The Chosen Fool
By Seabreeze
A/N: I love when random one-shots take over my mind until I write them. If this is the first of my stories you've come across, I've also written other Kotor II Atton/Exile stories – "Star Across the Nighttime Sky" , "Fix You", and "Battle On". I don't get many readers, so shameless self-promotion is a necessity.
IMPORTANT: story takes place mid-game, on some planet they never actually go to. I don't know where and I don't think it actually exists, but that's really not the point.
Disclaimer: I actually don't think these are required. I'm going to check that out, because if so, I've been wasting my time for years. KOTOR II and all characters belong to Lucas Arts and Obsidian (or Bioware, I forget which). Not me.
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She leans into him, murmuring something into his ear while keeping her eyes trained on the gang members before us. He instantly leans near her and responds, nearly quivering with the thrill of being near to her and being consulted for his opinion. They continue to discuss in hushed tones; hers calculating and speculative, his cocky and excited.
It sickens me.
He is a fool.
She once referred to him as 'a friend' and asked that I respect him, but I am certainly not the first – nor the last – to see him for what he is: an incompetent imbecile. Friend or no, I see no reason not to call something by its proper name. For 'Atton', fool is as good a name as any, and certainly one that he has known longer than any chosen name.
I have known the Exile longer – if only by mere hours – and have proven consistently my worth as a knowledgeable, capable master. I know battle, I know the Force, I know people, I know their minds, I know war, power, history, light and dark. I have experienced much of the universe in my time, and likely know more about it than the rest of the Ebon Hawk's crew combined – and yet, she turns to him.
Him. 'Atton'. The fool. The cocky, half-brained and half-qualified pilot I blackmailed into staying by her side. He who has also known power and light and dark, yet stumbles over himself like a drunk whenever the Exile pays him the slightest bit of attention.
I am often torn as to how to encourage her. He is enamored with her, perhaps even loves her. Though I can read her better than most, I cannot tell if she returns those feelings or not. On the one hand, if I encourage them, she will turn her back on the Jedi Code she adheres to so devoutly. On the other hand, I cannot stomach his idiocy, and it pains me to think of putting him in a position of even more influence over her.
I simply do not understand her. It seems with each world, we return to the Ebon Hawk with a new "friend", one she talks to and listens to and counts on and respects and even loves, I suspect. But above all, the fool.
He says something and the corners of her lips turn up ever so slightly before she turns her focus back to the men before them. For a moment, he continues to look at her, dark eyes sickeningly unfathomable. A breeze ruffles their hair and whispers her scent into him, and his eyes close slowly, savoring it. Ridiculous.
She speaks again, and it is as if his body reacts to her words, shadowing hers in masculine protection. I stifle the urge to roll my eyes – he desires so badly to help her, to protect her, to save her life for once. He could not possibly pick a worse woman to rescue.
The men speak to them, and he straightens his posture from slightly behind her, tightening his shoulders and flexing his biceps to try to seem imposing, but it is she that speaks for us, polite and detached and diplomatic as always. The fool makes a comment that displeases the men, and she lays a gentle yet restraining hand on his arm, soothing the men from their anger as the fool looks both abashed and annoyed at the silent admonishment, as well as thrilled at the physical contact.
Her hand lingers on his arm for much longer than necessary – perhaps she forgot she had put it there, or perhaps she means to keep his comments under control – a fact that neither the fool or I fail to notice.
Again, I must ask why. It is as clear as the rising suns – he is an idiot. He speaks out of turn, inciting anger and hostility in dangerous men she hopes to speak peacefully with; all because he wants her to see how clever, protective, what have you, he is. She does not see it, and if she does, she does not care.
I wonder if she enjoys the attention. She is his whole world now that she has turned him from a dark, meandering life, and he has made it clear that he lives to serve her.
The few instances I have tried to see into his rotting mind, I have been momentarily bombasted with lustful images of my protégé; the exile in various shades of undress, the exile in compromising positions with the fool himself. Mental wall or no, he clearly lusts after her. Deeper than that, though, is the pathetically overwhelming desire to be accepted, respected, and loved by her. Fool though he may be, he recognizes power when he sees it, and he would kill himself this moment if he thought it would make her think highly of him.
Thanks to her pacifying presence, our group and theirs come to a peaceful agreement – she has a knack for such solutions, though they take so much finagling I don't see the benefit – and they turn to lead us into their base. She takes the lead naturally, and he is quick to follow, hovering behind her.
