Bao-Dur's faithful Remote hovers above him as he fusses over a component of the ship's hyperdrive. The Jedi Exile, Urela Toral, enters the garage, but does not speak. From the safety of the doorway she watches the Zabrak work in silence
"Yes, General?"
Caught, Urela glances down at the mug of warm caffa in her hands as though it might somehow offer a reasonable explanation for her midnight intrusion. "It's late. I thought you could use a cup," she manages after a beat of silence.
He accepts the drink she offers, but eyes the concoction warily. "Forgive me for stating the obvious, General, but in the last week you've managed to fix the light switch in the girl's dorm, the sink in the fresher, and now the caffa machine," he notes, taking a careful sip of the hot liquid as he studies her from over the top of the cup.
Pleased that he has remembered each of her minor kindnesses, Urela smiles, "It was no trouble."
"I wasn't thanking you, General. Merely curious about the timing of your good deeds."
Her smile vanishes, replaced with a look of barely concealed irritation. "Were you always this suspicious, Bao-Dur?"
"Do you really not remember?"
And there it is... the gigantic bantha, which has been quietly sitting in the corner of the room since their Force-ordained reunion on Telos. In a valiant attempt to go on ignoring it's presence, Urela steps back and examines the wall. With her finger, she traces the electrical wiring that snakes back toward the rear of the ship.
"We could probably re-route some of the power from the cargo hold to give you some more light in here," she calls out over her shoulder.
The Zabrak responds with a cagey, unreadable smile that borders on insubordination. "Shouldn't you clear that with your new partner?"
The intensity in his voice betrays him. Urela's eyes narrow as she turns back to face him. "Mandalore isn't my partner and if he hadn't shown up when he did, we'd still be up to our ears in cannoks."
"I prefer cannoks to Mandalorians. They have superior personal hygiene," he said, snipping a bit of tangled wiring from the guts of the hyperdrive with the precision of a surgeon.
"Mandalore has been a big help. I think his actions speak for him," she counters, picking up a medium-sized hydrospanner from his workbench. The Zabrak immediately plucks the tool from her grasp and uses it to adjust the fuel valve.
"And what about his actions on Serraco? And Irridonia? Don't the atrocities he committed also speak for him?"
"What do you want, Bao-Dur? An apology?" Before he can answer, she checks him with a shake of her head. "Actions speak louder than words."
He grimaces in frustration and returns to repairing the hyperdrive, but Urela does not let him retreat entirely. "Mandalore is aware that you and I are responsible for scattering his clans. Why do you think he offers his assistance, Bao-Dur?"
"He is biding his time. Waiting for the opportunity to betray us."
"But, his culture values honor on the field of battle above all else. What honor would there be in sabotaging us?" She inquires innocently.
The Zabrak scowls, digesting the soundness of her argument. "You make him sound so...," He drops his hydrospanner in frustration as he searches for the right word.
"Evolved?"
He nods and Urela responds with a tiny, sad smile. "I know. It bothers me too. I mean - it certainly doesn't bode well for the Jedi order when a Mandalorian is a better example of forgiveness then either one of us."
The Zabrak's jaw tenses as he pulls a worn pair of safety goggles over his eyes.
"I am not a Jedi, General."
"Not yet."
"Not ever."
It is a stubborn tango the two of them have performed since Dantooine, and for the Exile at least, there is comfort in the familiarity of his polite decline. She senses some dark, hidden thing preventing him from acknowledging his sleeping Force potential, and it is this thoughtful hesitation above all his other worthy qualities that convinces her he will make a splendid Jedi.
But, the insistent whisper of the Force's will and the knowledge that time is running out, makes Urela bold.
"I'm sure you've heard the rumors," she states casually, pausing just long enough to properly bait her hook. "They say Revan counted a fierce Mandalorian among her allies when she defeated Malak at the Star Forge."
"And you believe it was Mandalore?" He asks, his gaze snapping up to meet hers as he steps away from the ailing hyperdrive.
Urela's shoulders slump back against the wall of the garage as her soft gaze falls on the Zabrak's lighted cybernetic arm. "I have yet to meet a sentient being who served under Revan, whom she didn't scar or mark in some way," she confesses.
He shakes his head in disbelief, but Urela only shrugs. "Believe me, Revan left her mark on Mandalore."
The idea that he might have something in common with his former oppressor lands like a ship with no pilot. Swallowing hard, Bao-Dur summons the courage to ask the question that has been on his lips since the moment Urela regained consciousness on Telos.
"General, did you really not remember me?"
"The truth?" She asks, her voice nearly cracking on the word. He nods tentatively.
"After the war, I did a lot of things to make myself forget." Her voice is uncharacteristically small as she battles the flood of memories from her dark years in exile. Feeling the weight of her admission, Urela blushes and flashes a guilty smile. "I'm a coward. Didn't you know?"
"You are many things, but you are not a coward, General."
"I ran off to fight the Mandalorians because I was afraid of what would happen if I did nothing. And when I saw what Revan was becoming – what we were all becoming – I ran back to the Jedi like a frightened child."
He pulls off his goggles and lays them on the workbench. "You regret the past as I do, General."
"No, I would do it all again. Disappear, kill a planet, tear a hole in the Force - because I'm even more afraid of what the Galaxy would be like if I didn't do those things."
For Urela, the stricken look Bao-Dur gives her is like a lost piece of puzzle finally snapping into place. Inching closer, she places a gentle hand on his sagging shoulders.
"It's Malachor V, isn't it? That's the reason you refuse to open yourself to the Force."
Bao-Dur gazes down at his hands, one flesh and bone, the other a maze of light and circuitry. "I was responsible for so much suffering," he admits. "General, if it's possible to craft that level of destruction using only my hands, what would I be responsible for if I had access to the Force?"
"Great things, Bao-Dur. You will be responsible for great things."
The ritual of forgiveness holds little meaning for the Exile. In her rather limited experience, apologies have only ever existed to ease the conscience of the guilty party. It was that way when Revan apologized for sending her to Malachor V all those years ago and again when the Jedi Council demanded her lightsaber.
But, as the architect of Bao-Dur's suffering, Urela is faced with the realization that fixing the caffa machine or the light switch in the girl's dorm will never repair the real damage. In some cases, deeds alone do not settle past sins. So, where does one even start?
"Bao-Dur, I want you to know – For everything that happened – I am truly, I mean to say that I am very…"
Before she can say the word, he holds up both of his hands, effectively cutting her off. "Actions speak louder than words."
Urela blinks at him, embarrassed and confused, until she realizes the simple truth behind his interruption: No apology necessary, General.
"It's dark in here," he adds, with a shy grin. His Remote appears to agree with that assessment. Zooming between them, the tiny droid trumpets a chorus of bossy clicks and whistles, causing Urela to laugh. "Right. More light. Let me see what I can do."
Pivoting in the direction of the cargo hold, the Exile is fairly certain that when next they speak, Bao-Dur will take his first step into a larger world. In a quiet voice, her faithful tech will ask about the Force and how best to serve it, and in doing so, add his own brilliant spark to the Galaxy.
As Urela passes Mandalore in the hallway, she is unable to contain the smile that comes from knowing soon – very soon – there will be more Light. Perhaps, even enough to stand against the coming darkness.