Author's Note: MASSIVE SPOILER ALERTS FOR SITH WARRIOR ACT III! My headcanon for my F!SW and Malavai Quinn.

THE POINT OF NO RETURN

Say you'll share with me
One love, one lifetime
Lead me, save me from my solitude

Say you want me
With you here
Beside you
Anywhere you go
Let me go too

...That's All I Ask Of You

"Get him out of my sight. Lock him in the brig until I decide what to do with that... Why are you staring at me like you don't understand a word I'm saying! Do you hear me, Vette? Put him in the damn brig before I put you in the med-bay!"

"But, My Lord, his wounds−"

"I don't care about his wounds. If you don't hurry up you will have to worry about your own."

"I don't want to do this. Something's wrong with all of this. Tell me what's going on and I'll do it. Otherwise, get Jaessa to do it."

Without another moment's passing, I raise my hand toward, poised to slap her across the face. She visibly flinches. I stare Vette down with a glare. "You know I'm not afraid of choking you. Perhaps you miss the shock collar. Do what I say or you will be reacquainted with your old friend."

"Just tell me what happened out there! Why are you so angry? I thought you were getting better? Why do we have to lock him up? I thought you both were−"

"You have three seconds before I search for the collar."

"Why can't you tell us?"

"Master−" Jaessa tries to speak up, but is drowned out by my argument with the Twi'lek.

"One."

"Jaessa! Tell your master to stop this. Don't you get the feeling that something's seriously wrong? Even you, the Queen of Freaky, has to see it!" Jaessa does not respond. Vette stands astonished, with her jaw dropped. "Am I the only one who sees it?"

"Two."

"Vette, just do what she says, alright!" Jaessa finally yells out after folding her arms across her chest. "Quit complaining."

"I have all the right to know what's going on. Our Lord comes back seething and with an unconscious Captain Stiffpants Qui−"

I narrow my brows in frustration and, with the Force, throw a nearby piece of equipment against the closest metal wall. The Force flows through me, and I seethe with fury, to the point where electricity crackles around my arms and fingers. The resulting crashing and shattering noise startles Vette and Jaessa into silence, further ending their back and forth banter.

"Don't use his name. Not around me. He is nothing to me," I spat. My voice is mechanical and coarse due to the ventilator. I have to remember to breathe. I close my eyes and rub the bridge of my nose, over the bridge of metal. "Lock him up and let him rot. We are getting rid of him at the next deserted planet. Hopefully Tatooine."

"B-but... well, I thought, we thought that you both were−" Vette stutters out.

"You thought wrong. Horribly wrong."

I look from Vette to Jaessa. I feel my anger begin to fade and everything begins to swirl. The weight of his new reality is too much. I turn on my heel and head for my quarters without further comment. Before I manage to close and lock my door, I hear the two women begin to start squabbling again over who will put him in the brig. I grit my teeth and yell out, "Just do as I say before I personally choke you both until you no longer know heads or tails."

The two fall silent again. I glance over my shoulder and glare at them both. Their eyes are wide. I can sense their fear.

"Of course, right away Master −"

"Okay," Vette squeaks out. She is visibly trembling. "As you wish."

"Just do it! Quit groveling, both of you!"

The ruse.

The heavy door slams shut behind me and I scream. I fall against the door and slide down to the cold metal grating with a hand tugging at my hair. My eyes are wide and I stand at the emotional brink. I tell myself that I cannot cry. Crying is a sign of weakness, and weakness is the worst means to combat this issue. I have to let my anger, my rage, and my hate fuel me. Sadness and grief do not give strength. They do not drive my purpose. Those are extraneous.

Everything was a part of a plot.

I told him everything.

I cared for him. He cared for me.

I helped him. He listened.

He kissed me. I kissed him back.

He said he loved me. I told him I loved him too.

I married him. He is my husband.

I shudder and feel my grip on my emotions falter. My hands are trembling, grasping at air, the armor, or my arms. I fumble with the ventilator on the lower half of my face but manage to take it off in a few minutes. It falls to the metal floor with a clatter. I have to hold myself together. But it is too much. Too much to bear. Too much to understand. I close my eyes but all I see are his eyes. I hear his voice, I feel his skin against mine, but he is hurting me, not loving me. The bruises on my neck, hidden by the armor are not from his mouth, his lips, but from his hands squeezing.

