Title: Resurrecting A Fallen Appellation
Author: Kian
Warnings: MAJOR SPOILERS for KotOR, Leviathan, hanging one-shot
Pairings/Characters: CarthxLSFR
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.

Notes: Another Carth perspective story, this time tracing from the big reveal on the Leviathan to the big reveal on the Hawk. I've always been curious about this time frame and Carth's personal realization about who he's been traveling with. So yeah, here we go.

Resurrecting A Fallen Appellation

He had always been just low enough down the ladder that he had only known of the great Jedi Revan by reputation and hearsay. No one who had met her ever really described what she looked like, so many of the troops had had running wagers that she was everything from a tall, leggy blonde to one of those battleaxe kind of women who could break you over their knee.

Those few who were really in the know would always laugh and smile broadly at the rampant speculation but – if pressed for details to end the debate – would only confirm that she was nothing like whatever the example the men may have thought up. Carth himself hadn't really cared. He fought for Saul and for the Republic. It helped that they had a competent General overseeing the war, but what with a wife and a son, he had little need to daydream about the women that populated the fringes of his military life.

When Saul had had his last laugh on the Leviathan, Carth could not help but remember all those time he'd tuned out the latest tales of General Revan and her hair-raising battles, kicking himself because maybe – somehow – he could have known sooner, taken steps against the situation he found himself in.

The words of a soldier in transit from one station to another all those years ago came back to him then, in the echoes of Saul's weak death rattle.

"She's the kind of woman I'd follow anywhere but I'd sure as shit never want her standing behind me."

It had taken him only a breath to realize it must be true. Only a single, staggered heartbeat to look up into Bastila's eyes and see that she knew what Saul had told him. The soldier in him assimilated the knowledge with ruthless efficiency, processed his entire experience since the sinking of the Endar Spire and reevaluated things that had impressed him previously, but merely made sense in hindsight.

She had been confused, genuinely so he believed. She had demanded an explanation for the rapid-fire exchange he had had with Bastila, while at the same time urging that they make their way to the Ebon Hawk and the rest of the crew, her eyes flicking to the great viewing windows beyond him while she keyed in the sequence that would free their ship from the bowels of the Leviathan, nervously watching for the approach of her former apprentice. That confusion, that puzzled and irritated crease between her brows that he had come to know so well, was the only thing that kept him from turning his blasters on her right there on the deck, kept him from leaving two betrayers in his wake instead of one.

His own words came back to him, his own hesitance of Jedi born from raspy whispers he'd heard during the war about things both unnatural and unspeakable that could be accomplished through the Force. Things that would make any man tremble to contemplate, things that worried him whenever he had seen the darker glint enter his companion's eye since their departure from Dantooine, when he had feared her humanity slipping and giving way to a Force about which he knew little but a rude cobbling together of old wives tales and his own limited experience in the presence of its equally blessed and tormented children.

They had made their way through the metal lined hallways, every door that slid open revealing more people to kill and even more unfamiliar hallway. The ruddy lighting in the battleship did nothing to calm his mood and his eyes followed every movement of his companions as he trailed behind carefully. She turned back twice to look at him. Once, she merely glanced back in confusion, eyes swiftly surveying him, looking for injuries that might be slowing his progress. He could tell she was battling down some instinct that told her to run, to stretch her legs in a full-tilt sprint until they had reached the supposed higher ground of their ship and crew. But, just as always, she wouldn't leave anyone behind and she wouldn't push anyone harder than they could go.

She had always been careful to see to her companions' injuries first in the months they had all traveled and warred together. She used her latent abilities and every last medpac on hand when her strength was depleted to keep everyone upwardly mobile, to keep them safe and healthy. He had previously associated it with her carefully concealed bleeding heart, but now he wondered as she appraised his physical health there in the hallways of the Leviathan whether it was merely a tactical move on her part to keep her companions alive, merely an effort to preserve valuable resources.

He didn't answer her wordless query, but made a show of fumbling with his blaster and though her concern remained, she turned back to the front again, quick fingers dancing in a practiced move over the keypad for the latest set of blast doors.

Down another hallway, she turned back again and urged both he and Bastila to move faster, that they were almost to the Hawk and a way off the battleship. Her pupils were wide from adrenaline and darted about the length of the empty hallway looking for the shadows themselves to come to life and take a swing at them, but the eerie quiet remained like a pall of death hovering overhead.

And then, death had found them.

If there was any other description for crossing paths with a Sith master, Carth did not know it. Sith were the sweeping right arm of death and destruction and Malak represented everything that was lifeless and cold to him. For a moment, Carth would have sworn he saw the shadow of his wife's broken body, mouth hanging open and shocked eyes staring at nothing, glimmering in the polished jaw of the Sith lord.

