Author's note: I got this idea over the weekend, and wrote all four chapters fairly quickly. It's a lot darker than anything else I've written, and if it disturbs anyone, well, I'm sorry. But then, if it does, I guess I did my job. They all are experiencing their deepest fear, after all. This ties in to A Match for the Mandalore and may not be understood fully if you haven't read that story. I didn't include Ladria, Mira, Jennet or Canderous in this because the first two were busy on Malachor V (although I expect they both experienced their own private hells during their removal from the Ebon Hawk), we saw Canderous' vision, and Jennet told us what she'd seen, albeit without great detail, in the afore-mentioned story.

I can't take a lot of credit for entirely understanding why, exactly, they saw what they did. I just wrote what they told me, that's all. I would very much be interested in any analysis a gentle reader may offer.

So let us take a stroll down the dark path, you and I...

Always, LJ

I was in the conclave, the ruins making jagged silhouettes against the sky. I couldn't remember how I'd gotten here. It must be some sort of trick, but my mind couldn't break free of it. I had studied, but not trained properly until recently. I was as green as any youngling, for all my learning.

The desolation saddened me, as it always did. There was something important I needed to find, but I couldn't remember what it was. I listened to the silence, and thought of the dead. They had stories, and it was my job to preserve them.

The wind made a hollow lonely sound as I wandered among the broken stone and metal. Small fires were burning all around me, and I thought I should try to put them out, before the grass caught and spread the flames. I headed to the well I knew was nearby, but it wasn't there. I stared at the spot stupidly, wondering where it could have gone.

Wait, I thought suddenly. There's something wrong here. Where was I before? How did I get here?

The answers were important, I knew. Yet I couldn't make my mind grasp anything; thoughts drained away like water through cupped hands.

Water. Fire. Yes, I must put the fires out; the library may burn. I tried to find the well again. My search took me all over the compound, but no water was to be found.

Why can't I think?

There was a little boy playing in the wreckage, and I rushed over, scolding.

"You there, youngling, can't you see it's dangerous here?" I shouted. He looked up, and smiled.

"There you are," he said serenely. "I can't say I'm impressed."

I stopped short in astonishment. "You know me?"

"As I know myself," was his cryptic answer. He was intently tapping away at a datapad in his hand, and expression of deep concentration on his face. I admired his dedication.

"What are you studying?" I asked, dropping companionably next to him on the grass. I noticed without surprise that a large circle around us was untouched by fire or rubble; wildflowers grew in the waving grass. It was quite lovely.

"Jedi stories," he said. "I'm going to be one."

"You were a Padawan here?" I asked with surprise. I didn't recognize him and an unworthy stab of jealousy pierced my heart.

"Oh no. I wanted to be." He looked up, and I sucked in my breath. I knew that face. But I couldn't remember from where. All at once his expression changed from serene to anger.

"You didn't try hard enough," he spat. "You let your chances go by, and now I'm here forever."

"But I am Jedi now," I protested, shocked by his ferocity. "What more do you want?"

"You're old now," he said coldly. "How far do you think they'll let you go? A Jedi that learned from books and old stories? What possible use will you be?"

"Stories are important," I said, and I felt my conviction return. "They preserve the past, help others find their path. We're all doomed to repeat the mistakes of history if we don't have a way to remember."

"But we do make the mistakes anyway. Nothing changes, just the names. The stories stay the same."

"Maybe. But without them, how can we learn?"

"By doing. Living." He looked at me with scorn. "When will you start?"

"I am doing, and living," I argued, feeling silly for trying to debate a ten-year-old. "I'm helping with something very important."

"And what is that?" the boy asked skeptically.

"I…" I stared, troubled and uneasy. "I don't know," I said finally.

"You don't remember. And you'll be forgotten. No stories of you. No one left to tell."

"I'm not important," I said dismissively. "The stories are. History matters. People matter. Not me."

"Then you'll stay with me?" the boy's eyes were hopeful. "I've been lonely."

I wanted to. I understood his loneliness, and I wanted to take that away. But I had remembered something, and shook my head.

"I can't," I said regretfully. "I'm sorry. But keep studying. You'll be a Jedi one day."

"Promise?" he looked at me pleadingly. I smiled, and he smiled back, exactly the same. I touched his cheek, dimpled where mine was, but on a young face with impossibly old eyes.

"I promise," I said gently. "You'll be fine."

I walked away, and when I couldn't see the boy any more, I closed my eyes so I could go home.