Title: Casualties Of War
Author: Kian
Warnings: pre-KotOR, Female Revan, general unhappiness, graphic descriptions of physical injury
Pairings/Characters: Female Revan, Female Exile, Malak, OCs
Disclaimer: The video games, Knights of the Old Republic and its characters are copyright to the appropriate creators and companies, specifically LucasArts and Bioware. Any businesses, logos or characters not belonging to the author are the intellectual property of the appropriate creators and owners. Any of the content (prose, plot, original characters, etc.) that does not fall in the above categories in the intellectual property of the author "Kian" and said intellectual property is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. The individual under the pen name of "Kian" is receiving no profit from the distribution of this story, nor does said author have any intention to receive compensation beyond hopefully some verbal praise.
Author's Note: A pre-KotOR story set in what I'm now calling the "Veins & Dust Arc." That would make this a prequel of sorts to Resurrecting A Fallen Appellation. Set during the Mandalorian Wars on some unnamed planet, this just started flowing while I was trying to finish part three of A Rose By Any Other Name.
I see Revan as a very solitary figure, not in a tragic way but in a fashion that is determined by the fabric of her personality, being a character that sees a broader view of the universe than most and has, whether by destiny or circumstance, a singularly vital role to play in the events that shape that universe. And yet, this is a person with friends, feelings and goals for herself. So I guess I'm trying to sketch out the boundary between the image and the actuality. -Kian
Casualties Of War
The landscape was bleak, littered with twisted clumps of dead bodies and quietly smoldering ruins of once-proud homesteads. Another city destroyed, another battle won. She had once viewed such a sight with horror, once felt the loss of all of this acutely. Now it was a dull, persistent ache, unwelcome but manageable.
Elsewhere, in other parts of the galaxy, similar battles were being won and lost; similar landscapes were being fashioned from the cities and towns of sleepy planets that Mandalore had targeted in his ongoing pursuit of a satisfying challenge. Her army was fast depleting and those who remained were fatigued from the relentless skirmishes and planet hopping. She had no mentor to consult, no brighter mind to turn to for help, only those friends and followers who had joined her when she had forsaken a path that had soured with age.
Her eyes tracked over the smoking ruin of a gun turret and the lifeless woman who had manned it only hours before. The woman's clothes and hair – what was left of them – were thickly coated with grime and gore, from her own wounds and of those who had fallen before her. Smoke-tinged sweat blurred the color of her skin, setting her wide eyes and gaping mouth – screaming out for the aid that could not have hoped to reach her in the midst of such a confusion of blaster fire and heavy artillery – in startling relief. One hand, mangled and disfigured, must have been clutching desperately at wounds, for it hung limply in a contortion of broken twists at her side. The other hand, better preserved but lacerated and scuffed from the labors of the day, stretched out across the length of the turret's barrel, the ragged torso sagging against the controls. One civilian among many who had been recruited on the ground to help protect their home against those determined to destroy it.
It was a scene that should have repulsed her, should have called up feelings of dismay and regret. But it merely caught her eye in her passing evaluation of what had happened on this part of the field, much as the crumple of other bodies signified an ebb and flow of battle to her tactical eye. The eerily silent tableau of death was a series of missteps and corrections, merely a progression of aggressive action that had ultimately been successful, if costly.
Revan, commander of over a third of the Republic forces against the Mandalorian incursion, had long since learned not to wonder too deeply at the bloodshed or the loss of life. Nothing could be done for the dead, after all, save to give them proper burial.
No, she had learned to concern herself with the living and leave the meditation of the dead to those with the time. Perhaps the Council, she thought. They seemed to have time on their hands; blood as well, by her estimation.
A man came to her side, dusty and mottled, drying blood flaking off his armor and skin, grit and scum covering him in a discolored film. He was at least several years her senior, but he stood silently at attention, waiting her leisure to address him. A good soldier and a competent field commander, Revan was pleased to see he had come through the worst of the fighting. Another look across the quiet streets of the ruined city and Revan turned to hear his report.
"We've turned them back, but some of the Mandie ground forces have holed up in the hills southwest of the city. Reports from around the planet are coming in as well. We lost two regiments near the southern Pole in the city of Lashrak, another four on the main continent, with severe casualties to the whole of the invading force. Above atmo, we engaged three of their warships with minimal success, but downed another two. They were reported to have crashed into the northern pole region. Our own fleet sustained minimal loss, only two ships and 15 fighters lost. They are in orbit awaiting your orders."
"Do we have any confirmation of the redirection of the Mandalorian fleet?"
"General Harkin has not yet reported in, but Mandalore appears to have missed the window for launching a counter attack from Onderon."
"We have divided them, then. Notify me when General Harkin reports in."
"Yes, sir."
A salute that she barely noticed and he was gone again, weaving through the rubble to wherever it was they had managed to set up a communications center. She eyed the area once more, checking again for any sign of snipers or subterfuge, and then she turned her back on the scene. There was more work to be done.
