Thanks everyone for reading, and thanks for the review/favorites.
You're right, RheasHelm, on that quote, but couldn't quite restrain myself there.
Working on next chapter/rest of the story. This is probably going to be another long one.
Chapter titles changed to be more...Star Wars-y.
Do you take this woman?
I don't!
Do you take this man?
I don't!
For the rest of your awful life
she is your lawful wedded wife
Eternal agony in holy matrimony
Marry Me, The Vandals
Every step brought her closer to them, onto them, him, oh, it was a human, a man in black, a human in a stark black suit cut close to cling and not that infamous armor. The horror of that human face, his human mask. He was a man, just as the Council had told her. She had not been certain of the Revanchist's gender, given the helmet, the Mandalorian garb. Some whispered that Revan might be a machine, and had been produced in the same mysterious factory that churned out all those droids and ships at the Sith's command. But he was a man. That brought no comfort. It was just another realization for to tuck away and inspect later.
Then she turned her head and saw the Masters. They met her gaze, and she wasn't sure what she had been expecting. Did she want them to look away? She hoped they would not. She took comfort in their presence. They would not let Revan hurt her.
Not yet.
She had to be strong. There is only peace.
It was a strange scene, of Sith and Jedi on either side. Senators with assassins and those supposed-neutral. Some hated this deal, others demanded it be done. They had bickered and fought and all for nothing. Their presence was necessary for this. They were witnesses. They were together to sanctify this union. All the Masters that had come, in exchange for the traditional presence of family. Jedi had no families.
Bastila had seen these events in holos, read of them in books. She might even agree to an extent that such a production was necessary to prove the treaty was being held up on their end, yet she wanted very much to not be here in this chilly room. Had she ever picture this scene after becoming a Jedi and being taught the dangers of attachment? The flowers were mercifully few and the music non-existent right now. She wore Jedi robes, brown, heavy and rather plain, but she would not hide her status in the Order.
If her Master still lived, would he have stopped this, or would he have walked her down the isle personally and whispered that she had to do her duty. She would, she might have whispered back.
Now here she was, deposited before him, with the expectation from most everyone that they would now get along. She was ten again, and being forced to play with the younger children as a lesson in humility, leg tethered to a particularly slow six-year-old during the daily laps around the Academy.
The last time they had met, it may very well have ended with murder. Or capture. She might be his prisoner now, without any agreements and flimsy shields to offer protection. Bastila could be dead or being tortured right at this moment, in another universe. They would have fought, and Bastila could not say how that might have gone if Malak hadn't intervened. Perhaps she and the other Jedi might have surprised Revan themselves, and under the full direct weight of her will, the Sith might have faltered. Perhaps they would be on Coruscant as they were now, but Revan would be in chains, talking to the Council of redemption, explaining himself and his many ships. That had happened not long ago. Not long enough.
It was better to turn away from the man in black next to her. It would be easier to not stare at him. Instead, the Jedi might look into the crowd and see how many people had arrived. Force, there were too many of them here, and for a second, Bastila wanted to panic. How and why were they all here? Bastila had not invited them; she would not have invited herself for that matter, or Revan. They looked at her, at him. There were cameras that floated and twinkled and flashed. Was that a Mandalorian? Scattered humanoids, Cathar and Iridonians and Rodians. Miralukans, so rarely seen, eyes covered as usual. Echani in black, was that mourning, or respect, or simply the garb one was supposed to wear to such an event? What did she know of such things? Arkanians businessfolk she assumed from their outfits smiled without warmth and Selketh still-supposedly neutral in the war stroked their chins and whispered to each other. Republic guards with stone faces, and yellow-eyed Sith in black. Politicians, some that spat at the mention of the Revanchist, some that had insisted the Jedi listen to Revan and consider his offer. Bastila would not forget that. They all watched and waited. The Last Hope of the Republic, again, again.
Oh, it was a parody. It was an awful joke but no one was laughing. Something hysteric rippled through her throat, and Bastila realized she had nearly laughed aloud and perhaps ruined the mood. It was to be a historic day. How often were the Sith and Jedi joined? Only something more monstrous and destructive could get them to become allies. Something tickled her mouth and jaw, and she found herself biting the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling. Gnawing on her lip didn't help either. If someone saw her eyes filled with tears, they could never have guessed it was from hilarity. Only she was in on the joke.
Finally, she could turn and face him.
