Last to the Battle
Chapter One
Coruscant. The pinnacle of life of the Republic. The old architectural style built with state of the art technology gave false promise to the teeming life that crowded its streets. It's been two weeks since they pinned that damn medal on me and mine. I can still hear the roar of the crowd, still feel that fake smile plastered on my face. God, if I have to hear one more screech from one more adoring fan I'm going to shoot myself. The Jedi Order hasn't released that other little tidbit. How quick would adoration turn to horror if they knew?
I'm still dealing with a little of the horror myself. I wandered through the worlds wrought by destruction, like some malevolent child smashed its hand down. Except I'm the malevolent child and it was my hand. I'm still trying to reconcile that life and this one. I'm still trying to banish certain thoughts, certain feelings.
I should feel sickened. I should feel sorry, guilty, suicidal. But I don't. I feel… proud. I do feel guilty at my own dark, greasy pride; that I held the galaxy in my hand and judged it unworthy of me. I can't shake it. And I find I can't look at him. Talk about adoration turning to horror. The look of absolute shock, disgust, and betrayal on his face when Saul told him will stay with me for the rest of my life, however short that may be.
I've gotten darker through our journey. The major turning point, of course, was when Malak told me who I really am. It… unlocked it a bit for me, let things fall into place. Of course, I suspected.
"You didn't seem too shocked," he said.
"No. The camera angle in my mind when I dream of fighting with Bastila. I thought it might be more current sparing memories mixing in but it was always that way."
"We'll get her back. I promise that!" he whispered furiously, resolve making his voice harsh.
"Yes, but not after she walks that path."
He didn't believe me then. I don't think the sum of Bastila's experiences fully sinks in for him as he didn't take first hand witness to them. He didn't see the fury written on her smug, petite little face.
Bastila fears me. She took my dark side from me but found it was not something she could handle, that she was not as impervious as she seemed. Ah, how the mighty have fallen. With her on the straight and narrow again, she wonders where the darkness has gone. And she fears.
It's almost amusing to watch such quiet desperation fill her, to watch her attempts to hide it. She can scarcely meet my eyes anymore. And yet, she watches me. Closely. You'd think she was in love what with the surreptitious stares she gives me, turning her head as soon as I glance her way. Does she truly think I am that blind to it? I guess not, which is probably why she doesn't talk to me much. What do you say to someone who knows you doubt their sanity, credibility? Not much.
I think he fears, too. But Carth, bless his soul, so courageous with everything but his heart, denies it fully, almost desperately. The awkward stages of first love have fallen stale between us… mostly because I got tired of having to explain why I wake up in the middle of the night screaming. There is something terrible just beyond my waking mind, something urgent, something deadly. It taunts me in the long hours of the night, when it's behind a sheer veil and I can almost make it out.
Today I have a training session with Zhar. The Order also seems to deny that other person hiding in my skin. They proceed as though I am a normal Jedi, one especially needing guarding from the dark side. It's almost irksome to see that I am not the only one. They guard all those good little Jedi soldiers who went off to war, guard them from the darker parts of themselves. Oh, the high and the mighty will pretend they did what needed to be done. But why, may I ask, does that steal the light right from the order?
"We should always seek peaceful solutions," Zhar said, beginning that old debate. Why? Because death and pain bring out the worst in people. Someone give the man a cookie, he solved a riddle too complex for his poor little mind.
"Ego should be avoided. Pride is dangerous." Being good at killing is good. Being proud to be good at killing is bad. He gets another cookie on the last one.
"If pride is dangerous, Zhar, what are we to use to aspire to better ourselves?" I wasn't really asking the question. I was leading poor Zhar through a conversation we had when I was much younger. I love to continue these and watch him go through the same old hoops. I love how he sweats, his eyes widen, and he begins to tremble faintly. I'd play pazzak with him any day, any time.
"Rev—Apprentice, may I ask you a question?" he said, quickly catching himself over my name. Revan. With the optional prefix Darth. During the journey I went by Morgan. Morgan S. Greye. John Q. Everyman. Gag me with a spoon. Funny how quickly that name slid away. Carth still calls me Morgan. I was called Morgan when they pinned that medal on me, telling the crowd how brave I am. Bastila doesn't pretend anymore, she has only known me as one thing. She named me, inventive lass. Excuse the sarcasm. She chose Morgan because of its similarity to Revan. Like she wanted to make it easier on me to step back into the role of the Dark Lord. Tisk, tisk.
