sending shrapnel and smoky fire in every direction. It was then that he looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes enflamed with power, his shoulders back, and his silken blonde hair trickling over his face.

The boy. The ship. The field. The streaming yellow hair.

Nuala nearly dropped to her knees then and there from the weight of the realization. She should have known all along, and now that she understood, it really did seem quite obvious. Perhaps she didn’t want to know, couldn’t permit herself the knowledge until she had him in her arms again. Mical beckoned to her and Nuala ran forward, eager to put her new lightsaber to the test.

The ground was no longer distinguishable from the bodies, debris and unidentifiable muck that carpeted the battlefield. Nuala and her friends were getting close to the Spire, cresting the hill just before the path began into the Sith base. There was something so right about fighting back to back with Mical, who seemed to balance out her fighting technique perfectly. He sensed when she needed a reprieve and when she wanted to press the advantage. They were a seamless dueling machine, connected without being chained up. Every move they orchestrated together was satisfying and every near accident a blast of adrenaline. This was not the Mical she had left battered and empty on Jaroon, this was the man she had hoped he would come to be – sure of himself, vigorous, unwavering in his thought and speech.

It was cruel, she knew, that he had gone through such torment to reach this place and to reach who he had become. But had she not suffered the same merciless route? Her vision had been correct, the path they traveled was hard, unrelenting, but it carved them into confident, capable people, fired in the furnace of tribulation. They were unusual creatures, gifted beyond measure, and those gifts made them targets, forced them to defend themselves… They could not expect an easy life. Nuala could sense now that he understood the kind of strength it would take to stand beside her. Before, he was not ready, he was still wrapped up in his boyhood crush and unable to see and accept the hard road ahead of him. But he had found her, fought for her and proved that he had the metal nerves to weather the storm.

It all went so quickly from then on. She was growing accustomed to her newfound strength and fighting with Mical made the enemies seem pointless, like helpless weeds to be mowed. When they reached the entrance to the spire they stopped to rest, panting hard in the cool shade of the spire’s shadow. The others were relatively unscathed, but Dustil had suffered a gash over his left eye. Carth unpacked a large canteen of water from the speeder and they took turns drinking. One of the Morgrek riders landed nearby and dismounted, hurrying over to them while removing his glinting helmet.

The grizzled old warrior bowed low and addressed Athan.

“Your Majesty, the Sith are beating a hasty retreat, they’re leaving through the secret back entrance of the spire. Your orders, King?”

“Recall the workers from the mines, fortify them inside the palace. Feed them, cloth them and give them weapons. This is only a small victory and we must not be caught unprepared again,” Athan said, his bent, former-self just a bad memory.

“I contacted the Republic before we reached Lokan, their advanced guard should be arriving at O-one hundred hours,” Carth said, jamming a medpack into his thigh to take care of a few deflection wounds. “I’m not sure I want to press the attack right now, we’re getting exhausted, your riders are being picked off and the Sith could call for reinforcements at any time.”

“We cannot abandon them,” Revan said sagely, looking to Athan.

“I hope the Republic is strong enough to be of real help,” Nuala pointed out.

“That’s two of us,” Dustil grunted.

“Athan, are you tired?” Revan asked, touching his arm gently.

“No, perhaps I should be. Are you?”

Revan shook her head, “I have a thought. Perhaps Athan and I could continue after the retreating Sith, if only to make it appear that we intend to kill them down to the last man. This will give the citizens time to return to the palace and make preparations.”

“And the rest of us?” Nuala asked, standing so close to Mical that she could smell his hair; it was difficult to pay attention.

“You were imprisoned twice, tortured, and nearly killed. Carth and I were floating above a tropical paradise a day ago. Who do you think is better prepared to keep fighting?” Revan asked, seemingly unafraid to put her foot down. Nuala locked eyes with the Jedi and felt Revan prodding her, seeking entrance to her mind. Nuala reluctantly let her in.

“I know you want to fight, I know you are not one to give up but let us do this for you.”

“Revan, you and I made the mistake of trying to fight this war by ourselves, you know as well as I do that we need to work together,” Nuala countered. As they communicated, Carth and Athan continued debating the best course of action.

“You deserve to rest,” Revan said gently. “No one is proposing we abandon Lokan, but there is only so much we can hope to accomplish in one day. The fight is going our way, yes, but the Sith undoubtedly have resources in this system, they will call on those resources and we will be overrun with reinforcements by morning.”