He got a wild shot off courtesy of adrenaline and terror before he was swept back, batted like a fly straight off his feet, his breath knocked from him in one harsh pant as he collided with the wall. He clambered to his feet more slowly than he would have liked, but Carth found he was of little concern to the menacing Sith lord.

He was dimly surprised the other man turned his attentions to Bastila first, but Carth supposed the way in which they had always managed to slip away from Malak's traps, even from emissaries feared the galaxy over, was something that couldn't just be ignored. In all fairness though, that was far less Bastila's accomplishment than the other woman's. But Malak's amused irritation with his pursuit of Bastila was cursory at best and with delighted fascination he soon resettled his gaze upon the more interesting member of their party.

Though it went against deeply entrenched soldier's instincts, Carth took his eyes off the enemy and watched her reactions instead. Confusion was first, but her face slackened by degrees into an unreadable mask. There was no shock, no outright horror. There was only that empty expression that belied the workings of her mind. Her gaze became long and unfocused as she processed memories and ran what Malak was telling her through whatever set of mental filters she reasoned with. Her chin tucked in closer to her neck in a gesture of wary aggression and stray locks of hair fell over her face, casting shadows that disguised what emotion there was to be found in the minute workings of her features.

He prattled on and on, his triumphant, mocking speech fed by her responses, which became ever shorter and more calculated. She was using the same conversational gifts he had seen her wield on friend and foe from the day they met, drawing out information to feed her ravenous desire for knowledge and insight. She seemed to respond now unconsciously, but still with that same need to understand, to gain information and, through what she had learned, to gain power.

Then her gaze became sharp, her eyes quick and cutting as he had never seen them. There was an intensity in her face now that he knew only in part, a grim determination that he could not begin to fathom the source of. Her inquiry stretched to include the other Jedi woman, though she did not turn to face Bastila where she stood, anxious and almost timid in her guilt, to the right. It did nothing for the younger female's nerves when she was asked why the Jedi had not allowed a broken woman death – why Bastila had not allowed her to die.

He was surprised to hear the strained query. Carth knew from their time traveling together that his friend wasn't afraid of death, knew that she viewed it merely as a necessary, if sometimes tragic, part of existence. But he had never heard her speak of her own death and she spoke of it now as if it were a prize that she was relentlessly seeking. The question held the weight of a plea, and he could hear the soft desperation and disheartened sufferance of starving man who is placed before a feast and ordered not to eat.

Carth saw her jaw tighten when Bastila offered her no better answer than a rule to be followed; he watched a muscle jump in her fist as she tightened her grip on the hilt of her lightsaber. Malak must have seen it as well because he seemed to reason with that anger, as if he would coax it out and turn his old Master on them with no further prompting. But the tension eased in the brief silence that followed. Pain flushed out the anger quietly and when her eyes rose to meet Malak's again, she leveled him with a hard, stern gaze. A moment later, her eyes tracked to the shadow Bastila's form cast across the buffed metal paneling of the floor. Softly, with a sigh of acceptance and resignation, she allowed the younger woman to have done the right thing, though Carth knew the admission cost her more than her pride.

"Forgiveness…?!" choked Malak, clearly appalled. "You are weak!"

Carth bristled unconsciously at the insult. He knew that Sith did not respect mercy or understanding of any kind, but to characterize what had just transpired as a chink in the woman's supposed armor debased the struggle he knew had just taken place before him.

The woman in question said nothing, her face betraying little behind the fall of hair.

"A small part of me has always regretted betraying you from afar," Malak continued with malicious amusement, drawing himself up and advancing a few slow steps. "I knew there were those who would think I acted out of fear; that I did not want to face you. But now, fate has given me a second chance to prove myself. Once I defeat you in combat, no one will question my claim to the Sith throne! My triumph will be complete!"

"Triumph?" replied a quiet voice with a dangerous, playful lilt. It took Carth a moment to realize who had spoken, the tone was so foreign. She looked up now, her mouth screwed tight in a feral, mocking grin.

"You seem to forget…I'm still alive."

From her gloved hand, her lightsaber came to life with a sinister hiss of released energy and she rolled her shoulders forward aggressively, her feet sliding apart to a deeper, more secure battle stance.

He felt the stifling cloak of Force energy catch him when his hand moved to bring up his blaster, his body reacting subconsciously to the actions of his long-time comrade. He had learned to trust her instincts, to trust her movements in battle; a habit he resolved to break himself of, a trust he would yet convince himself was shattered.

She bore down on the taller Sith lord wordlessly, striking with furious whirls of her blade. The other man goaded her on, but Carth could see that her furious assault was holding sway. He pushed her back once, sending her careening past him into the blast doors with a hollow thud. No sooner had she hit than she was rolling away from his descending lightsaber, her own blade up and moving for a killing strike that he clumsily blocked before squaring with her again.