"Are you asking Morgan or Revan?" How many times have I asked others that same question? I've lost count. It seems handy to remind people to be clear on their thoughts and feelings towards me.
"I'm asking you."
"Lovely avoidance. Ask your question."
"What… do you remember?" Zhar asked. Ah, smart boy. He caught on to my ploy. I hope. Now, how many times have I been asked that question? Better, how many people have asked me that? They make not numbers so high.
"Not much." Perverse, but I love that answer. Short, to the point, a damn lie.
"Do you remember all of your masters?"
"No." What, may I ask, is he getting at? I've never known Zhar to beat behind the bush, to hold any amount of subtly. He'll spill all before the conversation is up.
"Do you remember any other than me?" he asked.
"Nothing is really clear, Zhar. I remember…" I trailed off into a scream as a stab of pain hit me just behind the eyes, spearing into my brain. Through a haze of blood I saw Zhar knocked back by purple lightning. The world spun and when it stopped, I was somewhere else.
"Do you know what the difference between a sacrifice and a fall is, Master?" That must have been me asking, my voice. I've had enough dream visions to know. The woman before me was old, withered, strong, white haired and bland looking.
"Tell me, child."
"I'll do better. I'll show you. But, I want you to do something for me, when I do…."
I opened my eyes, because they must have been shut. Bastila and Zhar were hovering over me. Zhar looked concerned, Bastila looked pale. She was holding back emotion, holding back her thoughts oh so carefully. I love breaking that careful control. "What…" I began, my voice a dry croak. "What were we talking about?" Bastila looked relieved now, and Zhar turned indecisive.
"We were talking about… your other masters."
"A woman. Old. Sacrifice." No, I wasn't making much sense. Zhar paled.
"What is she talking about?" Bastila asked.
"For that, you will have to ask the council." Oh. Damn. I hate the council. All they give me are riddles because they're too far gone to know what the truth is to begin with. Maybe I should throttle Zhar until he talks. Tisk, tisk, Morgan, that's very dark side thinking of you. Think positive. Fuck positive.
"Name… what?" I'll play up sick and defenseless as much as I can. My eyes were wheeling, rolling back in their sockets.
"I… I can't…" Zhar began. I began small jerking motions, mouth open like a stranded fish, not all of it voluntary. "Kreia, her name was Kreia." That was it. That name. The spear of pain returned and the world went fuzzy and dark.
Chapter Two
"Did you dream again?" she asked. She loved asking that. Sometimes the Force gives visions of the future. A terrible burden. A wonderful gift. She delighted in mine, thinking herself sly in asking. Her methods, her plots were see-through to me. I knew what she wanted.
"Yes, I dreamed again."
"Of the death of the Republic, of war… of him?"
"Yes." I left it at that. "The future is not written."
"You cannot save the Rebuplic. You cannot turn aside the tide of darkness that awaits us."
"When I dreamed… I found a vision of the future that I wanted."
"Where you saved the Republic?"
"Something along those lines." I glanced at her then, taking in her weathered features, strong jaw, hooded sightless eyes. She was frowning slightly, trying to take in all the possible lines the future could twist into. "Do you know what the difference between a sacrifice and a fall is, Master?"
"Tell me, child."
"I'll do better. I'll show you. But, I want you to do something for me, when I do…." I remember the next day. The Mandolorians chose to strike a Republic world the next day. And the day after the Jedi Order forbid its Knights from aiding the Republic. More time, they cited. Something nebulous and terrible awaits.
"How can they do this?" Malak asked me. My tall, wiry friend from youth. He was wringing his hands, watching the newscast of the destruction. I shook my head.
"If we do not act, the Republic will fall. If we act late, we are wasting resources," I stated those facts blandly, coldly. Malak glanced sharply at me.
"Rev… they're not resources, they're people."
"I'm just taking it to its base form, Malak. Thinking logically. It confuses me. Those two points are given, and no amount of debating will change them. And yet, we wait." Stupid, I thought. This was not the way laid out in my vision. But they sensed when I sensed, and wanted to prepare for the greater evil. So much so that they were blind to those first, basic facts.
"It would go against the Order to go to war."
"Yes, it would. And it goes against what they teach us to wait."
"Is this a test, Revan?"
"No," I said simply. I turned to him then. "Do you trust me?"