He was shorter than she thought he would be. Out of that absurd cowl and body armor, he looked slim, if not vulnerable, and there had been some attempt at cleaning himself up. Freshly shaved and hair trimmed and combed. An artificial, surely, flush had infused his cheeks and softened a grayish pallor around where the veins were prominent and the skin looked thin. Something dark around his eyes, lining them and highlighting black eyelashes. His eyes…
Her laughter had fled. She thought she might be sick. She should faint. That's what they did in the holos. But she did not. She was not a little girl, but a grown woman, a Padawan of the Order, a Jedi and Republic officer. Falling would not save her. It would only show weakness and they could not afford to reveal more of that. She could not run away.
He was a Sith. He was the Revanchist. He had killed and turned and ruined so many of the Jedi Order. But now, he had turned his full attentions onto her. She would have to face him, every day now, and must be prepared for that. Doubt fled and determination made her stand taller.
From the corner of her eye, Bastila saw him again. You did this.
But it was followed with, You agreed to this.
That seared and burned against her skin as any lightsaber might have, and she wished, she wished...yes, I did agree but that was for the Republic. For the sake of all those innocent lives. If she had to be sacrificed, so be it. She had sworn oaths to the Republic to uphold and defend it against traitors and those that would do it and its citizens harm. She must do this, even as she wanted to cringe and hide rather than stand here before the views of countless millions. It would be over soon, Bastila had been told. A brief ceremony. And then—oh, a lifetime.
Revan was not even looking at her, however. He ignored the Padawan in exchange for the higher-ranking Jedi standing near as allowed. "Masters." His bow was perfunctory and smile mocking. "How have you been?"
His accent was startling. Coruscant. Deep and certain, upper class and smug. She didn't like it. She didn't like what he was saying either. So high and mighty, his cheeky look meant, yet here you are selling your Jedi away like one would a fatted bantha. "I am glad to see something can draw you from your chambers and deliberations after all." I'm winning, he gloated with that repugnant smile, I won.
Then he turned that gaze onto her. Revanchist was looking at her, politely. For the first time, speaking to her without that mask. "Shall we commence with the ceremony?"
She wanted fire to burn from his eyes. Others had gossiped that perhaps Revan was a droid after all, and perhaps lasers should have shot from that livid reptilian gaze. Scars and a forked tongue and anything but cheer. She didn't like his face either.
Well, Bastila wouldn't spare him a second look. They said she had to marry him, not look at him. "Fine." Her voice came out curiously strong, and she clung to that and was proud of that. She was still strong.
He was staring at him, she could tell. Was he curious, now, of why she was here? Of her reaction? Was he taken aback by her tone? Let him. Let him think she was not complacent, not at his mercy. Revan would regret ever making this suggestion, Bastila would make certain of that. If the Masters…if the Masters could not stop this, and the Republic required it, she would do it. This was her duty, as any battle was. Her life belonged to the Force. There is only peace.
The Republic government official was there to say the formal words. There had been conflict about that, if it should be a Jedi officiating or a third-party, or a Sith as a sign of good faith.
She had practiced beforehand, even as her choked around the words alone and with the Masters and the stern lawyer that wanted to hear every syllable. Say it, Miss Shan. Say it again. But now she would say them and mean them. Bastila wouldn't even choke on them as the man before them asked for confirmation. Do you, Bastila, do you, truly? "Yes, I do take this man as my lawful spouse by both Republic and Sith laws."
As though the Sith had proper laws.
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, pointedly looking. Revan wanted people to look and lean in and listen. Bastila wanted to sneer. Leave us in suspense then. Go ahead. The longer this takes, the longer I get to spend not married to you. Then Revan spoke, "I take this woman as my lawful spouse by both Republic and Sith laws."
Her mouth pursed while she looked at the Republic officer, a bureaucrat in the legislative branch who had performed countless weddings and was quite unpolitical as one could be in his position. She wanted to lick her lips or stare away from this man's professionally blank face, his voice ascetic. She wanted the roof to cave in as well, or for the Sith to finally pull their betrayal so she would know what to do. He was saying things, the man, this stranger that was speaking the words she needed to repeat. Her tongue wanted to fumble, but did not, and wondered if it would be better if she had.
She watched his tug his slim, finely tooled glove off. She could smell him suddenly, under the flowers, and wanted to wretch and shudder.
Bastila held her hand out, and did not shudder when Revan's rested on top of it, and the white slip of cloth went from wrist to fingertips to tie them together. The vows had been as plain as possible, stripped of sentiment. But there was still this. It was a terrible parody of why he had chosen her. His fingers were cold. She didn't like how his hand swallowed her own. When the priest spoke, it was to Revan and not them both. "Let this union stop the war."
Please.
