AN: Right. I wrote this one a while ago. Revan's POV on the Mandalorian Wars. Introspective, gen, character sketch, whatever you want to call it. No spoilers, no pairings, no warnings, no nothing. Obviously, I don't own Revan or KotOR, which are both property of George Lucas, BioWare and/or Obsidian. Enjoy and review, please.
It's getting harder.
He hasn't been able to keep much food down over the past few days, just enough to keep him going. Sleep is a treasured rarity—meditation suffices, allows him enough relaxation to keep going when he has no time for true oblivion.
It's starting to take a toll on him. He's gotten skinnier, he knows. He feels like he's living underwater, sometimes, too slow by half, everything sluggish and muffled. But he's still keeping a good few moves ahead of the enemy, and that's what counts.
It doesn't matter if his body deteriorates, as long as his mind is still functioning. He doesn't do the heavy fighting—he leaves that for Malak and Cariaga, who seem to almost enjoy the uncomplicated task of smiting anything that moves—and he isn't the one running sabotage missions behind enemy lines. Nisotsa and Dane are much better at that than he.
All he has to do is tell them when and where to do it.
Which sounds a lot easier than it is. He knows he's running himself into the ground. He knows he'll pay for it dearly, once he lets himself crash. He also knows it'll only be worth it if he can win. So he pushes himself as far as he dares, persisting through sheer forward momentum.
They're worried about them. His friends, his Jedi-Generals, the ones who know him from before the Wars, the ones he lets see his face without the mask. He imagines he must look something of a fright, face thin, eyes dull and sunken, ringed with darkness.
They don't say anything, though. The war has changed them too, and they understand what he's doing, why it's necessary. Why it's him that has to do it.
There's no one else to pick up the slack if he takes a break, no one else who can do what he does. They've all had the same training as him, to some extent or other, and each excel in their own area. He has his Guardians to do the fieldwork, his Sentinels for the dirty work, and his Consulars to back him up when he needs it.
But they can't do what he does. They're good in their various arenas, each integral to the plan that's taking shape in his mind, but this is his gift.
He's standing in front of a sheet of transparisteel, watching the symbols denoting ships move in their designated orbits, watching sleek silvery shapes scream across starry blackness in his mind. He traces the lines absent-mindedly, trailing his fingers over the cool surface as plans rise and fall in his mind, discarding some and testing others out on the simulators.
It's a matter of time. As soon as he discovers the one that will work, it's sent to Karath and Dodonna and the other Fleet commanders.
Of course, that's not the end of things. There're the staff meetings—endless bickering over the execution of the plan, discussion that makes his head hurt. He sometimes loses his temper with them—it doesn't happen often, but it's effective when he needs to get something done now. Committee rule seems to be everything it's cracked up to be—inefficient, ineffective, and essentially a weight fastened around his neck.
Sometimes he wonders how much easier the whole mess would be if everyone would just shut up and do what he says without contesting every. Single. Point.
He's too young—it's half the problem. People look at him and see a kid, tall and skinny, bumbling and inexperienced. Then he opens his mouth, and they see a snotty, jumped-up brat of a Jedi who thinks he knows better than half the Fleet commanders.
He's not bumbling, particularly, nor inexperienced, although he's rarely fought in battle himself, nor led anyone before this War. Almost two years in, he's had more experience than a lot of Knights twice his age. But there are still men he has to boss around, men who're old enough to be his father…his grandfather, even. He keeps his orders short and decisive, burying sarcastic comments and any sign of a sense of humor under a flat stare. He can't afford to have them take him as a joke.
Dxun was his proving ground. He forced that victory, his men climbing over the dead bodies of their fellows to claim the jungle moon. Brutal, horrific, merciless. He remembers ordering one of his best friends from the Academy to march her men through a minefield to reach a meeting point in time.
Sometimes, it's their screams through her comlink that he hears when he closes his eyes. Sometimes it's other people.
The Fleet commanders were forced to take him seriously after that. Malak tells him he's developed something of a reputation in the Fleet—fear, mingled with a sort of pride and respect. Stone cold crazy, they say, with admiration in their voices.
He's won them over. No, not just him. His Generals—young, inexperienced Jedi as jumped-up as he himself, their sole distinguishing characteristic his trust in them. They've risen to the challenge spectacularly.
Without them, the War would have been lost about a year ago. Or earlier.
It's their faith in him that keeps him from collapsing.
Endnotes: Yeah, the ending's crap, I know. I could have rambled on for another couple pages, but that would have been overkill.