My quarters are mostly messy, but I look across the bed and see his side. It is the made up part of my bed where he slept just hours ago, when he still loved me, when I thought he loved me. And then his spare clothes, folded on top of the sheets. His boots are on the ground, with the laces tied. There is a faint shine; he recently cleaned them. His things are always taken care of, managed. They lay there as a token of the recent past. The ruse. Even the smallest details are the foundation for the lies.

Some cold, angry part of me wishes to make his side of the bed, his portion, messy. To untie his shoes. To create chaos again. I understand chaos. Yes, this entire predicament is in fact the epitome of chaos. But it is planned chaos. It is not spontaneous combustion. It is different. It is a premeditated fire and it is burning everything that I believed to be resilient and fireproof.

I see his documents sitting on top of the table − his papers, his high-priority files, his projects, all for the Empire. They too are too neat, too organized, and too planned. Where in those papers does it address his betrayal? Where is the bureaucracy in his betrayal? Are there letters from Baras? Is this where he schemed? In our shared quarters?

Somehow I manage to find my senses and regain a shred of strength. I close my eyes and stand. My body aches and yells in protest. I move slowly. How long have I been sitting there, by the door, trying not to cry or scream? My body is physically drained and exhausted. Everything is tender and the blotches on my pale skin are testament to the struggle. Those are his wounds. He gave those to me. It was his blaster shooting me. His knife in my side. His hands on my neck. His battle-droids firing at peak efficiency in my direction, aimed at me. My knuckles are swollen from where I punched him. My eyes are sore. Everything hurts. But nothing compares to the internal wounds. The wounds you cannot see, but can only feel.

The betrayal.

I told him everything. I told him my dark secrets. The things I never shared, the things I never thought I would want to share. Not even to Nietcha, my sister. There are some things that are more than private. They are intimate. I thought we were one. I thought the Force created a bond. Maybe we still have a bond. Maybe the hurt is the sign. But I am only denying reality and replacing this reality with false hopes. That is weakness.

There is a knock at my door. I turn and contemplate whether or not I want to or should unlock the door. I know that whoever is behind the door is as confused as I am, if not more. The truth is in front of me, but they still do not know. Eventually they will need to know. I decide to unlock the door.

The door opens and Vette stands with her arms folded.

"We did as you asked."

I nod.

"Jaessa and Pierce are asking questions. Jaessa is in hysterics. She is overwhelmed. I gave her some medicine and she fell asleep. Pierce is watching... you know, it, I guess. Jaessa knows that something is seriously wrong, and she wants to help, because it is hurting her too. She feels the cocktail of emotions inside of you through the Force. It's freaky, but we all feel it somehow."

I stare at her. I find her bravery admirable, but this admiration is diluted and fleeting. My hand grips the doorframe. The fingers have dried blood on them and they still are throbbing. The cold metal is soothing. She stares back at me, waiting for a response. I shrug my shoulders. Vette never did like silence. It destabilizes her and leaves her on edge; it's why she is a blabber-mouth.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

Silence falls between us again, and I slump against the doorframe. She tentatively reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder, soft and gentle, and despite my knowing very well that her desire to help is genuine (for I have helped her many times before), I flinch away.

"You need medical attention. Let us help you."

"I don't care."

I know that no amount of kolto packs can help me now. Even though I normally do not find comfort in the act of being wounded, the pain contrasts with the other wounds. It is a distraction.

Vette hesitates, but breaks the silence again, "He− I mean − it's stable, if you wanted to know. Still unconscious."

"I don't care."

"Okay. Alright."

I said nothing further. I could not even raise my head. It felt too heavy. Neither of us said anything for a few minutes. I wanted something, wanted something other than this awkward conversation, but I did not outwardly say it.

"Are you sure you don't want to talk?"

"Yes."

"We're here for you. Whatever it is."

"No. You aren't. You really aren't."

"Whatever it is, we'll get through it."

"No, I will get through it." I correct her with an added glare. "This doesn't concern you."

"No, we're a team, aren't we? Sort of? I would hope that we deserve the right to know what's going on with you. We... well, it isn't exactly caring, it's just, you're our leader. We follow you."

"Yeah? Well, you all can get lost when we hit the next spaceport. I don't need any of you."