“Perhaps. Still, it seems wrong not to utilize this advantage. A Sith we kill today is one less Sith to face tomorrow.”

“Uh, ladies?” Carth broke in, waving a hand in front of Revan’s blank face.

“Forgive me,” Revan murmured, smiling at Nuala.

“Don’t do that, it’s so frustrating,” he grunted.

“Trust issues,” Dustil whispered to Mical, just loud enough for his father to hear. Carth bristled.

“Before you send Dustil to the brig or whatever it is you plan to do, could we nail down a plan?” Nuala asked, smirking over at Dustil, who winked and then winced, covering his wounded eye.

Carth’s com-link fizzed to life.

“What the – This is Admiral Carth Onasi, over.”

“Admiral, good to hear you’re still alive. This is Captain Trosman with the advanced guard; we’re making our final approach, looks like one hell of a Rancor pit down there. What’s your status?”

“We’re in good shape, one is in serious condition but she’s stabilized,” Carth replied. “How did you get here so fast? I sent that message to Cede this afternoon.”

“No offense sir but we tracked you on Corellia, we had a feeling you were up to something so I was assigned to take a few phantoms and follow at a… Respectful distance,” the Captain said.

“Respectful distance? You were tailing me?” Carth’s rising anger was manifesting in his voice. Revan placed a hand on his shoulder and he seemed to relax. “Look, I’ll send you our coordinates now. Get your men down here as fast as you can, we’re pressing the Sith on their retreat. The citizens of the planet are going to arm themselves in case reinforcements show up. Understood?”

“Perfectly, Admiral, we’ll suit up and head to your location, over.”

The com-link fizzled out and Carth sighed, squeezing his temples.

“Sometimes I hate the army,” he grumbled, shaking his head.

“Well, that settles it,” Revan said, stepping forward. “Athan and I will proceed to the far side of the spire, if anyone else wishes to accompany us they may. Nuala has been through quite a lot lately, and I think it best if she returns to our ships and prepare to go home.”

“Go home?” Mical asked. “But there’s still so much to do.”

“I didn’t say forever, did I?” Revan asked, raising a sharp eyebrow. “She needs time to recover. When she feels ready, she will return to the Unknown Regions to continue the campaign.”

“We’ll stay at least long enough to transfer power back to the King here, and depending on how quickly the Sith retaliate, we’ll decide what to do from there,” Carth pronounced, his tone indicating that the matter was finished. They began preparing to go, loading up the speeder and saying their goodbyes.

Revan took Nuala in her arms and clasped her to her chest tightly, sighing with something like regret or despair.

“It was good to see you and fight at your side,” Revan said.

“Things will be set right now,” Nuala replied, enjoying the strong flow of the Force between their bodies. “I can feel it, the Force is at peace for now.”

Part of her wished to stay, to walk the land with Revan, learn from her, and bask in her powerful light. There would be time, she knew, for all of that. She would return to the Unknown Regions someday, she could foresee it. Revan would grow weary of the fight and disappear again with her doting Admiral and it would be Nuala and Mical’s turn to lead the battle against the true Sith. For now, she knew that Revan wanted her to rest and enjoy a brief respite from all of the turmoil.

“You’ll tell me when the first one is born, won’t you?” Revan whispered.

“I won’t have to tell you,” Nuala said, pulling away gently. “You will feel it through the Force.”

They embraced again and kissed each other delicately on both cheeks. Nuala parted from Revan reluctantly and was received by Admiral Onasi, who also squeezed her tightly in his strong arms. Then Mical put his hand on Nuala’s waist, and led her slowly away from the spire. She cast a dark look up at it, astounded that she had made it out alive, knowing that she would never have done so without her foolishly brave friends. Athan caught up to them.

“Wait!” he called.

“Your Majesty,” she murmured. He took her hand, kissing it emphatically.

“If I could, I would beg you to stay and make you my queen,” he said, nodding respectfully to Mical. “I see, however, that you have already acquired a deserving suitor.”

He leaned in close to her, whispering, “Is it safe to assume that you have discovered the identity of the mysterious boy from your vision?”

“Quite safe,” she replied, beaming up at Mical. Athan nodded, satisfied, and shook Mical’s hand before striding back to Revan and the waiting battle. As they walked back toward the ships, Nuala couldn’t stop herself from stealing glances at Mical.