She wanted to comfort him. She wanted to tell the entire Republic that, and assure the galaxy that no more lives might be lost. She would make sure of it. There was strength in that. The Force offered strength, the cool breeze against her brow, and she must let it show her the way. The Padawan was not convinced this must be the right thing to do, but perhaps there was a reason she and Revan had formed a Bond after Malak's betrayal and the mission had failed. Perhaps there might be a reason to this madness, and perhaps she might not regret the both of them surviving.
Bastila Shan would not go into battle afraid, thus she would not go into a marriage cowering and frightful.
The music was opulent and unnecessary. A singer squalled and the instruments sung her ears. Her headache grew. Overhead, the chandeliers sparkled and the lights blazed. How the lights glowed. Outside, it was even nicer, and she had regretted coming inside for many reasons. They left you exposed, and slightly blind, fevered. It all made you want to sweat.
With the music playing, it seemed to be expected to dance, Bastila understood. They put food in front of her and it was expected she would eat.
But she would not.
She had no wanted any of this. The ceremony had been painful enough. A dinner afterwards was only salt in the wounds. There had been parades, she knew. Celebrations. A holiday declared, though people must surely have a wary fete. No one should ever trust the Sith. Yet Revan had insisted on a reception, refreshments, a party.
Everything here was of fine quality. Supplied by the Sith, she sneered. Stolen by the Sith. The knife caught her eye and she took in her shadowed eyes in that shining silver. Something dark flickered inside, and she pushed it aside, telling herself no, it was not the right time, and if such a thing occurred, it must be self-defense. Instead, Bastila would focus only on her reflection. Her expression set, not upset, weeping, though certainly not happy…
Was she supposed to cry? Perhaps she might, later. For now, she wanted this to end. Let the politicians dance and laugh and toast the union of the Sith and Republic, the Jedi Padawan Bastila Shan and the Dark Lord Revan. They were absurd. Only restraint kept her from fidgeting. After the initial shock had worn off, and then the terror had seeped away, and even their hands had come unbound, there was little else to grab her attention. She didn't have to say anything anymore.
It had been a long month before Revan had even made his proposal, and a longer evening. Her boots, new and without those comfortable creases yet, scraped against the marble of the floor and she made herself stop.
Amazingly, she was growing bored.
Everything before her was meaningless, a gaudy bauble to distract all of them from the horror of this situation. Let these people laugh and drink. It was tedious enough for her to pay attention to Revan even.
She looked upon her husband.
He was not handsome, and she was oddly glad of that fact. It would have been a little too grotesque even as she heard people complimenting and fawning over how he fine-looking looking he was tonight. Revan was not attractive, but instead striking, with deep-seated eyes, high-cheek bones, a heavy mouth made for smarmy and duplicitous amusement. Revan liked to smile. He looked curiously young, with a roundness to his sunken jaw where there was none in his cheeks. There was a dimple set into his chin. Some of the younglings, those not yet Padawans, had gossiped of his appearance, and compared him to Alak. Alak had been known. His face had appeared quite often, and he had approached a number of Jedi at the Academy in hopes they would join. And many had. Wasn't that why they were here? Alak had been so certain, his sincerity had been convincing, and he and Revan had stolen the best of the Order.
Alak was dead.
That was also her fault, in some way.
What had she expected? Something more like Alak, of the blue-eyes and square jawed confidence? Or something gray and dead-eyed, yellow sharp teeth and hisses of a kinrath? She knew little of the man, besides the warnings and stories.
This stranger was at ease. If he sensed her emotions (and perhaps he could), he made no comment. His remarks were saved for others. He made mocking gestures towards the remaining Jedi to provoke them. He sipped at his drink, and even then only when a toast was made. Through the Force, he was contained, quiet and Bastila resisted the urge to reach out through their Bond; she had been told to do that only if necessary.
Even so, Bastila could feel him through the Force that filled the room so uneasily. Over there, the Jedi were at a resting state, attempting harmony and wary calm, and over there, the Sith romped and were unabashed about their wild emotions of anger, resentment, smug triumph, and they taunted with every smile and toast. Revan felt like neither. He was as deep and still as the ocean. Not peaceful, no, but contained. He was the black tide pulled away from shore. She feared what happened when it came rolling in.
The other Jedi remained close, with watchful eyes. They had been allowed their lightsabers by a magnanimous Revan. There were Masters, Knights, all prepared for the worst—even as they told her that no harm would come to her. Master Vandar remained, old, ancient, and careworn. Bastila watched him, heart heavy. She worried for him, and took an odd relief in that.
Strangers, politicians and the assorted rich and powerful came to bow before Revan and praise his genius, his suit, his bride. Bastila hid a sneer. Look at the great Revanchist. Look what he made the Jedi do, the Republic do. Beg before his majesty. A man in fine robes came before them to bow and scrape and she wished Revan would end this game soon.