A swoop bike carried her several klicks back to the field base she had established upon first taking this little piece of rock. It looked distinctly different than she remembered it since she had left it for battle two days previous. A field hospital had been set up and some of those minor luxuries commanders and soldiers carried with them had been unpacked now that the Mandalorians appeared to be routed. Weaponry that prior to battle had never left the side of her men now leaned against boxes and kegs. The paranoia of impending death was lifted now in the brief lull of victory.
It was foolish, but she would allow it. Her commanders were not fools and would not relax in their vigilance against a possible counter, but her soldiers needed to feel that they had won something, if only the fleeting comfort of an inflated sense of security. They, every one of them, were conscious of the loss of the day, but to force her men to dwell on such a thing – to let it consume every moment – would destroy her army more decisively than any counterstrike from the Mandalorians. Morale was as vital a tactical consideration as any other.
Her command tent stood waiting for her and she knew that within were amenities that her men dreamed of: running water, bedclothes and blankets that were cool and clean, and that most revered of extravagances, privacy. Yet she turned away from it, as she always did, and moved on instead to pass through the split canvas opening to the field hospital tent.
The hustle, the urgency of this last battlefront appealed to her more than the thought of rest. She knew some people viewed her visitations to the wounded in a cynical light and she herself was not unaware of the profound effect her vaunted "humanism" had on the men, had on the morale of her troops. Perhaps she would still have made these rotations if merely to bolster the spirits of her men, but in truth, she relished the experience.
It took no effort for her to look into the eyes of men and women who were in pain, who had fought for her. Others, she heard, could not stand the smell, the sounds or sights. She embraced them selfishly. For the first time in days, a part of her awoke that countless years of training usually kept tidily locked away. She allowed herself to bask in the little glow of pride and compassion. She permitted herself to draw strength from the belief she saw in the eyes of those who looked her way.
She walked slowly through, nodding to the scrambling medics who spared her a glance, carefully accepting the hands of those she passed who had the strength to reach out. This was a dance she knew as well as the one she had finished hours before with her blade.
She made her way to the partitioned area in the back of the tent, past the rows of cots holding those with more minor wounds to the operating areas reserved for those in most desperate need of care. With unspoken permission from the field surgeon on duty, she approached the first stall in the network of isolated niches and stepped inside.
She approached the cot unhurriedly, noting how it was tucked into the corner, dwarfed by some of the medical equipment at hand. She ignored the dull flapping of the tent behind the soldier's head, the smell of smoke and blood, and the surgical instruments lying on a cart next to a basin of red-ringed water. She met the newly lone eye of the wounded man, noticing without looking directly that he had lost a leg and half of one of his hands, as well as suffering burns and lacerations of various shapes and sizes. She was mildly surprised that he was even alive, let alone conscious.
"General Revan, sir," he managed as he made a vain struggle to sit upright and salute. The medic pushed him back down to the cot and scolded him against such movements, but the young man's notice was only for his commanding officer. Though prone, he made small fidgets in an attempt to mimic standing at attention, to try and convey his respect and determination to be of use.
"Private, at ease," she said, and the young man settled a little, to the relief of the field medic.
A stool was brought, but Revan stood beside the man's bed while she spoke with him for the few minutes before his energy was exhausted. He expressed hope that once his wounds were healed and prosthetics attached, that he would return to his regiment. She asked him where his family lived. He swore that he wasn't finished exacting revenge on the Mandalorians for their deaths. She told him which doctor to ask for when he was transferred to the main fleet for medical care. He said he'd follow her anywhere. She ordered him to follow the doctor's instructions and to let himself heal.
Hours passed before she left the tent, hours speaking to men and women who had survived what she had put them through, some by smaller margins than others. The city and its outlying communities were secure though; another critical victory for the Republic's armies. She would be reprimanded for recruiting civilians, for risking too many of her trained soldiers and losing a higher percentage of them than Coruscant was comfortable with, but all the Senate's threats were empty when she was the only commander in the Republic fleet boasting a consistent success rate in battle.
Night would soon fall on the planet and Revan needed to go over the official reports from her generals and field commanders before issuing a complete report to the Senate on the progress of her fleet. Her time mingling with her foot soldiers was over until the end of another campaign.
A shuttle was waiting to transport her back to the flagship of her personal armada, and she was amused to see a familiar shape hovering at the foot of the loading ramp.
"Was Taris not enough to keep you occupied?"
"Have you forgotten your own orders so soon, Master?" smiled the man as he reached out to help her up the loading ramp, though he didn't seem surprised when she strode by his proffered hand.
"I told you not to call me that, Squint," she sighed, collapsing in an uncharacteristically sloppy fashion into one of the shuttle's jump seats, ignoring the rows of more comfortable, passenger-grade benches nestled in the belly of the transport.
"Squint" settled across from her, smiling as he leaned forward with his forearms braced on his knees.