“You look different, Mical,” she said, watching the way the fading sunlight turned his skin a honeyed hue and softened his hair to deep gold. He was beautiful, radiant, appearing even more exquisite than she had remembered. There was an entirely new attitude about him, so sure and easy, even more calming than before. His hands seemed stronger, his gait more commanding. He looked older, it was true, but the sophistication suited him, brought out his expressive lips and intelligent eyes.

“So do you,” he mused, ruffling her short hair. The sun was dipping low on the horizon and the blazing heat of day had calmed; now the land was darker, cooler. Nuala shivered, suddenly embarrassed by her tattered clothing and near-nakedness. Mical quickly shucked his over-robe and draped it over her shoulders.

“Darling, you’re cold,” he murmured, pressing her close to his side as they walked.

“We should find the ships soon,” she said cheerfully. “Then I can find a spare robe or something and we can go – Oh. But where are we going?”

“How do you mean?” he asked, his voice filling with concern.

“I don’t have a home; I haven’t had one since… I don’t know.”

“Then we’ll make one,” Mical replied matter-of-factly.

“Yes,” Nuala said, smiling, liking the idea very much, “Yes, we’ll make one.”

+ + +

Epilogue

Spring arrived on Dantooine and with it came the buzzing of eager, industrious insects and the delicate perfume of newly-flowering shrubs. Everything seemed to have the glow of life about it, and as the days become warmer and the cold winter clouds vanished, the Jedi Enclave teemed with new ideas and promise. It was an incredible transformation, Nuala thought, remembering a time when the enclave had been nothing but a decrepit pile of rubble and bad memories. Amazing things had blossomed from that rubbish heap, like a determined flower pushing its head through a layer of black ash.

Nuala could appreciate the peaceful malaise of early spring but she also felt a keen restlessness. She was not a woman to sit by while others fought the necessary battles. As a young woman, she had never expected to spend her years in one place and the itch for travel was always on her mind. Looking out at the plains, looking at the pale green grasses and yellow flowers, she knew it might not be so bad to simply be. She was needed by the enclave and perhaps it was time to relax and restore; someday she would be called back to the fire of battle, but for now it was her job to embrace stillness. In that stillness she had discovered new parts of herself and she had learned to control and calm the snarling beast that waited within.

Nuala rose from the grass, brushing off her simple blue robes. In the valley below, young Padawans were training with wooden swords, overseen by Bao-Dur, who had quickly mastered the basic principles of Jedi training and been promoted to Knight. Mission lay in the grass watching as the youngsters whacked enthusiastically at each other and Bao-Dur corrected their form, keeping any real fights from breaking out. She waved at him and he saluted; he still wouldn’t give up on the damn General thing.

It was growing more difficult to get around easily, her stomach was a burden now, slowing her down and keeping her from training as hard as she usually did. She rested her hands on her pregnant stomach and wandered back to the enclave, feeling the little kicks and squirms of the strong baby she carried. She had been spending more time out of doors, not just because the weather was improving, but because she felt a deep affinity for nature. It was a cliché, she knew, but motherhood was bringing her closer to the natural world than she had ever been; she knew a time would come when she would need to reconcile these maternal instincts with her proclivity for violence.

The courtyard was virtually empty, the senior members of the Order were holding talks inside that day. It was becoming more and more common for the members of the Order to deliberate for hours on end, debating on everything from tradition to new policies and the continued fight against the true Sith. Now Knights were sent to Lokan when they were ready and served under the command of Admiral Onasi and Jedi Master Revan. Every week she received a transmission from Revan updating her on the battles, victories and losses, and each time Nuala felt a pang of regret that she could not be there to help. Revan anticipated these feelings and continued to assure her that she was, indeed, helping, but training the next generation and seeing to it that the Jedi endured.

Nuala entered the enclave and walked slowly down the cool hall into the inner courtyard before turning down a dim passage that led to the conferencing chamber. The doors were open and inside, the chamber was packed with Jedi. Nuala stood in the back, smiling as she watched the crowd listening raptly to the man before them. He spoke from a podium, scanning the crowd of Jedi, urging them to listen with his earnest eyes. She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe, hidden in the shadows.

“We must all be true to the teachings of the Jedi, but we must also, and above all, be true to ourselves and to who we truly are. The Jedi way can bring power and enlightenment, but it can also lead us down a dark, lonely path in which there is no room for the affection of others. I will continue to urge the council to consider my proposals to amend the Jedi teachings and encourage greater liberties for the Jedi in both physical and emotional realms. Who can say what power we lose when we cut ourselves off from love, intimacy and family? Certainly, jealousy and greed are always a threat, but how much better equipped to counter these feelings is the man who understands the true meaning of devotion and family?”