Look at all these people in the room. Useless or conniving. There were people here who had themselves sworn to protect the Jedi, and yet turned their backs when they needed Bastila Shan to perform one more little trick. She had to give up more and more every day, it seemed. A normal life as a Jedi, to serve and protect, to help others, and learn lessons and any chance to become a Knight in order to focus solely on her Battle Meditation, her gift and curse, and only hope there was of slowing the Sith Empire down.
How disgusting, how absurd, it was to sit next to Revan, among flowers and before some rich delicacies set in shiny plates, and act normal. What could she even say? They, countless Jedi, had told her to trust in the Force. But did the Force want this? How could it? How would this be fate or destiny? After all she had done and fought for, to be reduced to a pawn in some game Revan played with the Republic and the Council. No, Bastila would not accept this as something destined by the Force.
In a shiver, the room shifted and spun away, and the roof above crumbled to expose the black emptiness. They floated there, dying and dead, the smothering flames and trembling asteroids. Bastila had been through that graveyard that had been Roche after the Sith had attacked and could recall wanting to not was left of the fleet after that battle. She had been younger then. After the treachery of Foerost when the Jedi everyone had waited and feared had come back, but not as Jedi, and she had walked among what was left of the wreckage that had been Republic ships once. She tasted smoke and ash again, burning fuel, and recalled her Master looked down at her. Calm yourself Padawan. You must look and focus. See what the Sith have done? Do you see why we Jedi must remain vigilante, always? We must stop them.
And for a moment, Bastila was back there, an adult, a Padawan, and gifted with Battle Meditation just as Master Sunrider was, and she would stop them, all of them. Yes, Master. I would call her arrogant and curse her over-confidence, and she would argue that this was necessary, and bow her head in the end. I will end the Sith.
A stocky Snivvian in a loud suit came up to them and brought her back to this future. Who had invited him in? There had been aliens with the Sith, but they tended to be more humanoid and from members of the race that were stronger in the Force. Revan's smile was cold. They did not know each other, Bastila understood. "And what can I help you with?"
The Snivvian tipped his glass back. "Why I only wanted to say hello to the happy couple. May your marriage be as long as it is happy."
Oh, if only. Bastila nearly laugh.
The stocky alien caught her eye and winked around his drink. The charade was a little easier than. Everyone knew it was false, a big fake ordeal that was only for the sake of the Republic. The pretty lights and fancy food was a shoddy disguise. She was still Bastila Shan, a Jedi, and whatever Revan tried to do, he would not change her.
"Have we met?" Revan asked, voice polite.
"No. Can't say we have. I'm sure we had a few acquaintances in common though."
"Is that right?"
"Oh, but it was a long time ago. I'm sure you don't remember them. Whatever happened to that Squint kid? Those Revanchist types?"
Revan's wide lips spread back from his teeth. Bastila nearly admired the courage of that being down there. She wondered why he was making an effort to respond rather than banishing or killing someone that dared make such a comment. "I am afraid they were lost in the war, snivvian."
"I see. Which war though, I wonder." He bowed, to her, and not Revan. "I do hope you will be alright, miss. You Jedi seem to have either the best or worst luck, huh."
"Thank you." She wasn't entirely sure what she was thanking him for him, but it was sincere. The Jedi was sorry to see him saunter off, nodding and back-slapping. Perhaps he was a politician?
The smell of flowers was rich, and she wanted to sneeze. Revan looked annoyed, impatient. She was glad, afraid, that something had gotten under his skin. Until Revan placed a hand next to her hers and leaned close. "Are you tired, Padawan?"
Yes, of many things.
"Would you like to retire for the night?" he asked.
Her lips thinned, and she was aware that her breath had caught. She was also aware of how near to her he sat, and where his hand was located.
The Sith looked at her, and she found his stare unsettling. How odd it was, to look into Revan's eyes. "You are tired. You haven't even eaten."
She wouldn't be able to eat for a long time. Her stomach was a hard stone. Tonight would be spent on his ship, despite the protests of everyone else. She did not want to leave Coruscant. Yet Revan wanted her to grow adjusted as soon as possible, as he rejected over the secured Holonet the offer to remain here. That was how they had communicated: via the Holonet. A dozen Jedi, Republic officers and the Chancellor had looked over her shoulder and made sure what was on the screen was correct while she sat there, trying not to flinch at every keystroke.
"I'll spare you then." He rose, and bowed. His tone was smooth, and she was startled by how loud his voice echoed. The man could have been a politician as well. "I would like to thank you all for attending. Without you, this would not have been possible."