Vette hesitates. I wonder if she's thinking about whether or not I'm being serious. In any other situation, in any other mood, I might have found that humorous. But it's annoying now.

"You know we won't do that."

"Frankly I don't give a damn what you do anymore."

I lack a desire to care. I shrug and look at the hand on the doorframe. I am unable to meet her gaze anymore. I feel degraded and ashamed for showing her my weakness. She will just use it against me. She is afterall a loudmouth. Who knows what she blabbed to him.

Vette frowns and turns her head, as if someone called her name from another room. She hesitates again, as if she is contemplating whether or not to continue this horribly difficult and awkward discussion, but she chooses to stay and drag the conversation out further. She pretends to be oblivious to the previous conversation.

"Where are we heading to now?"

"I don't care."

"My Lord−"

"Don't. Don't call me that."

"You have to care."

"I don't have to do anything, Vette," I growl.

"Of course, you're right."

"Quit groveling."

Her eyes wander, and she is looking at the tense grip I have on the doorframe. She is choosing her words carefully now.

"Do you...er, do you want me to come get you when it wakes up?"

My hand falls away from the doorframe and I narrow my brows. My jaw tightens. My hands clench into fists. "Go away." It is not a request and she understands from the recognizable tone of voice. She knows that this conversation is ceased. The door shuts a few moments later with a thud.

The lies.

I do not check to see what time it is. I sit down on my side of the bed and stare at the wall. The urge to turn around and look at his side is difficult to resist. I can only blink away what I hope is something other than tears in my eyes. Baras succeeded in more ways than one. Although I never doubted his ability to manipulate a situation for his own benefit, I was blind to the reality that I could be broken by attachment. It is a difficult fact to accept: that perhaps there is something to the Jedi restriction upon attachments. Attachments only hurt in the end.

I sit in a stupor for awhile, and without knowing how much time has passed, I can no longer resist. I turn and look at his side of the bed. I lay down and run my fingers over his uniform. The material is cold, the cloth like leather. His decorations are here. Today he did not need them. There is no honor in betraying your loved one. Or at least your presumed loved one.

I go over the past and the present as if they are holorecordings stuck in my head. It is cathartic. I try to understand. I try to rationalize something that cannot be rationalized.

When did our relationship become a ruse?

Was it always a ruse?

Can you really fake emotions so perfectly?

Are you a robot?

Did they teach you that in the Imperial Academy?

It wouldn't surprise me. They did it to Nietcha too.

When you whispered 'I love you' did you cringe inside?

We made love here on this bed. He held me here. I remember. His hand in mine. His eyes half-closed, half-asleep, all alive. I treated him like an equal. In those quiet moments you are vulnerable and exposed. The world outside those sheets is meaningless. It is what happens together in the other's arms that matters. What matters is the feelings. I try to believe that emotions cannot be faked, not when I experience them in their rawest manner. When life becomes a game of a relentless chase, a never-ending hunt, you value the small moments, the small details, so much more. It is not the quantity of those moments, it is the quality. I valued his presence in my life. His opinion mattered. But the quality is ruined now.

Was it all forced?

Are you really that weak?

Do I really mean nothing to you?

But the ache is too real and it is too soon to ask these questions and expect a response other than sadness. So I fall asleep without wanting to.

Dreams only make it worse, I decide the next time I wake up. I am sprawled out on top of the sheets, holding onto his now crinkled uniform. I can still faintly smell him or at least my mind tricks me into thinking its him still lingering. I would have preferred nightmares. At least nightmares would be consistent with reality. Nightmares are chaos. The mind knows what the heart wants, and in dreams the heart acquires what it wants. It ascertains the unobtainable, and moments feel like hours, and everything is soft and warm and it feels so real and it is so close, but then suddenly you are falling and falling and you are awake with a start, and it is over, with the moment having passed, and it starts to slip away. Dreams hurt more because waking up reopens the wound. Waking up from a lucid dream and realizing that the dream is over and reality is back in place is more of a shock than dunking one's head into cold water.

I feel conflicted, and this conflict infects the wound until it is festering. I am wounded and lost. There is no power in mourning. Only weakness. But sadness and grief are emotions, like passion, and cannot be ignored. But these emotions, all of them, are chains. I want to break free. The struggle lies in this desire to release oneself of all these burdening emotions and choose anger and hate. It is easier said than done. Anger and hate can only sustain an individual so much as an adventurer can survive without water in the desert. We reach forward and cup the water, hoping it quenches our thirst. We only desire more.