There was eager applause from about half of the audience. Nuala joined in, clapping slowly. Jedi Master Mical’s teachings were not popular with everyone, but certain of the members seemed to understand his points. Looking at him there, his posture straight and his eyes sure, she couldn’t believe that he had once been a shy, apologetic boy lacking in both confidence and original opinions. It didn’t surprise her in the least that Mical was enthusiastically voted into the leading position of the Jedi Order. He was the obvious and best choice; they had not even considered her for the role.

All of her doubts about her staying on Dantooine vanished when she looked at Mical. He was so dignified, so trustworthy. He had let the beard grow back and it suited his more sophisticated self. They had been inseparable since he had recovered her from Lokan. No one knew the true story, and no one understood how much it meant to her that he had come. When they first returned to the ships to leave Lokan, Mission had been their main priority. None of them had slept for days as they sped away from the war and back to the Republic, nursing Mission day and night. Her wounds were so severe that she would break into terrifying fevers and bouts of cold aches. Nuala suspected that the wounds were not only physical, that the Dark Jedi had wounded her mind. By the time they reached Coruscant four days later, they were completely exhausted. Bao-Dur transferred Mission to the largest medical facility on the planet with a promise to return soon to Dantooine.

The constant worry and use of their Force powers to treat Mission had left both Mical and Nuala utterly drained. Mical had the good sense to find the grandest, most expensive accommodations in the city and brought Nuala there to rest. At last, they were alone.

At first it had been strange, the two of them there with nothing to do but be together. They were both accustomed to trying to create a relationship in the midst of war and trouble, it was unfamiliar territory to be safe, alone and free of obligations. For the first day they did nothing but sleep, regenerating their tired, overused bodies and minds. By the second night the tension had mounted to a point where Nuala couldn’t stand it any longer.

Sitting in a warm bath, she watched Mical at the mirror, shaving off his gruff beard. He wore nothing but a towel, his lean, sculpted shoulders enticing her in the golden light. Outside, the Corellian sky was streaked with purple and orange, a glorious, colorful farewell to the afternoon light. Nuala felt a nagging impatience, and her whole body called out to him. They had enjoyed nothing but quick, sleepy kisses as they nursed Mission back to health and slept off the long, miserable hours. Now they were alone, free to do as they liked, and she wondered if he was thinking the same thing: If they gave in, it would be a strong renouncement of their Jedi teachings. Nuala had long ago given up on those boundaries and already understood that her body belonged to him, but she wasn’t sure he had come to the same conclusion.

“You can’t do that later?” Nuala asked, scooping up a baby-blue flower. Mical smiled through the thick mask of white shaving foam. He flicked the razor around in the bath of water sitting in the sink and pulled a long, scraping stroke down his cheek. In the mirror he watched her and Nuala extended her legs out of the bath water, placing them on the edge of the tub so the suds and water droplets could slide slowly down their length.

“Don’t do that,” Mical said sternly.

“And why not?” Nuala asked, feigning total innocence of what she was doing.

“Because it’s already an absurd test of my self-control. This beard is coming off, Nuala, I won’t stand for anything being in the way of my face and your skin, not a war, not distance, not a damn beard. I beg you, just stop seducing me so I can finish,” he replied, scraping more of the beard off of his face. Nuala stared, swallowing hard. His face… Her skin… So he had renounced those teachings after all.

“You’re going to make love to me, aren’t you?” Nuala asked softly, running a sponge teasingly over her shoulders.

“Perhaps,” Mical said, forcing his eyes away from her. “What makes you so certain?”

“I have foreseen it.”

“Indeed?” Mical laughed, rinsing the razor blade.

“Well, I foresaw a child so unless there’s another handsome blonde Jedi in my future…”

Plop.

Mical gaped at her in the mirror, then spun and looked her in the eyes. Nuala smiled, nodding. He let out a long, slow breath and turned back to the sink, reaching into the murky water to fish out the razor blade. After a moment, he glanced at her again in the mirror.

“Another blonde Jedi,” he scoffed. “Now you’ve gone and spoiled it, I don’t want to make love to you at all anymore.”