"Implicitly," he responded.
"Do you want to save the Republic?"
"You know I do."
"Even if it means your death?"
"Yes!"
"Even if it means being cast from the Order?"
"Again, yes, Revan."
"And even if it means being hated?"
"I… yes, Revan."
"Do you trust I want the same?"
"Yes."
"Then come with me." We went from our utilitarian dorms to a common place where many gathered. It was dreamlike for me, choosing my battalion. Choosing who to sacrifice. I came upon a young Bastila, wide eyed and shaky in her stance to stay. And I made sure she would not follow me. It was too important that she stay. I didn't see her as the child she was, but the woman she would become, and knew that I put some of the steal in her voice, the bitterness in her face.
"Bastila, stop it!" That urgent voice was not a part of the image. My eyes jerked open. I was in my room on Coruscant, lying on my back in my bed. Carth sat beside me, one hand on my waist, his head turned towards Bastila. She sank into one of my plush scoop, burying her face in her hands.
"You don't understand. The darkness, her darkness, it's gone from me. She remembers now. She's going to wake as the Dark Lord and she's going to flick us aside like nothing!"
"Stop it, Bastila, now. Where's the Sith apprentice who thought she could take on the Sith Lord all by her lonesome, hm?" he asked. It was a low blow, and Bastila's pale, distraught face jerked up, eyes wild.
"Don't you see! I took her darkness, I diminished her, and still she batted me aside like nothing! I am alive not because I escaped her, but because she let me! There is no end to her power. She will…" she trailed off, eyes widening when she saw me awake. She froze, a defense mechanism, hoping that being still will make the predator go away.
"I remember most of it now." It should, at this point, shock me. The breadth and depth of my hatred. But hatred I understand, have waded through it enough my entire life. What shocked me was the love. My love for the Republic, something so great it filled my heart to bursting and canceled any other emotion. I looked at Carth, studying me with fearful, hopeful eyes and I remembered a time when I would have saw nothing more than a tool to be slaughtered before the greater good. And I wasn't done, I couldn't rest yet, the fury of my love for the Republic was not yet spent.
"Let me tell you a story." And I spun them a tale of a child with visions of death and betrayal. Of a woman who finally found the answer, that terrible, sweet solution. I told them of what had come before and what would come. And before I was done, Carth was shaking his head.
"I'm going with you. I don't understand a lot of what you told me, but I am not letting you leave me behind. Morgan, I…" he stopped when I held up a hand.
"Carth, you got to know me as Morgan. I have a new lesson for you. Know me as Revan, the savior of the Republic, the Dark Lord. I cannot escape who I am."
He stared at me with those hopeful eyes. "But you said it yourself. All you have done you have done to prepare us." And I pitied him. I took the coward's way out and changed the subject.
"I don't remember everything. I need my journals." It was interesting to watch the blood drain out of Bastila's already pale face.
"Revan, you can't. The council won't allow it."
"Let me worry about them, Bastila."
Chapter Three
I stormed into the council chambers, where they waited for me, knowing I was coming and why I was there. Dorak, Kavar, Vrook, Vandar, others. They were watchful, suspicious. Only Vrook had hate openly sketched upon his features.
It seems almost at odd with what should be, but I liked Vrook. I liked him because he hated me. The vaulted rules of the Order preach forgiveness. But Vrook was a breath of fresh air, a much needed source of cynicism among the council. "You know what I want." I hadn't the time or the patience for games.
"They are artifacts of the dark side, corrupt. To expect us to simply hand them over to you…" Vrook began, like I knew he would. He was so predictable, dependable.
"You mean, hand them back over to me. Place into my hands what I corrupted, what I imbued with the dark side. I don't have time for this. Where are they!" The veil I could only see late at night had shifted, its contents so tantalizingly close. I had a mission that I already sunk ten years into. I wasn't stopping until it was finished.
"Padawan…" he began, but I stopped him there.
"Do not debate rank with me, Vrook. I was a Knight, would have been a Knight by now if you of the council did not fear me so."
"Do you hear yourself? Being seduced by the dark side again, Revan? We fear you? Are we also envious of your power, trying to hold you back?"
That might have been the key to every layman Sith's heart, but it wasn't to mine. I never cared about what the Order thought of me. I suppose half the problem is that I still don't. "Do you deny it? Your fear not of my power, but of who I was? No, you cannot. You do not lie to yourself so much. I will not play this game with you. I will not go into questions of my own lightness, or lack thereof. Hand them over… now."