Perhaps it will not be necessary to explain what happened to the others. Perhaps it will just fade. Things happen. Things change. Once he is gone, abandoned on some planet, he will fade from our minds and thoughts until one of us makes a mistake, and the wound cracks open again, ever present, just dormant. It is still easier said than done.

There is another knock at my door. Dread falls upon my shoulders. Whoever stands on the other side of the door is radiating emotions similar to mine. I presume it to be Jaessa, overwhelmed and disturbed by these occurrences. Certainly Vette mentioned my despondence to the others after our most recent encounter. Without putting too much thought into the matter, because I do not wish to be bothered, I stand and unlock the door again. The door rises and everything falls still.

I want to be angry and furious and cold and callous and bitter, but nothing comes up, and my consciousness feels detached from my body. I stand motionless and would be limp if not for my ever conditioned body holding me upright. I feel nothing but a hollowness.

He stands before me like a wounded creature waiting to be devoured by its predator. I would believe him to be struck speechless if not for his body betraying him − hands clenching and unclenching, heart palpitating, pulse quickening. There are some things you can feel through the Force with those you are, or were, most intimate with. It is not a comfort, only a curse now.

He dares to break the silence.

"Vette let me free."

Given my past experiences in relation to Vette, I would normally curse under my breath or fold my arms, all signs of my annoyance. Despite this great transgression, and again, another betrayal of my orders and trust, I do not raise my voice beyond a low, raw tone that I manage to not let falter.

"I am not surprised."

"We are on Dromund Kaas. The others went out."

This banter, even as casual and unimportant as it is, tears open the wound and I can no longer ignore it. I raise my voice and my jaw tenses.

"Is that what you want? To have the ship all to ourselves? Why? So you can deal the killing blow?"

I glare at him, and hope that my leer is as potent as a lightsaber burn. He shifts his weight and he grimaces. I realize that he is still suffering from his own wounds. The uniform he is wearing is still singed and ruined. He is clutching at his side where my lightsaber potently nicked him. There is dried blood on his hands.

"I want to know what you will do with me."

"I don't care."

"I'm sorry, but I don't understand what that means in this context."

"Am I stuttering? I said that I don't care what you do."

"But I−"

"If you are crawling back to me expecting pity or remorse or a chivalrous sense of forgiveness, you might as well start running while you can."

"I expect none of the sort." Another wince.

I roll my eyes and fold my arms. I suppress a grimace as best as I can. "Then what do you want?"

"To begin re-earning your trust."

"It took you several years to earn my trust. You think you can just earn it again with so much as a simple request?"

"Punish me."

"I don't want or need your groveling. I don't need you." The words come out easier than I expected. It is easier to say a lie than to say the truth. All I have ever done is push people away. Then again, never has someone come back to me asking for forgiveness and actually meant it.

There is a silence that hangs heavy in the air like a miasma of a plague. He lowers his gaze, hangs is head, but then he looks up at me and says something that surprises me, "Please kill me. I did not expect to live through that battle. I deserve the death of a traitor. Traitors are executed in the Empire. As I servant of the Sith Empire, I employ you to kill me."

"Can you hear yourself?"

"I know what I said."

"Sometimes mercy can be unmerciful."

"I realize that."

"You want to die. Why? What for? Because you are too cowardly to live in dishonor? Because the reality is too difficult for you to bear? You made your decision. You showed where your loyalties lie."

"I did not expect to live through that battle." He pauses and stands up straight. "I told you that I regretted that decision."

"And why is that? Because you failed miserably?"

"I..." he hesitates, and I am ashamed to recognize the sharp spike of pain in my chest. "It was a difficult decision."

"It was a decision regardless, and you chose your path."

"I made a mistake, Yvie. I made a blind decision. My calculations were purposefully off."

I lift my hand and I hold it steady. All it would take is a small squeeze, and I could choke him to death. He did not deserve the right to use my name. "And how is that, worm?"

"Baras... he told me that he would kill you one way or another. He offered me the opportunity to kill you."

"And you took it!" I scoff and fold my arms. I stand incredulous. "This isn't helping your case at all, you idiot!"