“You always were terrible at hiding your feelings from me, Mical,” Nuala replied, dragging the sponge slowly up her slim ankle. Mical finished shaving and ran a towel quickly over his face. He waited for Nuala to look at him and then turned, dropping the towel around his waist. Nuala shuddered, holding the sponge to her chest, squeezing it with fear and anticipation. He came and sat on the edge of the tub, reaching in to find her hand and hold it.

“Did you really foresee a child?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Our child?”

“Yes, I was teetering on the edge, death was… Closing in, and Athan came to me in a vision. He showed me the future and seeing that child… I didn’t even know yet for sure that it was ours, but I knew I had to survive somehow.”

She could see him absorbing this, see the shadow that passed over his face as she referenced that horrible night. Nuala had never told him the extent of her desperation that night, and she didn’t know if she could ever tell him how she had screamed at him that long-lost morning in the hospital. There would be time later to delve into those painful memories. But it wouldn’t do, she decided, to let him dwell on the past now, there had been plenty of misery already between them and she had waited for too long to get him alone. Smirking, Nuala took her hand out of the tub and, grabbing the air, yanked him forward with the Force. Mical fell into the tub with a huge splash, drenching the floor and ceiling.

He spluttered to the surface, laughing, wiping the soap and flower petals out of his eyes. Nuala helped, combing the hair back from his forehead. Mical squeezed in beside her and then pulled her onto his lap. She felt his hands grip her around the waist and she tensed, her nerves suddenly overly sensitive. Mical kissed her cheek and she turned to face him; he was watching her expectantly.

“Well? Aren’t you going to tell me? Is it a boy or a girl?”

“I don’t know,” Nuala murmured, holding his face in her hands. “I think I’d rather make you work for the privilege of that information.”

The baby began kicking as Nuala recalled that night, the first time they finally gave into their feelings and left everyone and everything else behind. Nuala rubbed her belly slowly, trying to calm the excited child.

“Even in the womb he’s a critic,” Mical’s voice shimmered in her mind; he had sensed her presence and her thoughts. “Or maybe he doesn’t approve of your daydreams.” Damn their unbreakable connection, Nuala thought.

“Let’s just hope he isn’t as nosy as his father,” Nuala replied, her eyes flashing as she watched him catch sight of her on the platform.

The baby stopped his frantic kicking and Nuala smiled, unable to keep the memories of that sweet, exhausting night at bay. The bath had been just the beginning, and they had tracked soapy water into the bedroom to continue. It was unlike anything Nuala had imagined, to feel his skin and press her cheek against his while his hands discovered her. She had worried that their shared ignorance of the physical realm would make them clumsy and shy but as soon as their bodies met that hesitation was gone. He had changed, truly changed, and it was evident in the strength of his hands and the fire that seemed to flow between them as freely as the Force. At first it was bizarre to share in his thoughts as he explored her body, but then it was exciting, intimate, a complete bonding of mind and flesh.

She had been waiting for it all her life, the chance to burst with life and love and find that it was nothing to be ashamed of. No, it was something to embrace, something to share with an equal that craved that same total coming together.

Nuala blushed, realizing that she had forgotten where she was. A new speaker took Mical’s place and he left the stage, skirting the edge of the crowd, shaking hands and thanking those who continued applauding him. Nuala waited for him at the door, and he met her with a look that told her he had been inside her head while she reminisced. Together they slunk out of the conference chamber and Mical’s serious mood lifted as soon as he was beside her. They were not married, but everyone in the enclave knew they were a family. They had decided against marriage, since the bold move might outrage the council and cause trouble. Instead, they quietly made their choices and tried their best to show the Jedi that there was a way to live a life of moderation and still follow the path of the Light.

“They’ll come around,” Nuala murmured, hooking her arm in his.

“If only they knew,” Mical said sadly. “If only they knew how happy they could be, and how powerful.”

They had never discussed what caused that shattering awakening on Lokan but both understood as soon as they made love for the first time. It had been the Exile’s choice to accept his love fully and accept a life with him, no matter what that entailed, that triggered the stirring and transformation of their powers. It was the obvious answer when they finally held each other and felt the incredible surge of power as their lips met.

“I don’t understand why you won’t just tell them the truth,” Nuala said with a laugh. “Don’t you think they’d be relieved to know that they can give into their baser lusts and profit from it?”

“We can’t be sure it happens to everyone,” Mical replied thoughtfully. “Think of everything we went through to be together, think of that kind of love. How many people feel that kind of devotion to another being?”