They sliced and tore at each other for moments that seemed interminable. He caught her across the side once and though she hadn't succeeded in taking his head off in one wide arc of her blade, she still managed to tear open his leg in the downward swing. The letting of his blood forced Malak to stumble back off balance, a moment she leapt to take advantage of. His hand was faster though and Malak caught her in the unnatural swirl of a Force manufactured whirlwind.

Tangled in the swirl of energies, for a moment his wayward heart leapt at the thought that she would be cut down in the midst of that thrall. To his surprise, the other man took the opportunity to retreat into the larger room beyond them. Carth knew then, really knew where before he had only been entertaining the possibility of truth, that she was Revan. For the first time, an opponent had not underestimated her strength. Malak had offered the most undeniable proof and it stung the part of him that had still clung to the hope of a misunderstanding.

Motionless, he watched as his new friend and his even newer object of a still tender affection broke the sway of the Force energies and tore after Malak, beating against the set of blast doors the other man had run beyond in frustration when they refused to open. A maddened dash to the door beside Bastila proved more successful and Carth watched as long as he could manage, trapped as he was, until her manic form was lost in the bend of another hallway.

Battle noise rose up again after a few moments and he strained to hear the grunts and minute cries of pain from the room beyond that the thick blast doors muted. He found that being unable to see her terrified him more than when she had clashed with Malak just beyond him. He renewed fruitless struggles to free himself, screaming at straining muscles that could do little against the tight grip of the energy around him.

Then, with a surprised grunt, he found himself on the floor, tensed knees almost buckling with the suddenly released momentum of his struggling body. Bastila found her feet far more easily and without a backwards glance, she started down the hall Revan had run down at a sprint. A clumsy second of stumbling forward put him right behind her.

They moved past the door Revan had obviously used; a security spike was rammed tight in the middle of the control panel, which sparked in time with the shuddering, half-jammed doors. Through the thin opening, Carth caught sight of the two bodies locked in combat, and the hulking shape of Malak driving Revan's slighter form back gave him an unexpected burst of speed as he and Bastila moved past to try another doorway.

Another set of blast doors rendered better results and Bastila sprang into the fray, crying out a promise of renewed hostilities.

Carth couldn't tell whether Malak was surprised that they had not abandoned Revan to him, but Malak hardly spared Bastila a second glance, smirking down at Revan with a mixture of malice and amusement.

"You always could inspire loyalty in others," he chuckled, raising his arm to bring his blade down again. Bastila inserted herself forcefully between the two, pushing a startled Revan back towards Carth, who waited just beyond the doorway.

When Revan realized what was happening, what Bastila was intending to do, the older woman snarled wildly in the back of her throat and made to leap back through the closing doors, though wounds gaped through the tears in her armor, several cauterized by the same stroke as inflicted the damage. His hand caught at her shoulder as he cried out at Bastila, Revan's arm flinging him off brutally as she jumped forward again. Too late to duck through, Revan pounded on the panel, yielding no results. Frustrated, stunned and frightened, she slammed a fist against the deadened doorway twice, yelling for the younger woman, calling her a fool and an idiot.

Carth watched silently for a moment, feeling the same desperation and fear, wanting to reach out. Memory stayed his hand.

In a gruff voice, he reminded her that they needed to return to their companions, needed to get off the battleship. She didn't respond right away, but turned slowly after a moment and stiffly nodded in agreement. They started off in the direction of the hangar bay, a palpable air of tension pushing them apart where they might have once run with arms carelessly brushing against each other.

The Mandalorian greeted them at the foot of the boarding ramp, his glinting gaze missing nothing of the strained tension between them. Thankfully, he said nothing about their missing companion. Carth wondered whether Canderous even gave it a moment's thought, so chillingly comfortable was the "warrior" with slaughter and death. Carth had used to be puzzled by the woman's rapport with the older mercenary; he wasn't puzzled anymore so much as bitterly amused by the irony.

He directed himself to the cockpit, throwing himself into the pilot's seat with angry urgency. He found himself ruefully thankful that someone had fired the engines up prior to their arrival. The delay that warming the Hawk's systems and preparing for takeoff might have caused would have given any remaining technicians plenty of time to shut down the hangar and trap them permanently. He disengaged the landing gear and gave the engines a surge of fuel, enough to send the ship darting out of the hangar with a harsh jolt of momentum. If anyone had followed them into the hangar, they would have been incinerated in the discharge. Carth couldn't find it in him to care.