The smile aimed for the Jedi was particularly gruesome.
"However," the Sith continued, "The hour grows late..."
There were bawdy grins from some of the Sith, clad in their grays and blacks, and she warned herself that hate and anger led to the dark side. One woman was smirking openly and making sure to look at Bastila. Her throat tightened, and she was fourteen again, being told the a tedious, unnecessary lesson on anatomy and how childbirth and procreation occurred, and then was seventeen, being examined, being exposed, by Republic nurses that did not care for her complaints that it was not necessary. They told it was for her own health. Same as they did when giving her a shot six months ago, reducing her to a mortal human woman, not a Jedi with a rare gift, the Last Hope of the Republic. Just as they did now. Revan had requested her medical records, she knew, and he had no right.
The Padawan could not bring herself to look at the Jedi. Revan had sworn—but he had sworn many things. It would not come to that, everyone had promised her. Consummation was not expected. Yet her throat was dry, and she wished she had emptied her glass of champagne after all, and then taken all the wine offered. Then gone to taste what those Mandalorians had been guzzling.
Was she not an adult? Did she not deserve to drink until she became dumb and oblivious to all of this?
She saw the holo-recorders returning, as though summoned. Perhaps Revan had a queue to allow them back inside. They twinkled and she heard whispering. Bastila grit her teeth, and was sure she looked quite the opposite of any blushing, happy bride. Did she look hostile, scared? She hoped for once she looked mad, or anything but defenseless. Anyone watching had to believe and trust in the Republic and the Senate. And the Order.
They, so many of the Jedi, had not wanted her to agree to this. They agreed it was beneath the Order. They did not offer up their own as sacrificial pawns to Revan. The Jedi did not leave their own to perish to appease a traitorous murderer. The Jedi did not marry. Bastila Shan was the only thing they had to fight Revan, and for him to come in and make demands of her was beneath contempt. But—and the Padawan saw herself there, standing before the Council and the Supreme Counselor, smelling the scrubbed floors and lingering colognes that only the politicians wore—arguing otherwise…'This is necessary, Masters. You heard him. If we can gain peace through this deal, then we must take it.'
She was too headstrong, Bastila knew. Too bold and eager. But she would do the Order proud in this insane, sacrilegious way with all her willpower that some said was her greatest strength, her greatest weakness.
Nothing would happen, she assured herself. With the Bond they shared, Revan could not hurt her without harming himself.
She would survive whatever was to come.
She would live through tonight.
Bastila had thwarted him before. An early attempt at a capture she had slipped from near Alderaan, slipping from the bombardment of Rodia, the Battle in the Gizer System that she had survived, the Republic's success on Sernpidal. They had not been specifically targeting her, but she had been involved, and survived to tell the tale. Even when she had faced him, on Palanhi, on Mon Gazza and further into the Mid Rim systems, Bastila had survived and won. The Republic had been able to combat Revan because of her. The necessity of such battles had only strengthened her resolve and might, and made her stronger. Even the deaths she had seen, witnessed, the ones she had carried to the medbays and seen to and once held the hand of a scared, dying young woman as they waited for the personnel that would never arrive, that had only provided a firmer resoluteness to end this war.
All those dead, soldiers and civilians. Jedi. They might not be avenged, but there could be no more to join their ranks.
"Do you want to say goodbye to the Jedi?" A curl of hair rested on his forehead. He looked young.
Her hands found each other, and locked and tightened. Somehow, she was standing up, feeling the eyes on her, the heat from above pressed into her skull and threatening to cook her brains and destroy her prized Battle Meditation right here. "Yes, alright, if you insist," she was mumbling. She didn't feel a Fleet Commander or the Last Hope of the Republic. She felt young and short, a child playing hero again in this stiff robes of dun and gold, her lightsaber for the first time suddenly too large for her clammy hands.
Yet she did find herself capable of walking and going to the Masters. She would stand there, tall, back straight as she looked them in the eye. Bastila did not cling to any of them as a weeping youngling might have. They were right to trust her and agree with this for the sake of the Republic and Order. Her fear was meaningless. There is no terror, there is peace. There is the Force. Take strength in that. The Sentinel bowed. "I will return to the Order, Masters."
Then she went back to Revan.
He pulled a cowl over his head, to look dramatic she was sure, then led her through the halls, and Bastila was glad, then worried, that people followed them, armed with questions and recorders. He was crooked smiles and ease, and when she stretched out with her senses, wanting to see Revan's intentions, he touched back with a thick, heavy warmth that disturbed her. It was as intimate as if he had cupped her shoulder and ran a hand down her arm. For the first time that evening, Bastila recoiled, and received curious stares from these reporters that crowded around.
