Happy Valentine's Day!

Jolee Bindo: Well, that... that was the day I met my wife.

Revan Shan: Your wife? You were married?

Jolee Bindo: You know another way to get a wife?!

Bastila set her attaché and bag, fumbled with the weight of stares and her new lightsaber and made sure her cloak did not get stuck in the door of the casual restaurant not far from the Republic's senate hall. Miraculously, there was even enough room to squeeze into a booth. She shifted and told herself not to forget anything. The papers she had were of enough importance to be taken seriously. Today, the Commanders had given her lots of flimsi and holos to digest and study. Tomorrow, there would be even more.

Even now, here and away from the front lines, she was expected to be diligent. She was a member of the Jedi Order, and things were expected of them. Carefully, Bastila patted the comfortable grip of her lightsaber and made sure it still clung to her belt.

The air smelled of heavy greasy food that should be avoided but she would probably order, along with a salad. She worried (wondered?) fleetingly if someone would recognize her. She wanted no unnecessary praise and laudation, but Bastila had some pride in the Order. They saw hope and the Republic, and in these times, needed it. Lately, the Holonet had taken to projecting her image, her tale, her curious gift across the galaxy, and touting her as 'The Last Hope of the Republic.' People some times would address her unnecessarily worshipfully, or demand answers she could not provide. It was better to keep her hood up in such a public area. The Sith had spies, she had been warned. But she was not accosted.

Her simple disguise of a plain brown cloak might be enough it seemed. The rows of people (humanoid and otherwise) seated in white-and-red tables did not gape vacantly at her but instead argued and devoured their food and wanted beer too early for the hour. Pleased, Bastila ordered something messy she would probably regret later and a side of fresh greens and blue milk. The waitress was polite despite the sudden rush of people and smiled warmly at her and asked where she was from and only laughed a little at the amount Bastila ordered.

"You've worked up quite an appetite, miss.'"

She had no idea.

It had been a long time she'd been here, in this sea of life that was disorderly and chaotic. It was not like the Fleet, or the Order. Here, people might give her a curious stare seeing that she was a Jedi, but did not bow and scrape and ask for advice. Yet it also lacked the peace of the Temple or Dantooine. A popular love song was keening overhead, and she struggled to ignore it.

Dantooine. She missed that world, the green rolling hills where she had spent most of her life. It had been a halcyon planet, despite everything. She had become a Padawan there, been picked to apprentice by her Master, had crafted her lightsaber and found the crystal for it there. Even through this war...she still had no Master to replace her last one. Bastila paused and decided not to think about that.

She drank her milk and watched an ad for joining the Fleet come on the screen by the busy counter. Few gave it a glance. There was a flood of impressive ships and steely-eyed heroes of differing races, all looking impressive in orange-black-red uniforms. When a Jedi, young, female, dark-haired and armed with a yellow lightsaber and asking 'all patriot' to sign up appeared, Bastila was unsure if was supposed to be a homage to her. The spokewoman had a strong Inner Rim accent that should couldn't help but feel was not like her own, but closer to Helena Shan's. Then it returned to a Holo-drama involving two men in love with one woman, but one was suffering from amnesia and the other was the father of her child and the woman was his brother's sworn enemy? Bastila couldn't quite follow it and was rather glad of that fact.

She ran her fingers against the table, looking at the clean span between her fingernails.

Bastila should be back at the Order. Soon enough, the Padawan would be joining the Republic Fleet again and they needed her. A trifle of guilt struck her, but was sent away. She needed a minute. Lately, it seemed the woman needed more time alone. After what had happened…the medics said distance was understandable. It was perfectly reasonable that someone who had been through what she had might need space. But Bastila did not want to brood, and emotions were not to weigh on any Jedi's mind. She knew better. She hadn't been captured and tortured. Things could have been worse, even as some fretted and stared at her so.

They whispered behind her back, Bastila knew. Not just the curious apprentices but her fellow Padawans and even the Knights treated her a little differently. The Masters asked how she was feeling all the more now. They had plans for her, she was coming to understand. Things larger than even helping the Fleet, after what had happened on board Revan's flagship. She would be brave, just as she'd told her Masters when they cautioned her about what might happen.

Bastila could admit now she was glad to be by herself.

This was something like peace. Coruscant had not yet been badly damaged by the war. It seemed that even if the Sith came, this place would keep on rolling on. She enjoyed the comfortable seats and the hustle of every day life and people arguing over sports scores of all things. Her meal was hot and filled the plate and smelled like perfection and she would savor it. The Jedi wrestled with a fork and watched a young child drawing and insisted that her tired parents admire every line.