Thunder echoed over the hallowed hall. Sparks of purple lightning shimmered briefly in the air. And Vrook merely straightened, ever the surer of my downfall. "We were wrong to let you back into the Order."
"You and I both know I was never welcomed back." And that didn't sting so much now as it had before. Vrook stood and pulled his lightsaber. Another member of the council put a hand on his shoulder, restraining. And Dorak tossed at my feet a bag that thudded like it was full of books. I held Vrook's eyes a moment longer, saw past his hatred to his fear. And to his love. He was as devoted to the Jedi Order as I was to the Republic. Devoted to nothing worth devotion.
I grabbed my journals and left in a swirl of dark colored robes. Now, it may seem that I hate the Jedi Order. Never. But any institution that has existed so long needs shaking, needs the threat of rebellion to keep it honest. Many governments have touted the same values. But the Order has never faced rebellion in the truest sense since that first scission in its younger years. But I am not here to rebel against the Order, to teach it values. Who am I to change it, what makes me right?
They may learn from me. They may use me as an example of when things go wrong. They may strike me from their history. It doesn't really matter much to me. I was pouring over those journals in my room, grousing over that last altercation with the council when they found me. If I was a jealous woman, I'd have beheaded Bastila for how often I find her with Carth. Well, if I was a jealous woman who didn't know how much annoyance Carth feels for her sometimes. It almost makes me proud.
"The council said you stormed in, threatened, and appropriated artifacts of dark power," Bastila said, matter-of-factly. Her voice was prim, her spine straight, her lovely face carefully blank. Carth shot her another annoyed look before turning back to me, his face begging me to deny it.
"Well, I did storm in," I said conversationally, denying the rest of her little tirade. I grabbed another of my journals and held it out to her. She passed a hand over its butter colored surface, eyes blank with concentration. She frowned then. "Doesn't feel too dark, does it?"
"The council would not lie." To that, I began laughing. She put on an insulted face and glanced to Carth for help. He grinned and shrugged. "Beyond what is necessary," she amended, looking a little lost.
"What they deem as necessary could be a vast majority of things," I cautioned. She sighed, unable to argue with the logic of that.
"What are these?"
"My journals." I turned back to the one I had been reading before they came in, skimming almost impatiently through its contents. Carth paled.
"Morgan…" he began, hopeless fear on his face. I hated seeing that look on his face, hated putting it there.
"Carth, I remember most of it. I need to remember it all. And please, I know it will hurt for a while, but call me Revan." Morgan was a soldier made in the Order's own image. An upbeat person, unfettered by my visions, willing to live, to love. I have not been her in a long time. I don't even know when I lost it.
"Why?" he asked softly. Wow, I knew that one was coming. "Why do you need to remember it all?" What he really was asking was 'Why me?' and 'Why must you make me deal with this?'
"Because I don't want to have to worry that it will all come back in a rush and I will wake some night and slaughter you in your sleep." It was blunt and it was cruel. And it was true. I was going for some shock, some hurt. But his eyes softened and he ran a hand through my shorn, spiked blond hair.
"I trust you more than you trust yourself. You are going, though. Somewhere. From how you were talking last night…" he trained off, dropping his hand. I was kicking myself again for making such misery leak into those whiskey brown eyes of his.
"It's not over. It feels like it should be but it's not. And where I go you can't follow."
"What do you need from us?" Bastila asked. There was still fear dancing in her eyes, but resolve was there too.
"I need you to strengthen the Republic. The Order is dying, but it will not stay down for long, trust in that…. Carth, when I swept through this galaxy as a Sith Lord I left factories intact, weaponry readily available. The necessity spawned all sorts of creative machines of destruction. Raise the army, Carth, bolster it, and do not stop making weapons. I…" I trailed off. I wasn't sure how to phrase this next part. Bastila stood, turned.
"I'm going to go make coffee," she said, heading towards my small kitchenette to give us privacy.
"You have shown me, as much as I have shown you, that there is life beyond war and death. I don't…. I have to finish this. I have gone a long ways to saving the Republic but this has been prelude to what is to come. I can't… I can't ask anything of you. I love you, but I may not make it back…." I had no right to ask him to wait. But I couldn't give him up. It was selfish, to want one thing from this universe as my own. I have gouged out my soul for the Republic, and will continue to do so. But this… this was a slow death. "I want you to find someone else to be happy with."