"We will return to my flagship," Revan was telling a newsperson, a quarren in fine blue robes. "To travel apart from, within reasonable expectations. We will be going to various worlds, both Republic and Empire. I suppose you might call in a honeymoon, yes." A low chuckle that made the skin on the back of her neck prickle. He was looking at her. "Bastila and I need time to adjust to one another. Things will be quite different for us both."
Bastila turned away.
"Did you two have a relationship before…?"
"No!" Bastila spat. "Of course not."
An obstinate, false smile shone at her. The Jedi resented her clinging purple dress and makeup and the three inches she had on Bastila. The woman was not to be deterred. "Then this must have been some surprise."
Oh, yes, what a surprise.
"Bastila and I did not have a relationship, exactly, before I proposed." You could see the impression of his dimpled chin beneath his cowl. "Though I was quite an admirer, from afar."
Someone cooed, another chuckled, and despite Bastila's Jedi training, she very nearly hated them. Some of these had reported on Revan's evil, and others were sympathizers or propagandist, and all must be forgive by all. She willed herself to control and breathed in, out. Let them talk and chatter and make lies, she and the Jedi would know the truth. Then another nudged her, and she saw into the bright white dumb orb of a recorder. "...and you, Miss Shan?"
"It's Commander Shan," she corrected.
"But aren't you resigning your commission...?"
"The Fleet Commander is just getting used to her new station," Revan offered. "She has been quite the prominent little fighter for the Republic. She will find this peace a welcome respite, though perhaps hard to adjust to?"
Bastila had no reply.
They left the reporters behind to enter a small room of heavy natural wood furniture with the sweaty man that had officiated the ceremony. It took Bastila a second to realize where she recognized him from, and that was either alarming, or necessary, or both. She signed documents with a hand that wasn't quite her own. It reminded her of the earlier forms she had filled out, when this was being decided upon. There, then, she had read every line and word and wanted copies of everything. Even in flimsi. And there had been thousands and thousands of words about the treaty. She had wanted them posted everywhere. It would not have truly mattered, if the Sith decided to forgo their end of the deal, but the truth did matter.
Bastila had already carefully signed, inspected all such paperwork, with much gagging over the worriment of 'heirs.' This was nothing, more of the same. She could just glance over the screen with its official emblem and symbol of both Republic and Sith, and duly sign away her name. It seemed according to these papers that she was apparently his heir and he hers. Ah, yes, he was now in line to inherit her new double-bladed lightsaber, her training leathers, the ribbons in her hair and these boots. There was also a bag of clothing and datapads being carried on board somewhere that he was also entitled to, should she die. Meanwhile, she stood to inherit this entire evil empire full of murderers and traitors she was also sworn to defeat should Revan expire.
Revan put his own mark, and Bastila wondered the legalities of signing with an assumed name meant anything—until she noticed that what he'd written down seemed longer than it should be. Her curiosity went unsatisfied as the Dark Lord of the Sith pushed the datapad back towards the bureaucrat.
Then the Sith was whisking her further away, brushing aware the reporters. It was 'getting late' after all, and he and Bastila needed 'time alone.' She cursed them all, especially him. He was taking her back to the ship. She would reside there for too long. So many standard months there. And then back to Coruscant. They had laid out the next year for her, and both had agreed, eventually. The Sith had no official world or base of operations (besides the unofficial Korriban), so they would stay on his flagship. Revan had repaired it, he assured her. All the finest safety features and no pesky apprentices to ruin their time together. His grin had been disgusting.
There were Republic soldiers here, ones required to attend for security and as a sign of good faith, but had refused to attend the ceremony. They and the Sith all watched each other, wary. Bastila wished again she could go to them. She wanted to leave with them, and to explain herself, and to join them in her proper place as a Republic officer. She had been a Fleet Commander, and had given these soldiers orders not long ago, not long ago at all. What had happened, and how had things changed so quickly?
"Commander Shan," someone, one of the guards, called out to her. She and Revan stopped, her with more speed than him.
She knew him! "Carth Onasi."
"Yes, ma'am." The smile was careworn and all the more appreciated for that fact. At least someone was taking this seriously, and could make eye contact with her. He looked very nearly the same as it was the last time, the jacket still orange and his hair well-groomed for the stubble on his square chin and cheeks. She was so glad to have seen him. She shook his hand nearly gave him a hug. He was good and sane, and she needed that right now.
The older man did look regretful. She knew him, from somewhere. He had no fake smiles or chummy, dirty relief in his eyes. His look to Revan was brief and tight, and she felt his anger. "I am sorry about this, Commander Shan."