"Let me finish," he states quietly. "I... I knew what he would do to you. He wouldn't let you die with just a single blow. I've seen him battle before. I've seen him torture other Force users. He would have destroyed you over several years, perhaps decades. The... the pain... it would have been insufferable. I couldn't let that happen to you."

"You think I'm so weak as to fall to Baras? Do you not think I can defeat him?"

"I don't know. I made my own calculations based upon my observations, from now until when I met you, and given Baras's experience and your own, the chances of you being bested were higher than your success." He lowered his eyes. "I'm... I didn't, I couldn't let him hurt you."

"You thought that by killing me you would be sparing me? How in hell does that make any sense?"

He does not reply. His eyes widen and his right hand reaches forward and touches my cheek. I do not recoil but watch him with caution. "Yvie," he lets out a low sigh, "Because when two objects moving at the same speed and same force collide, sometimes an explosive reaction occurs as a result. I thought maybe you would kill me, or maybe that we would both kill each other. Maybe that we would cancel each other out. I thought the results would be different than what transpired. You won our duel to the death, and I was supposed to die. I'm not supposed to be alive. You gave me mercy."

"And what do you want me to do? Kill you? I already told you. Sometimes it's more cruel to give someone short-term mercy."

He makes a low noise out of frustration. "Don't you understand? I did what I did because I loved you. I didn't want you to die by Baras's hand! He wouldn't have let you die. You would be nothing but an empty shell, a plaything of his! I've seen what he's done!" He pauses. "But I was wrong. My calculations were off. You can defeat Baras whether or not I am by your side. I am expendable."

My eyes widen for a moment, but I catch myself. "Why should I listen to you? You're nothing but a liar."

"Yvie, please, you've given me so much. You helped me rebuild my dignity, but I tarnished it. But my loyalty to you, my love, that was not a lie. It would never be a lie. I would never do that to you. I still love you. I betrayed your trust. I made a mistake. I ask to either regain your trust or be killed by your hand." His voice trembles, but his eyes remain fixed on me.

I can sense the turmoil, the shame, the self-loathing, and the regret quaking in his bones. I want to believe him, but I cannot appear weak.

"If not killed," his voice lowers; the emotion shakes his words, and he can barely speak. "Torture me. Feed me to a rancor. Prod my mind with the Force. Destroy it from the inside. Abandon me on Tatooine. On Hoth." He pauses and his final plea is enough to make me wince. "Please."

Spite rises like bile in my throat. I stare him down as best as I can, but even now I am trembling. I cannot appear weak. I must remain strong in front of him, in front of them all. They will use it to their advantage otherwise. It is difficult because his words, his body language, his voice, it all is sincere. Raw emotions cannot be faked. They have to be real.

If they are not real then what is?

But I cannot make the same mistake twice.

"You thought I loved you? You thought I cared about you? You thought I valued you?" It is hard to speak. My voice cracks. "You thought I meant it? How foolish you really are. I thought you were smarter than this. You couldn't see a lie right in front of your eyes? You couldn't see me using you in turn? Why do I need you if I have the Emperor, or better yet, have all the power I need vested in the Force? I don't need you."

But I do.

Please, don't believe a word I say.

Be smart. Use that brilliant brain to peak efficiency.

It takes a prolonged moment of silence and an even more significantly daring gesture on his behalf to make me realize that I am more exposed than ever before in front of someone else. He reaches out with his blood-stained palm and brushes my wet cheek. I can smell the iron and sweat. His fingertips are rough and more calloused than I remember.

Fight for this. Fight for us.

Help me believe you because I want to.

Anger dissipates. The truth can vary. Dreams are images of what the heart wants. This doctrine can carry over into reality, if you are willing to stretch the truth. I lean my cheek into his palm. I close my eyes. I hear him grunt from a wince and then I am in his arms. He holds me. I am reluctant. The emotions are raw and sharp and jagged and the truth is I cannot let anger drive me forward. I cannot succeed with just anger and a thirst for vengeance. I must fight for something more than that.

If he is willing to fight for it, then I must try to fight as well. My hands are then on his back, fingers spread wide, feeling his muscles, feeling his bones, feeling the contours over warm clothing. There is a small fire and it sheds a little warmth. It combats the darkness. The galaxy is a cold place.

I still love you.

I tilt my head and brush his lips and it is like I am tasting them for the first time. The slate is clean and fresh for new memories and dreams.