“Not many,” she said, beaming at him as they returned to their private quarters. Nuala knew he was right; not everyone could find this kind of power in love. She often worried that their son would become a dangerous being; she had caught a glimpse of his immense power, would he use it for good or ill?

“Have faith in our guidance,” Mical told her, sensing her fears. “He will grow to be the man we teach him to be.”

When they reached their quarters a messenger was waiting. He was dressed in purple and gold and bowed low to them both. Under his arm he carried a large silver box.

“I’ve come bearing a message from Lokan,” the young boy said, bowing again.

“A data-pad would not suffice?” Mical asked, concerned.

“No, Master Jedi, I bring a gift and it could only be entrusted to one of my kind.”

“Who - ”

“He’s a Morgrek rider,” Nuala said, inclining her head to the young man. He nodded emphatically and Mical opened the door for them.

“Please, come inside.”

Mical and Nuala received the messenger in their simple, elegant home. They waited patiently together as he fished a holograph out of his voluminous robes and set it down on the kitchen table. He cleared his throat a little and pressed the switch. A large, blue image of a man sprung to life.

“King Athan?” Nuala breathed. He was almost unrecognizable, handsome and regal in his royal robes and simple crown. His beard was gone and his hair had been trimmed back; he looked every bit the able and trustworthy King.

“Greetings, Jedi Masters Nuala Avda and Mical Vail. I send warm wishes from all of us here on Lokan. Jedi Master Revan recently informed me that you are beginning a family; I feel obligated to send a gift to celebrate the arrival of this child, for his destiny is surely great. Please accept this gift on behalf of all K’Resh and may your family prosper, and my I also extend a warm invitation, we would be honored to host you at the palace.”

“That’s very kind of him,” Mical murmured, but the message was not over.

“In regards to the gift, do not be too alarmed. I have sent along a year’s supply of powdered Si’rak eggs and a barrel of milk.”

The hologram disappeared and the young man stepped forward again, bowing before placing the large silver box on the table. Nuala took a step back, staring wide-eyed at Mical.

“What exactly - ”

The rider pulled off the lid and Mical and Nuala inched closer to peer inside. She gasped, covering her mouth with both hands.

“Oh,” Mical said, blinking disjointedly.

“It’s adorable!” Nuala cried, reaching in to grab the creature, who hissed at her curiously.

“Nuala, don’t!” Mical said sternly, trying to intervene. “The child!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nuala said, hugging the little winged serpent to her chest. “He’s just a baby.”

“Morgreks bond very closely to their care takers,” the boy explained, overjoyed that the Jedi was pleased with the gift. “He will always protect you and your family, their defensive instincts are finer than any creature I have ever met or heard of.”

The baby Morgrek stung his forked, black tongue in Nuala’s ear and she giggled, trying to pull him away from her face.

“I will leave the crates of food in the hangar,” the boy said, bowing.

“Thank you, I suppose,” Mical said, shaking his head at Nuala.

“The baby likes him, he’s kicking,” Nuala said, taking Mical’s hand and placing it on her stomach. The boy scurried out of the room, closing the door behind him. Mical pulled Nuala close and nuzzled the side of her neck.

“Put that weird snake away,” Mical said, the back of his hand deliberately brushing her breasts as he tried to take the pet from her. Nuala’s eyelids fluttered closed and she teetered on her heels. His power over her was unstoppable. Mical lifted the Morgrek out of her arms and placed it back in the box, replacing the lid with a snap.

“Mical, we really should feed him,” she protested, but his warm kisses were going to her head, and he was invading her mind with the Force, showing her tantalizing images she wanted to see more and more of. He pulled her roughly against his body and ran his hands through her short hair.

“Indulge me,” he whispered, nudging her toward the bed. The Exile looped her arms around his neck and let his kisses fall like warm, sweet rain on her face. She couldn’t deny him anything, not anymore, not when he had come so far and risked so much and all for her. All for her.

There are moments when I feel your love destroying me, ripping at the seams of my control. Would it be so terrible to die from the force of my feelings for you? Perhaps it would shake the universe and you would finally understand that I will do anything, anything at all to win your love. Pay attention, you might look up one night at the ebony sky and catch sight of one particular star. It will brighten just for a moment in your eyes, hypnotizing, spreading outward with a desperate, searching glint; you will watch this star die and you will feel it echo in your heart and you will know I have expired at last, too filled up, my darling, filled up to bursting with love for you.