"It's Missus Shan now. And I believe its time to show my wife her new quarters." Revan sketched a polite nod. "Excuse us."
She grit her teeth. "Yes, excuse me, Lieutenant Onasi."
They nodded to each other as she was 'escorted' away. It was humiliating to be removed from the Republic as an Officer and given to Revan. Ugh. Missus Shan? That was not Bastila. That was her mother. That was Helena Shan. That could not be Bastila.
"Did you two know each other?" Revan asked, as they continued on, bringing her mind back to the present.
They have served on the same ship, but she had hardly spoken to the man. "Not really."
"I promised to keep my jealousy to a minimum if you two were lovers at some point," the Sith offered.
She choked. "Of course we weren't!"
...'to a minimum'? Oh, Force, she hoped Revan was not jealous of everyone she talked to, but how could she know otherwise? Why would he be merciful to someone he might consider a rival? How was she to even handle simple conversations with the Revanchist? She wanted to yell and protest with every syllable that he did not deserve to hear her say. He had no right to not wear his mask and walk alongside her and speak. The Council had neglected lectures and training on small talk with a Dark Lord of the Sith.
He seemed to dismiss all that, and then her weapon with little more than a small comment and a glance. Was that good, or a way of messing with her mind? Oh, go ahead Padawan; I have nothing to fear from the likes of you. Revan was unafraid to leave his back to her as peeled off a glove and applied his hand to the inner doors of his chambers. That was not a place Bastila wanted to go. Yet she took that step inside.
Now they were alone.
Her hand clenched and unclenched. A sour taste clung to the back of her throat.
"Would you like a tour?" Revan gestured around the cabin. "Surely it must be larger than your room at the Temple."
It was, but that was perfectly meaningless. She watched his hands.
"If there's anything you would like added, you'd only have to ask."
She saw shelves and old, old books and a large screen set where the sunken floor space was over there. A private kitchen that unnerved her; did he wake up in the middle of the night seeking a snack? Couches and a table and a door that led further in and one further out. The domestic floor plan concerned her. Did she want skulls and chains and tomes spotted with blood? Yes, because at least then she would know she was in some place full of malice and evil.
Yes, the walls were black and the rugs red, but even that did not diminished the fact that there was a chance to sit there on a couch and watch the Holonet while being married to Revan. She could look out the viewport and read a datapad and be married to Revan. They would have caffe in the mornings together, married.
She hoped…she wished that soon he would drop his mask and finally attack. Or simply attack her with lightning when her back was turned. This was what he wanted, to have Bastila Shan and her Battle Meditation at his control.
"Would you like anything?" He took his jacket off in one smooth gesture, leaving it across the back of heavy black chair. "I noticed you didn't eat much."
Little cufflinks twinkled at her, in bone and silver. A sliver of wrist appeared from underneath his shirt cuffs. Watching her, Revan lifted one hand, peeling his remaining glove off with his teeth. It looked unhygienic and she was annoyed when he stretched out. Did you have a long evening, Revanchist?
He scratched his chin. "We never had a chance to talk. How do you feel?"
"How do I feel?" The Jedi Sentinel felt an eyebrow twitch. Soon, she would begin to yell and panic, to say everything she had been coached to not utter, to do everything wrong and let everything rend and split apart. What a relief it would be, to not stand and wear a blank face as others bartered away her life and she could finally be loosened. In the end, she would reach for her blade, and find out if Revan was perhaps as unarmed as promised.
"Afraid? Eager? Scared?" He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her response.
Yes.
Yes. But mostly angry.
Wait.
'Eager'?
Revan continue, "Tomorrow, I will show you the rest of the ship."
Tomorrow.
"You can meet the crew members."
Somehow, she was finding strength, finding words, finding disagreements and arguments that had fled ever since she sat in a restaurant, listening to Revan offering a deal. It was dangerous, it was a relief, it was wonderful, to hear herself as Bastila Shan again. "Listen to me, Sith. I will not help you. That was part of the agreement we had."
'Agreement'. A kind word to describe an arranged marriage.
"What, were you expecting to be wooed?" The Sith Lord snorted.
No! Of course not. "No. But this is..."
Revan stared, eyes wide, trying for innocence. "We are Bonded."
Her tongue loosened and she felt dizzy. She was here, somehow, on his ship, talking to Revan about their marriage. "Why?"
"Why are we Bonded? Because of your actions."
Yes, she knew that. "No. Why...why all of this?"
"That is the question everyone is asking." He liked making them guess. He would like making her guess, and she felt a bone-deep wariness to combat the growing rage.
"Marriage?" Her voice rose. "Marriage?"