He smiled gently, almost amused. "Yea. You, when you get back and are a different person for the journey. I'm too old and stubborn to start again. And I love you too much to go searching for someone new. Don't ask of me what I won't do. Just see to it that you return." I met his eyes and for the first time since I could remember, I let show all the pain and indecisiveness and love. For him.
Chapter Four
He fell asleep with a smile on his face that I put there. He'll wake knowing that I've gone and that nothing can bring me back. I brushed those wayward strands of doe brown hair off his face and left him sleeping. As a last memento, I left a signature coffee mug in clear view, knowing it'll bring a smile to his face, however sad a smile that may be. 'The Handsomest Pilot in the Galaxy' was emblazoned on the front in bold, Republic colors. I crept off and headed towards the Ebon Hawk. The droids were onboard still, shut down for the night. I switched on T3-M4 to help with the launch and to watch for needed repairs. I woke HK-47 for company, and headed to the cockpit.
I left bound for Malachor V, visions of decay dancing in my head. "Is there something you need killed, Master?" he asked, ever helpful.
"Well, if you feel inclined, please aim for my head," I muttered glumly. It was never this hard before, to leave everything and set off on a crusade. Caring sucks ass.
"Master, you know I cannot. However, if you wish for me to shoot the astromech droid, I am able to accommodate." That made me smile.
"Leave T3 alone, I ditched the pilot, the mechanic, and the wookie. I need someone to care for the ship."
"As you wish, Master…. Question: Master, may I inquire as to where we are going? I shall not ask why you dumped the other meatbags. I shall merely say I am glad you have finally seen reason."
"We're headed to somewhere neither of us has been in a long time. From there… farther, reaching out." I plotted in a course for Malachor and settled back in my seat. With the destination fixed, my thoughts traveled forward and backward at the same time. Faces bled into one another as I slipped into a meditative trance. Everything was set into motion. Everything would play out as I wanted it to. I made it to Malachor quicker than I should have. I made no stops, barely ate. Of course, she was waiting for me there, on the steps to a temple that had long lost any worshipers.
"The difference between a sacrifice and fall," she began, dark robed and grinning.
"The necessity of betrayal," I finished, heading toward her in my own, faded brown robes. I was the betrayer. I left that legacy on to her. She would do what I needed her to do.
"The Republic isn't my concern, Revan. I will let them die for what you have given me."
"Yes, and the Republic will live because the other won't let you kill it."
"Are you so sure? If what you have seen is truth…" she trailed off. I raised one of my light, etched eyebrows. "I do not doubt you. You know the human soul better than any other. I've often wondered if it's because you lack one."
"I have a soul." I left it at that. My old Master did not need to know of my weaknesses. I walked to the edge of the steps and stared out at the barren terrain. I wondered when she'd realize how I'd used her, perverted her to my own means. How I have neatly reversed the role of Master and Apprentice between us, shaped her in my own image.
"You won't tell me anything more, will you?"
"No. The other. One of my highest generals. One who was not corrupted when the rest of us were because of what I did. You will bring her here. She will destroy this place."
"And in doing so, strike a mortal blow against the Force," she whispered furiously. I raised one eyebrow with my back to her.
"If you so wish to have your control of the Force taken from you, I can accommodate you." She straightened and said no more. A quake shook the planet, tumbling boulders upon the Ebon Hawk. I turned and walked towards the temple as Kreia turned and walked towards the craft.
I am not entirely sure what happened after that, how Kreia managed to find the General. That wasn't my journey. I left Malachor several days later, bound for the deeper recesses of the galaxy. Heading to meet the darkness that would swallow my Republic whole. I found it waiting for me with eager arms.
Chapter Five
Atton Rand lounged in a chair watching as the Admiral poured over battle plans and blueprints with a frustrated zeal. The man needed a life. The man needed to get laid. "Dude, we won. The Sith are defeated. Give it a rest," he said. It had been six months since Malachor. Six months since the exiled Liam had left in the footsteps of Revan. And he hoped that he never became like Admiral Carth Onasi, clinging to some small thread of hope long since gone stale.
Carth spared him a scathing glance and went back to his blueprints. "No. What we faced was nothing. It was not something that would have drawn her away, it wasn't big enough."