Often, more often than I'd like, he and I see eye to eye whereas the Exile does not. On Nar Shadaa, for example, she gave up the Ebon Hawk without a fight to a man who claimed to own it. The ship belonged to him, she reasoned, and despite the fact that we needed it, it was something we had picked up by luck. Before I could open my mouth to argue, the fool had done so for me. Funny that, for a fool, he can sometimes make more sense than she.
I do not mean to imply that I find her to be a fool such as him. She can behave foolishly, yes, and I may never understand her, but she is consistent in her selflessness, which means she follows the logic her mind dictates. I cannot say so much for the fool.
She takes hold of his upper arm as they walk and turns again to whisper to him. A warning, though it does not look or sound as such.
"Yeah, yeah, I'll behave," he mutters, as if following her orders is difficult, but he is only too willing to do her bidding. I can see it in his posture – he does not want her to let go; yearns to take her in his arms and show her all the tenderness and passion he feels for her. She walks on, unknowing, and he sighs inaudibly, but from behind I can see the slight collapse of shoulders that means he yearns for a woman who does not know love – not like he wants it.
Pathetic – a lovesick gizka.
The gang leader offers us the information we want – if, for there is always an if – the Exile agrees to calm the rebellious housing district that lies within their territory. When the leader hints at trouble if she fails, the fool sees his moment.
"You'd have to go through me – through all of us – before you could even thinking about touching her." He threatens, chest puffed out. The gang leader's guards chuckle, and the Exile gives the fool the most miniscule of frowns before turning back to the leader.
"Of course I would not think to deviate from the mission, Master Talowe. The information is vital to us, and we would not disrespect you in such a manner." Talowe looks placated, and then the Exile clears her throat. "However, you may find it more useful to loosen your hold on the district. People tend to be more obedient when they are not being controlled."
I want to sigh. She must make each mission thrice as long in an effort to make everyone happy. If she only did what was asked, we would be off this planet tomorrow. The fool glances at me, and I ignore him. He is impressed with her, yet again. His foolishness must be rubbing off on her.
Talowe looks displeased and turns to speak with his council.
"Think he'll go for it?" 'Atton' asks, using his quarry as an excuse to lean close to her again.
"He's discussing, so there's a chance," she responds, unbelievably patient with such an imbecile. She looks at him for a moment too long, and I sense in her a flare of rapid emotion that disappears as quickly as it appeared, but leaves a lingering glow behind it. Ah. Despite the source, the emotion pleases me, and I take my chance.
I push past her so that she collides with him and I speak with Talowe myself.
"If you do as she suggests, she will be able to perform your task more quickly," I say. It is nonsense, but if he listens to her, he will listen to it. Behind me, the emotion is back again, stronger this time, from both of them. Without seeing, I know: her back against his chest – she hastily pulled away -, his hands steadying on her arms. She feels her heart beat as if for the first time; a painful thing. He is overjoyed to have held her, as he has been fantasizing about all day, yet bitter that it was an accident. Almost in unison, they notice my observant presence in their minds, and I am pushed out. I smirk to myself, and Talowe nods, reluctantly.
"Yes, we will do as you ask." He croaks.
"Thank you," the Exile says. We turn to go, and she avoids my eye, but the fool glares at me, a warning in his eyes. I only smile in return – I have controlled him in the past, and I can do it again, something he knows all too well.
His yearning for her has doubled, and, not for the first time, I imagine, she is troubled by her response to him.
For a Jedi who is meant to be the salvation – or the destruction – of the very state of the Force, it is strange that she chooses the fool, of all people, to let affect her.
Perhaps I am wrong. It is possible.
I have seen glimpses of intelligence within the entrails of his mind on occasion. The pazaak cards he counts endlessly in his head comes foremost to mind. It is clever, if it is indeed used as a mind-barricade, and lesser Force-users will find it annoyingly successful at keeping them out.
But even fools can stumble across occasional bouts of genius.
I am at a loss. I enjoy the emotional turmoil he creates within her, but cannot stand the fool himself.
The exile slows and catches my eye – her look is somber and reproving. Suspicious, even.
Ah.
Perhaps the damage is being done without my assistance. Perhaps all I need do is put up with the pilot's irritating presence, and watch as he slowly twists her.
Whether she collapses or not is entirely up to her. If she is strong, she will deny him – and her own heart. If she is weak, she will fall to him; fall to emotion.
Whatever her choice, it will weaken her. It will crack her, and when I lay the final blow, she will break.