The news breaking in over the Holo made a few heads poke up. People were muttering. The anchor was talking a little too fast, sounding a little breathless, a real flush beneath the careful makeup. A representative from the Sith had arrived, it seemed. A high-ranking representative. Perhaps even a Sith Lord themself...Bastila swallowed too fast and tried to not choke.

But the meetings before had been set much further from Coruscant! But they had been planned in advanced months before, with all sides decided upon a 'safe' ground before things inevitably dissolved and it seemed the Empire had only wanted to dangle a distraction before a splintered Republic. The Sith had come too close. They were slipping inside. They were invading, finally. All of them had known this day was to come, but it was happening too soon.

It was her fault. She had not stopped Revan. All those Jedi and soldiers had died for nothing, and countless more would follow.

Then—

The Revanchist.

Bastila felt the fork bend under her grip. Revan looked…not unlike that moment when Bastila had faced them. The confidence was there, even without flourishing a lightsaber. The cowl and face mask added strength to his shorter stature. No one else the galaxy had probably seen that figure shaken and confused, let alone had helped Revan in that moment of weakness.

Then she became aware of the Sith's surrounding. Revan appeared with the Chancellor, members of the Senate, all looking very serious. The Sith Lord would torture them. Take hostages. Oh, Force. Then, Revan would attack the Order. If they had already, Bastila would have sensed it. Surely, she would know by now. Someone turned down the music, and she was glad.

The voice modifier expanded that voice, made it louder, added a menacing hint of static to the end and hit the true identity of the figure. The figure kept one hand behind their back as he raised the other. A vow. "Hear me, people of the Republic: I have offered a promise to ease tensions between our governments."

Revan's illegitimate government.

And of course Revan couldn't just offer a deal to the Senate and the Council. Oh, no, the Revanchist had loved putting on a show. "I urge the Republic to agree to my peace treaty."

Her heart rose. Maybe…maybe Revan was telling the truth. Maybe she might have contributed…maybe it had been losing Malak that had proved a fatal blow. Maybe Revan had seen the light. The Sith no longer had Malak, and there had been the residual of chaos (not enough, unfortunately) from his apprentice's loss. Maybe the Masters were correct in the analysis that what Bastila had done would have a lingering effect on the Revanchist. They had feared what damage might occur, but perhaps it was Revan and not her that had been be changed by the encounter?

Yes, of course, she was the one with the Battle Meditation, that gift and only reason why the Republic had been able to last this long. She was the last weapon they had left. She was a thorn in his side, a costly thorn.

Revan had let her go.

There might be mercy under that mask. Common decency. Revan owed Bastila Shan their life. She had, stupidly, foolishly, brashly, warned and helped Revan before Malak shot the flagship both of them had been trapped. But perhaps the Force was finding a way to make what she had thought was a mistake, an opportunity?

...'urge'? Who was Revan to urge anyone to do anything? Where did that Sith get the gall that they could order everyone around, anyway? It might have just been a face-saving gesture (ironic, with that mask), but Bastila resented that

"In order for this to be accomplished, I offer a series of trades. First, the Jedi Padawan Bastila Shan will be brought before me. We will be joined in matrimony, acknowledged by the Sith Empire and the Republic. If she agrees to this marriage, she will remain at my side, as my spouse."

Bastila hardly felt her mouth falling open as she stared at the screen.

"Secondly, the Republic Fleet will return to earlier agreed upon boundaries." The voice was so calm, and relentless. "In turn, an exchange of prisoners will occur, of course. The Republic shall release all planets currently held under my control. The ceasefire will continue once my deal is agreed upon; we will stop our bombardment of all your military bases."

She continued staring, eyes and mind quite blank. Her fork fell from her grip and clattered to the ground, a thousand meters away. Black light filled the corners of her vision, and crept inward and she couldn't quite feel her legs. Two thousands meters away.

And still, Revan continued. "You have forty standard hours to agree to these terms."

No, she hadn't heard that correctly. No. No. She was just...she had been mistaken. But the reporters, the people inside this room, were repeating his word.

"Did...did he propose to that Jedi Shan girl?" Her waitress asked aloud. "Weird."