"Well, hell, maybe she diminished it somehow before it got here." He was reaching, but the absolute faith in the other man shook him. Because he almost believed him. Because he believed in Revan.
"I don't know, Sith. You tell me how she did that," he said offhandedly, noting, with some amusement, how the normally easygoing Atton Rand stiffened.
"Don't," was all he said.
"Back at ya," Carth replied, still intent on the blueprints. Atton sighed.
"She's not coming back."
"Neither is Liam," he shot back easily, again smiling when Atton's face tightened in rage.
"Six months and five years are a little different!" he snapped. Carth raised his eyebrows.
"From where you're standing. Over here it doesn't make all that much difference."
"Okay, boys, break it up," Mira said, scowling at the both of them. Carth spared her a half smile over the rim of his chipped coffee mug. "The Handsomest Pilot in the Galaxy. Nice joke," she said, trying to lighten the mood. Carth's eyes softened with nostalgia.
"I thought so too." Silence fell in the room, and he didn't even flinch when it was broken by the buzz of his link. A few key strokes later and it was on the screen behind him. "Sir," he began, saluting the High Admiral on the screen.
"I'm transmitting you some information right now. We don't know where they came from, but there are thousands of ships ringed along the boarder of the Republic," High Admiral Nigawa began, wringing his thin hands. Here we go, thought Carth. This is it.
Technical information on the ships was scarce. It was an alien technology similar only to some of the older ruins on Korriban. Except much more advanced. He was still studying the new battle placement, plotting out the best plan of recourse when Bastila entered.
"There are Dark Jedi crawling on those ships," she said simply. Carth raised an eyebrow at her.
"Aren't there always?"
"Don't be a smartass, Carth."
"Take all the fun out of it, why don't you?" he grumbled. Atton laughed.
"You smug bastard. If I didn't know better I'd think you were enjoying this."
"Why the hell not, I already know who's going to win."
"You worry me sometimes."
"Atton… let me tell you a story," he began. Bastila stiffened at those words and wandered closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "There are dark places in the galaxy, places of dark power."
"I think I've heard this one before," he muttered. Carth merely shook his head.
"Do you know what created these dark places?"
"Mass genocide?"
"That creates a rift in the Force, an echo."
"Then… what creates them?"
"The Jedi do. Long ago temples were made where a Jedi could go and meditate and store all his hate and anger amongst the temple stones. These places were created out of necessity in a younger Republic fraught with wars. The Jedi would fight, but loose pieces of themselves in the process. So they would go and let all the pain and death be stored in the temples. The Jedi Order soon discovered, though, that these places called to the Sith, gave them power."
Atton shrugged, discounting the tale. It sunk in and his eyes widened. "Liam."
"Liam was an echo, a rift in the Force, a little bit of death in living form. Revan closed her off to the Force before pouring in all the death and destruction of several worlds, creating a hole in the Force. And Revan set it up so Liam would travel to these temples and destroy them, forcing all the darkness into herself, into the rift. And as she does it, the rift closes."
"That fucking…" Atton began, stopping when Mira put a hand on his shoulder. "But, I thought…."
"That Kreia did it. I think Kreia was Revan's tool in this case," Bastila said. Atton laughed.
"Oh, I like that idea. I like it a lot. I hated that old scow. I mean, the woman had to have been…" he began, being cut off by a voice from the door.
"Had to have been what?" Kreia, Darth Traya, the betrayer, asked. Atton had his lightsaber in his hand before she so much as blinked, but Kreia was unphased.
"So, how did you like being used?" Atton asked, saber still at ready. Kreia smiled thinly.
"I find that I do as my Master bids and that I have much to learn," she said bitterly, walking slowly into the room. "As our Master bids."
"Revan isn't my Master," Carth said, confused.
"I was referring to the other pilot. Ah, ah, ah, do not deny it, Atton. You answered her call more than once. If she called for you again, you would follow."
"Looks like I was right through it all, then," Atton said. Kreia laughed.
"You truly are a simple fool, Atton. You were a pawn to Revan, a sacrifice."
"Ah, good old times. Where is Liam, old woman?" Atton asked, dousing his saber. Kreia smiled her secretive, bitter smile and stepped aside. The figure behind here was clothed in the concealing robes of the Jedi order, thin, tall, and visibly shivering. "If you've hurt her…" he began savagely, heading towards the robed figure.