"It went that well, did it?"
"It was a victory," she replied shortly, but the irritation in her tone lost out to the weight of her exhaustion.
"I take it then, that you do not want to hear what the news feeds have to say on your latest success?" His grin softened to an affectionate smile as he watched his companion pull away the ever-present mask she wore in battle, a symbol meant to taunt Mandalore's Helm as well as to give her men something to follow that looked less like flesh and blood.
"If they are calling it a 'success,' then no," she sighed, running a gloved hand over her drawn features, her hair falling in wild and matted hanks about her face from days without care.
"Mieli has some good news for you, I understand."
"Has Mandalore surrendered, then?" she smirked up at him.
"I believe her exact words were that he 'cried like a baby and begged for mercy from those big ex-Jedi meanies,'" he chuckled.
"Ah, good then," she murmured. "Maybe now I can finally catch up on my sleep before I go crawl on hands and knees begging the Order to forgive my impetuous folly of misguided youth."
Her companion looked pained for a moment before answering her bitter irony.
"You know that what we've done is right, Revan. There was no choice but to act."
"I know…," she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the metal hull of the shuttle, listening to the rumbling of takeoff. "It just rankles, is all."
They sat quietly for several minutes as the shuttle burned its way through the atmosphere of the small planet and entered the deep black of space again; Revan idly observing the changes of light and color across the backs of her closed eyelids.
She found herself recounting the last several standard days to her friend as they traveled to her flagship. He sat silently, listening to her unravel the thread of battle for him.
When they began to taxi in to the landing bay of the larger craft, Revan retrieved the mask from where she had tucked it beside her in the jump seat. Her companion watched resignedly as she tucked back her hair and slid the mask into place once more. Moments later, the loading ramp dropped and she was marching down to meet with the assembled group of commanders and personnel, her friend one step behind.
She made her way to the command deck to consult with her crew. Once there, she had herself briefed on the general outcome of the battle and on the status of her fleet before issuing orders for securing the planet and regrouping before moving on. Althir was in her sights now and it would be a strike the Mandalorians would not see coming, so distracted had she made him by vying for these small footholds across the Outer Rim.
Hours passed and she saw her men move about her in a flurry to execute her orders. The reports came in and she waited for each one, gave specific orders tailored to each regiment's position and status, moved her pieces to her greatest advantage across the massive dejarik board of space.
It was somewhere in what could be considered the small hours of the standard night when she turned over command of the ship to her captain and retired to her quarters.
The room was clean, cold and dark when she stepped through the entryway from the orange-hued hallway and let the automatic door slide home behind her. There was ostensibly nothing in this bunk that set it apart from any of the other captains' quarters aboard the ship. She carried all that mattered to her with her; this was merely a room with a bed that occasionally bore the weight of her form.
The only peculiar feature of the room was one that could not be seen. It was here that she once more reached up to unfasten the mask from its place and set it upon the table bolted next to the bed. Base compulsion told her to similarly divest the rest of her body and seek the solitude of sleep, but she was instead drawn to the great viewing panels that looked out upon space.
A small prod with the Force turned back the filters that could block out the expanse of nothing and she looked upon it unflinching from within her darkened chamber, reflected light from the surface of the planet she had recently inhabited bathing her face in a soft blue glow. Distantly, she could see the circular shape of the great star the little rock orbited and beyond that, millions of other stars and planets, captured in place now that she was among them with no world beneath her feet.
She felt the resonance of the Force and knew that while some saw a hopeless eternity of dark and lifeless emptiness, the Force moved here as strongly as anywhere else. It sang to her, running across her nerves like water, winding about her and breathing across her exposed skin. Her constant companion and tormenter. Her great love and rival.
Althir would not be the end, but it would cause the Mandalorians to shudder all the same. Mandalore would not come to meet her, so she was forced to trap him as a predator traps prey, only they were both predators, willing to tear each other apart for victory. Such a case required extreme vigilance, for Mandalore would not be easily played.
"Victory," she murmured aloud, hearing the sound's hollow echo off the surface of the glass panel before her.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the outline of her mask – the one she had retrieved during her exploration of Malachor V. She wondered at Mandalore's reaction to her use of an ancient relic of his people, curious if he would find the deliberate challenge insulting or exciting. She wondered at whether she would ever be rid of it, or whether it would – as the writings had indicated – become a part of her that could no more easily be removed than an arm or leg.
She watched as the small planet faded away abruptly as her captain put their ship into light-speed, smearing the galaxy across her sight. She dimmed the view then with the shade filters, but not enough to fully darken the room. Bypassing the bed, she sat down hard in a chair facing the great panels and watched.
She knew not when, but eventually she sunk into sleep, watching the universe before her. And, as if sensing her weariness finally overcome her, the Force whispered softly about her, caressing her still form gently like a mother tucking in her child or a lover standing watch over the grave of a lost beloved while, for a few hours at least, Revan, the heart of the Force, slept.
End