She repeated the Code multiple time, but it did not appear to be helping. She felt for her lightsaber and counted sticky tiles. She tried not to listen to the whispering and the arguments erupting around her. She felt trapped by the weight of all the life. There were aids here, for the Senate, and lawyers, and all had a million things to say. Some people were leaning back in their seats, as though it were just another piece of gossip for them. She discovered her bags that hadn't been stolen and felt their light weight hanging off her shoulders. She found her wallet and shoved some credits onto the table.

There was only one thing to do: she ran for the Temple.

For once, she could not appreciate the architecture, the pale earth tones of the stone, and the lovely view. A young twilek in blue robes gave her a glance. "Hey, aren't you…"

"Not now."

She took two steps at a time and did not care if she slipped and fell, until she nearly did so and then did care greatly. The elevator was slow and full of people and Bastila did not dare trust herself to stay still. She ran for the stairs and was glad that anyone in the way moved thus sparing her having to shove them aside. The Jedi had only been here twice before, and needed to spin around and find a convenient map to show her the correct way.

She wanted to fret and flutter around as she hadn't even as fires erupted around the ship. How had she been so calm then, facing Revan? She had even made a confident remark, telling the Sith that surely he was to lose. Who the Force did Revan think-he, she, whatever-were? To demand her...that she marry him, in front of the Senate, that threat so clear? To ask the Republic to turn their back on the Jedi?

Running helped, at first, but now Bastila felt her breath coming short and hot. There were too many steps to this tower. Why did the High Council insist on meeting here? Why couldn't they meet in that restaurant? A ground floor? She resented that she resented them suddenly. They were probably looking for her. There must be Jedi and Republic soldiers desperately scouting for her, and perhaps she should have stayed in that restaurant. A stitch in her side made her slow down, and she cursed her meal.

Or maybe she should have headed for the nearest port and sneak onto whatever freighter was there and—well, that was just absurd. Of course she would never leave. It was just a little fantasy, but Bastila felt ashamed. There were so many people depending on her.

She tried not too obviously her side as she stepped into the correct floor. You knew it from the windows that let in the clogged but natural light. Jedi, security, gave her a stare as they determined if she were a threat, decided otherwise, but continued to look on. They would want her weapon, perhaps? But they let her be. Bastila was glad they seemed to know her, but for once she would rather they didn't want her to continue being armed.

"Padawan Shan," one spoke up. "We have been waiting."

The waiting area here was sterile. Lights, blue and too bright, brought no comfort. It reminded her of an interrogation room onboard the larger Republic ships. Still, she was here, and there was a couch, and the attending Jedi recognized her. They looked pale, and she thought she understood the tension until she saw they did not stare solely at her. There was a Sith soldier here as well, silver-bright, and a pale-eyed officer in black-and-grey. His glance at her was amused, contemptuous. He had surely been a Republic officer at some point, but Bastila did not recognize him. No, he had betrayed their cause and left before she was even old enough to serve with the Fleet.

Then she felt it.

The Force swirled around and shifted and moved to reveal a glimmer. There in the corner of her eye, it appeared, black and sleek, triangular. A breath was let out and her own fists clenched. It looked at her, and slowly crossed its arms. Under the heavy cowl, you nearly missed that mask, shadow and dried blood.

Bastila recoiled.

Though she was acquainted with that appearance, there was something hideous about that armor in this place. Though the Force, Revan glowed. His presences was frightening, full, heavy. It was smug. It was a nightmare. It had no reason to hide itself now. How had Revan gotten here so fast? Why hadn't she been faster, and gotten more time? She should have more time. At least those forty hours she had been promised.

She had to be brave again. She had faced Revan before. She could do it again. She had been brave there, even amongst the death. You can't win; I won't let you. Her lightsaber was right there. The Jedi here would not let Revan hurt her. "Wah-what are you doing here?"

It came close. It wanted only her to hear. "I have come for you."

The voice modifier made the voice boom and echo and Bastila wanted to gulp. She wanted to hide. She wished she hadn't stuttered. They seemed to be smiling behind going on there, behind the mask. She could see her reflection in the dark visor. Anything might be under there. "I have so many things to show you, Bastila Shan."

"I have waited a great deal to finally meet you." Revan pulled away and spoke louder, to the room at large. "And I don't believe in the superstition that it's bad luck to see the bride."

How dare he, she, whatever, threaten her, and then make jokes—be flippant about this-

I saved you, she wanted to yell. I helped you.

The Revanchist inclined its head. "You have heard my offer."