"You can blame Revan for this," she snapped.
"One more… one more death, one more," Liam rasped. Atton caught up to her, catching her around the arm.
"Liam?" He led her towards the couch and crouched in front of her. One pale hand pushed back the hood of the robe to reveal a bloodless face. She looked grey, as though all the color had been sucked out of her.
"One more death, then it will be done."
"One more death… and then you'll die?" Atton asked, not truly understanding the conversation. Liam shook her head.
"No. I will be normal again. No more unnatural charisma, no more block on my powers. I'll be healthy."
"If you want, I can kill Carth and you can suck that up?" Atton offered cheerfully, a forced grin on his worried face. Liam made a laughing sound that turned into a cough and shook her head.
"I got something in mind already. I'm going to sleep until it's time," she trailed off, her head tipping back.
Chapter Six
They gathered in the tactical bridge of the flag ship, Encounter, staring steadily at the amassed fleet before them. The Mandolorians had shown in force, every last remaining one, suited for destruction. The new Mandalore left a message for Admiral Onasi, stating simply that he was sorry to miss the victory party. He also left a message for Kreia. 'The Mandalorians may die off a whole but it will not be a slow death. It will be one last glorious raid that will live in the history books for an eternity.'
Nearby, Bastila was already preparing her battle meditation. "That's odd," she muttered to herself. Liam was in a soft chair, deep in meditation. Carth stood, watching the overwhelming odds and smiling to himself.
"We're getting a transmission. I'm putting it on screen," Mira said. The view of the dark fleet was replaced by a dark robed man with long black hair and a starless void in his eye sockets. He smiled charmingly.
"You will die. Surrender and I will make you my own," he said, and his voice was like his eyes. Weird and calm.
"Tisk, Tisk, my Lord Dy'ean. Last of the True Sith. Dream whisperer. Darkness."
The sightless man turned slightly, confused. "I twisted you from yourself. Your own strength gave you to me, my apprentice. None of the others proved worthy of me. Not Traya, Scion, Malak, Exar Kun, Nihilus."
"I am yours because I wished it so. And I betrayed you. I led the Sith in a war against the Republic before you were ready, and now the Republic is much better prepared."
Darth Dy'ean smiled gently. "I forgive you, my apprentice. You wanted this galaxy for your own but underestimated their strength. Their might is still nothing compared to my army."
"I had your temples destroyed. You will find no energy reserves here."
Dy'ean's smooth featured dropped down in fury. "Tougher, but we can still win," he said, his voice beginning to growl with thunder.
"That would be true if they were your troops. They are not. Roughly half are strictly mine to do with as I please. Roughly half owe only me their allegiance. You should be more careful in your distribution of power." I walked slowly toward him across the empty bridge. He had whispered of dark power to me for so long. It had been easy to give in to it, secure in the knowledge that my own ego would carry me to war sooner. Secure in the knowledge that Bastila would find me and carry me home.
"What!" Dy'ean shouted. I barely heard it past the flow of blood in my veins.
"The Jedi abandoned them, as they do to all battered children, with few exceptions. You snapped them up, drawn to their hurt, to their lack of training. But I own them. I made them who they are. We may not be Jedi, we may not be light, but we are not you. We are not dark. We will fight for our homes." I paused, before continuing calmly. "You will find you cannot reach your troops. Not until one of us is dead. I have seen to that." Liam would block him from using the Force to call out with the death she carried inside of her.
His perfect face twisted in rage but his voice was chillingly calm when he spoke. "Then I will have to kill you. Admiral Onasi, you get to play witness to one of the Sith's oldest traditions. An attempt at succession."
"You will not reclaim my men. Your forces will fail. The Republic is mine. They are mine and you cannot have them!" Thunder echoed across the hall and the view screen blinked off. I had no doubt what would happen. I was living in a vision I had years upon years ago, its events replayed for my own amusement over and over again.
He and I fought and it was glorious. I am human enough to feel pride at my own skill, to feel enthused by the thrill of battle. Nothing seems real except him and me and the backlash of elemental power. Nothing is real except him and me and the fury of his hate, the fury of my love.
Chapter Seven
The Mandalorians died to a man. They would be remembered for the daring tactics, the suicide runs, the overwhelming death tolls they created. Those flying under the banner of Revan soon made their loyalties known with a change of beacon signal. Bastila's battle meditation coordinated both sides of the fight. The newly designed war droids cut through the defenses like butter. The well trained, battle hardened republic troops dropped dark Jedi landing parties with an ease born of experience.