Echoes floated up the hallways behind him, Revan calling to Canderous and Juhani to help her man the gun turrets, instructing T3 to tinker with the hyperdrive settings to get the maximum power out of the aging piece, ordering HK to the cargo hold to secure anything flying loose – explosives first, please – and asking Mission and Zaalbar to see what they could manage with the navigational computer. Jolee's voice was a dim protest over the chorus of replies, ordering her to at least stim up if she was planning on bleeding any more. There was no reply to that but Jolee wasn't heard again, so he figured she must have taken something or other to placate the older man.

Mission didn't say anything when she entered the cockpit and Carth worried distantly that she might be suffering some mild shell shock. If so, it was probably the best thing Revan could have done for the teen, giving her a relatively simple task to complete that would still keep her constructively occupied. Revan had been sure to leave Zaalbar with the twi'lek, he noticed. Maybe the old Sith Lord figured the value of a good security blanket would be more profitable to them right then than making full use of Zaalbar's more aggressive talents. Something in him hurt at the thought that she might evaluate the crew's emotions in such a mercenary fashion, but it was stifled quickly with the running litany of who Revan was and what she was known for.

Master tactician. Brilliant military general. Charismatic leader. Ruthless warrior. Unparalleled Force sensitive.

The men who had served directly under her command had always returned with war stories that would make any man's toes curl, but with a fierce devotion and affection for the woman who had orchestrated the battles and lead the charge. Many spoke of her as if she had fought right next to them, as if she'd been hunched in the trench shoulder to shoulder with them. Perhaps she had. Most had had a conversation with the famous general of some kind or other and seemed to come away from the experience with an unshakable impression of kinship with their general. It was a hypnotic sort of awe that Carth had never understood, had been forced to bite back incredulous laughter over on more than one occasion. Now, he wondered if he was suffering the same effects.

He warred with himself as he fought the bucking of the controls whenever the Hawk took a hit. The Jedi had reprogrammed her, right? So was she a different person now?

No, he thought. She remembered things; maybe not a lot yet, but enough to have gotten them into this whole mess. And the Jedi had been keeping her under observation, hadn't they? That's why she'd been on the Endar Spire, because she was serving as muscle in Bastila's impressive entourage of bodyguards on the way to Dantooine. So they hadn't replaced her so much as repaired her? But that hardly sounded right. How could a person's mind be…fixed? Sure, dark side and light side tendencies had to be controlled and all, but could someone's entire identity just be replaced? He doubted it.

So was the person he knew Revan? Or was it her various reputations? And which one of those was the real Revan? There were so many stories, so many versions of her floating around – even that Revan was truly a man, as most core world civilians seemed content to believe – that he couldn't help but question, couldn't help but feel afraid of what this woman could do. Because he didn't know her anymore. No, perhaps he had never known her.

But was that the difference of a name? Carth wondered. When she had been someone else, some other innocuous moniker to be referred to as, he had known her. Known her well, he had thought. Better than anybody else in a long time. And she had known him. She still knew him. Was that his problem? That all that even ground since crash landing on Taris was gone?

He was a soldier, not a philosopher. No answers were coming.

Somehow, they managed to fight their way clear of the Leviathan's towing range. When the all-clear came from T3, Carth initiated the hyperdrive sequence and the Hawk pulled clear of the last of the fighters as it left the system.

With a heavy sigh, Carth slouched back in the jump seat. He could hear the crew assembling in the main hold, around the security console. Revan was making a head count and Jolee was evidently administering kolto and Jedi healing where it was required. Carth heard a sharp inhalation and Jolee and Revan exchanging some quick words in hushed tones.

Mission's voice cut through the murmuring with the question of the hour. "Where's Bastila?"

With a last sigh of resignation, Carth pushed himself up from the console and made the slow trek down the hallway to the main hold. The crew looked his way when he entered the room, but Revan continued to busy herself administering kolto to a vicious burn across her forearm. The mood was tense, but hopeful. Hopeful that she would bring them out of harm's way. Little did they know that it was their fearless leader who would likely get them all killed - if she didn't take the pleasure for herself first.

He continued gazing at her, ignoring the rest of the crew's confused queries and glances. She was avoiding his attention, he knew. But there was only so much kolto to apply to a burn to facilitate healing and she slowly wrapped the clean bandage about her arm, her movements stiff from nervous apprehension.

She may have wanted to avoid the topic, but the situation had changed and the rest of the crew deserved to know what was going on.

"Do you want to tell them…or should I?"

She looked up then, met his eyes with an unreadable expression. He had issued a blatant challenge and he felt the distance it had created between them in every moment that passed in the sudden silence of the room. Her eyes were flat and conveyed little of her usual temper.

She let out a short breath and looked away, out over the rest of the hold's occupants.

"I'll tell them."

Carth found himself gazing upon the face of the Jedi Revan for the first time and couldn't help but be angry that she was exactly as he had always expected: one woman, worlds away from him.

END