It was not a question. The door behind Revan were shut, Bastila noticed, and that seemed ominous. What might be behind them? "What have you done to the Council?"

Revan raised hands clad in bronze gautlets, spreading slim arms, as though threatening to blast that purple lightning full of hatred around the room. "I have brought truth, to them and the Republic. You have forty hours."

She was suddenly aware of how flushed and unsettled she must look, the bags hanging off her shoulders and sweat on her brow. "To what? You can't be serious about your offer."

The Sith leaned in again. The modifier made whispers all the more ominous. "You will make the decision, Bastila Shan. It is yours. You have earned that right."

It lingered close, this dark figure, looking down and into her eyes. Bastila still had no idea what Revan looked like under that mask, even as she had saved the hurt Sith, pulled the dangerous monster she was supposed to stop from the attack by his apprentice that surely would have killed them. Was there pity there, or mercy, or hunger? She felt nothing, no pull, no understanding or awareness of what was behind the shined black surface that covered those eyes, despite what the Council had cautioned might have occurred between her and Revan. "And Bastila, I saved you as well that day."

The Revanchist bowed before her, low, and then left.

Liar.

...they had not—yes, Revan had let her retreat for the nearest escape pod, but sparing her captivity was a faint gesture of goodwill. Even then, Revan was clearly doing that right now with this offer. 'Thank you, Sith, for not murdering me? Now, I'll just agree to marry you.' Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the entrance Revan has escaped through, and she hoped their absurdly dramatic, ragged black cape with its violet underlining caught on the doors and the elevator would stop and trap them inside. She hoped Revan would have to be rescued and then trip on that cloak while going down the many stairs. She hoped for many things at this stage in her life, chief among them that the absurd, ridiculous offer would be refused roundly by the Republic and the Jedi.

"Bastila? Bastila?"

A cringing apprentice gingerly pulled at her sleeve, and Bastila recoiled. In light of everything happening, it seemed she had forgotten other people existed and had petty, worldly expectations from her. "The Masters are ready to see you now."

"Revan swore to not harm you."

His vows could be forsaken. His vows had been forsaken.

She stood there, trying to not to be a Padawan, a young, inexperienced girl. Shew as less than a Jedi gifted with a particular talent that's source could not be explained. A thing, an item, not even a weapon,

Her reflection caught her eye, and decided to not pay attention to that she stared out through the thick glass of the few windows in this tower. Outside, the wide windows showed a brown and dirty sky. Clouds that never rained hung thick and heavy.

"The Council has much to discuss. Please give us a moment, Padawan Shan." Master Vandar looked very nearly annoyed, and Bastila had never seen him that way.

She was dismissed, despite her attempts otherwise. "Please, Masters, this decision does involve me."

But they were not prepared to give her an answer. There was too much at stake. They did not trust her. Her presence would have been a distraction, and she might have become desperate and made a scene. There was a reason the Council had not Knighted her. The mission had not gone according to plan, after all, and perhaps this was punishment. Even as Bastila tried to convince herself otherwise, and knew things were more complicated than a matter of her failure, she was still shamed.

How many had died then, including her own Master, and for Revan to still live, as strong as ever. Bastila should have never helped him. When he had been surprised and weakened, she should have struck him down. It would have meant her life, probably, but the Jedi could have done it. In a second, her blade was in her hand, yellow and white, blazing and righteous and the Sith had no defense as it came down. in this dream, she did it right.

The hallway was dark despite the parallel lines of blue light on the walls and ceiling, and she found the roundness of the walls cold and sterile. She waited, as they had asked. Jedi came to her, Masters not on the Council, Knights, Padawans, apprentices. Some were outraged. Some stared at her, as though wondering, why her? Bastila could not honestly answer that question.

"Master Vrook…?"

"We are still deciding on things, Padawan." The human man's jaw was tight. "Since Revan was kind enough to broadcast his message, we have to handle the Senate debating the Sith's offer."

That could take hours. That could take years.

Maybe that was very, very good then.

If, Revan was patience. And when had Revan ever been patient?

Oh, it was absurd, it was ridiculous, it was impossible. It could not happen. It would not happen. Jedi did not marry. Sith especially did not marry. Bastila was slowly losing her mind, and Revan had already lost theirs years before, and perhaps they did share a connection and it was dragging her down into insanity. No. No. Bastila would not agree to his offer. Every ounce of her being screamed against it.