A resounding victory was called in under two months. The surviving members of those previously dark Jedi, whose darkness depended solely on the will of Revan turned to rebuilding the Jedi Order, helping a man known only as the Disciple.
It was a week after the last battle had been called and the victory parties were still in full bloom. Atton was cheekily drunk, hanging off a depressingly sober Liam's arm. Mira was at half mast and coaxing a tipsy Bastila into yet another drink. Bao-dur was off to one side, his impressive arms folded, watching incredulously as a Wookie tried unsuccessfully to bat aside a Twilek with a comb in her hand. And Carth Onasi was staring off into space, depressed as well as depressingly sober.
"The difference between a sacrifice and a fall," he muttered to himself. Atton chose that time to begin singing loudly. His drunken song stopped suddenly, as though something had just occurred to him.
"Carth, man! I love you!" he sputtered, blinking rapidly. "Dude, you need to have some of what I'm having…. The booze, not the Liam. No touchie the Liam! I'm not getting lucky tonight, am I?" he asked, swiveling to look at Liam. She shook her head, fighting a grin. "Can we get Carth drunk and laid?"
"Atton, I think it's time you stumbled off to bed. I'll walk you there," Liam responded. Atton grinned, giving her a sloppy kiss on the cheek. Carth waited until they were gone before slipping out the back into the fall night. The rustle of dead leaves in the wind, the smell of ripe fruit teased past his senses. He took a deep breath and turned his eyes heavenward.
"Which of those stars are you on, Revan? And are you looking back at me?" he asked softly, expecting no response and getting none. He turned down the path towards his current residence, oblivious to the cool wind and dancing russet leaves.
"I love fall. I always thought your eyes were like some leaf turning a brilliant color before being blown away by the wind," I said, matching my stride to his, walking beside him.
"I love you. No matter who you are. Morgan, Revan. Please… don't leave me again."
"Nothing in heaven or earth, Carth, can manage that." I pressed my lips to his and felt that desperate, shaky breath a moment before his arms wrapped around me.
"I feel like a jackass!" I snapped, slapping at Mira's hands. "I conquered worlds, I alone was judged worthy by the Universe's darkest part, I have slaughtered thousands, I command more men than any person currently living!... I am not wearing this." It was as simple as that. I wasn't getting married. I wasn't wearing that ridiculous getup, and I going to be paraded in front of thousands.
"Who would have thought you would get wedding jitters?" Bastila asked herself, the insult to my ego carefully planned to make me go through with it. And, damn her, it worked. I stuck my tongue out at her, feeling lighter and stupider than I had in too many years. The jitters returned as soon as I saw the crowd. And they left as quickly as soon as I saw him. He was in formfitting dark grey, and I knew someone of the feminine persuasion had to have picked the outfit out. He looked too damn good for anything else.
I waited until I was side by side with him, staring into those fall colored eyes before leaning close. "Are you sure you want this?"
"Don't start on me, Rev. You saved the Republic, you're not a monster."
"I sacrificed all those troops, Sith and Republic. I sacrificed Taris, Telos. I sacrificed my closest childhood friend. I sacrificed the Mandalorians, an entire race, Carth."
"You did it for something worth saving. It was a hard choice, Revan, and you made it with your eyes wide open. Now close your eyes and kiss me. It's our wedding day! Act like you're enjoying yourself."
"We'll see how much I'm acting when I get you alone."
"Ooh, low blow." The sermon finished and we kissed in front of mass of people. Then he did something completely stupid and swept me off me feet, making a mad dash for the door with Bastila cursing about the reception and Mission chucking flowers at us by the bucket load.
It's selfish of me but I don't want to wage wars anymore. My visions have slowed and I can only take that to mean that there is no next big crisis waiting around the bend. I hope. I don't have the strength to fight for the Republic. I want a life, I want to live and love and maybe occasionally spar with Bastila or scare the crap out of the Disciple by threatening to take all my minions away.
My minions, my army of darkness, my broken children. Under the teachings of the Order they are flourishing, healing so well. Maybe one of them can take up my crusade. Oh hell, what am I talking about? Give it a decade, less, and I'll get antsy for some adventure. When the time comes, I wonder if I'll be asking Carth if I can go, or if it will be the other way around?