Bastila wanted to cringe and hide, and was told by Master Vrook, gruff but not roughly, that she might return to her chambers, but not to leave the Temple. Her room had guards outside it now. Wherever she went, which was to only be around the Jedi Temple, she must be followed by guards that were to make certain no one hurt or captured her. Even during battle, onboard the Republic cruisers, Bastila had been given some freedoms.

Even in the night, when she tried to take a walk around the grounds, she was followed by Jedi who had serious eyes and hands that never seemed far from their weapons. Together, they went to the gym and Bastila lifted heavy things and ran in circles that seemed to shrink with every lap. When she lay on the mat, unmoving, someone came to check up on her and she brushed them off. "Yes, I am alright."

They were worried about her, the Masters were. Some of them were quite often worried about her. If her own Master was here, he would be most worried of all. He'd always warned her of being too headstrong, too stubborn, too eager to involve herself in matters of all matters and never listening enough, never calming herself enough, even as a young girl that kept squirming at the common dining room table. Too headstrong, too passionate. If he'd been here, would he advice her to agree to this, or would he balk?

What did that mean now? What was the calm, Jedi approach to this all?

It was three in the morning, the chrono told her.

She rested her head against the weight lifting machinery, set high enough to burn her limbs, with the towel as cushioning.

Republic senators wanted to see her, but were barred despite their best efforts. Yet, Bastila knew she would have to speak to them, and others in the Republic as well. She was a Fleet Commander in the Republic and had certain responsibilities with such a commission. There were even rules about consorting with enemy combatants. She could lose her commission, or resign it. If she agreed. But why would she agree? But how could she not?

Cold metal dug into her, stealing away the warmth through her sweaty, form-fitting shirt. When she looked at her boots, her hair threatened to fall and hang and stick to her forehead. She had spent hours in this vast room, as a teenager, like all the others that could use this standard humanoid-shaped equipment. The Masters did not discourage it. Sometimes, everyone needed a space apart from the others if only for a little bit. You could think of tests you needed to prepare for, a certain calamitous attempt behind the pilot seat, wonder where your family might be now, worry about the sudden awkward shape your body was taking as you became a teenager, ponder a friend that acted different or was now gone, or what you were to do, in the future, when you were older and a Jedi Master.

Or relive the reports you had written and told the Masters about a disastrous mission that you were responsible for, and had to answer for, and must explain.

The Republic had laid out the trap. Bastila was to be the bait. She had been a thorn in the Sith's side for months now, and Revan was eager for the opportunity to stop her. Malak took the opportunity to attack his Master. In the confusion, Revan had been injured and might have died, if not for her reaching out, her acting on instinct to protect the only other living person in the room. Her fellow Jedi had died instead. Even as his ship had been damaged, Revan would avert disaster and turn on the attacker, the betrayer. Revan had not stopped her as she left. The Sith had only stood there, silent, watching as she retreated.

The Council had been torn, when they heard of that fact, but hoped it was a good sign, and were glad she had survived.

Revan could have captured her, and tried all matter of torture to turn her to the dark side. He had done it to countless other Jedi. He had wanted to capture and turn her against the Republic. She would be a vital asset, and could have ended the war for the Sith if she joined Revan and the dark side. With their joined power, they could have conquered the galaxy.

But Revan had let her go.

Oh, no. No. She would not. Her mind rebelled and so did every fiber of her molecules and cellular structure. The Force itself would twist around itself and right things to change this outcome. It was absurd, it was ridiculous, it was impossible. It was not funny. It could not happen. It would not happen. No. No. Nope. Bastila would not agree to his offer. It was not fair. Every ounce of her being screamed against it.

She could not do it.

She couldn't!

Then something whispered in the suddenly chilled air, oh, truly? It chuckled. It sneered. you can't? Is that right?

She wouldn't. Unless. Bastila's breathe caught and stayed there in her chest. Because there was an 'unless.'

She wouldn't. Except.

She wouldn't. But.

She wouldn't. Even if…? Yes, even if the Republic falls, if countless innocent lives are lost to evil, if every Jedi is butchered or tortured until they fall, if the entire Order crumbles away for a millennium, and it is all my fault, it will be all my fault. Even then. I will be selfish and generations will curse my name. They will say a true Jedi would have agreed, what is one life against so many others. They will ask why I did not help them, the dead and lost, and I will tell that that I wouldn't.

Bastila understood why she had been so anxious, so afraid. It was not because of the pressure in making a decision; it was because that decision had already been made.