"Yes. Very good, Padawan. That is what happened." He had no right to sarcasm. It should be taken from him forcibly.
"Why marriage?" Bastila could not seem to lower her voice any, but that was just fine at the moment. "Why marriage—with me!?"
He had a trick where he could raise one eyebrow, and Bastila suspected he had practice such a move in the mirror as a snotty teenager. "Why is that so shocking? Our ages are not so far apart. We are both member of the same species. People marry all the time, even in war. It will very convenient."
Not for her. Bastila might never have expected to ever marry or have any relationship, but there should have been something more than saying some words before strangers and signing her name on a few forms. They had rushed into this so fast; she had not even had the full forty hours to think on his offer. Bastila had been swept up in this, and needed things to slow down. To a crawl. Until the heat death of the universe.
"This is not so strange." He leaned forward, shirt creasing. "Many peace bargains were sealed with a marriage."
"Barbaric," she retorted. There should be no need of that practice in the Republic.
"But effective, perhaps in times of war?" Revan knew all about effectiveness. From turning soldiers to his cause, to fracturing system and alliances, and recreating old grudges as they suited him. Bastila sneered. That remains to be seen with this 'alliance', doesn't it Revan?
Something tensed around his brow. "Would you have performed something different, for our wedding?"
Kriff, but it had been that, hadn't it?
"There are many ceremonies we could have performed instead," Revan suggested. "I could have worn a flag of the Sith and swept you up in it, and you could have draped me in that Republic flag. I might have fought the strongest warrior in your tribe or given your father an entire system for your hand."
Father. Did he hear of this? Had he seen the ceremony? Oh, oh, if her mother saw…yet how could Helena Shan not have watched it, mouth a thin line and disbelief in her pale eyes. Would they arrive?
What would she say? 'Oh, hello, Father, Mother, how have you both been? How have I been?' They had sent her to the Jedi to have her training. Mother had sent her away to be freed of her. But Father had wanted her to see the galaxy and help others. For a moment, she was six and felt her father's hand on her head, tugging at her jacket, insisting she wore her good pair of boots. She was going on an adventure, and had to be good to these nice people here who were going to take her to see the galaxy. And when would she come back? Never, never. These people were her family now. She was going on an adventure.
Was she still a Jedi? Jedi did not marry. Yet here she was. She was cold all over, and sick and her knees did feel rather weak now.
Oh, Force.
There was one room.
She glanced over her shoulder, with an eerie knowing. There was still one room. Kriff.
"…Or all sorts of other romantic acts. I know of past Jedi that married but since that practice has been so 'banned,' the ceremonies have become unfamiliar to the Order as a whole." The Sith was prattling. "But our vows? Did you notice? I had old documents found and modified for us."
Nearly a generation had passed since marriage had been so easily performed by Jedi, before their bows were reshaped and they discovered new wisdom on restraint that was so necessary. "For a Jedi marriage?"
"The Sith do not marry." His smile was thin. "Any vows taken are sworn to ourselves only. It would never have done for our wedding. Our Bond and alliance are much different."
"Yes. How kind of you." Ice crept into her own voice, and she was pleased. "I'll have to remember to thank you for such thoughtfulness."
"Threats?" But the Dark Lord was smiling. "And I thought you were told to play meek?"
Bastila met his eyes, furious now. If he wanted threats she would give him that, if he thought they were so amusing. She would make promises and see if he kept laughing.
Revan was looking at her, face crinkled with amusement. The young man, this Jedi Knight, relaxed and comfortable. Her husband. Her nerve faltered and she glanced downward. How odd it was, to see her trousers, her robes, these boots. How had they gotten all the way from her room to this place? She was supposed to convince him to spare the Republic, and rejoin the Jedi and the light side, Bastila remembered. That did not seem likely at all.
"Look at me, Padawan." Harshness pulled away at the draw in his voice. He was standing up, stalking over to her, expression clearing, darkening, intense. He was much too close. He was the Revanchist. "You are strong, stronger than the Jedi think."
It was not well lit enough in this room. What light there was pooled and gleamed in his gaze, gold-amber. They reminded her for one horrible second of her blade, flashing in the dark and catching on metal with a satisfying thrum.
"And you know it, don't you." Pleasure pulled at the muscles of that thin face, sculpting it into something reptilian and she was aware again that he had covered his face as well. "There is no need to hide your emotions. You want to punish me?"
His voice dropped, softened, and she saw the sticky black of his pupil. Something tightened his normally loose mouth. "I've wanted to punish you since you saved me."
The Jedi did not dare drop her gaze.
"Rage then. That will give you strength. You may need them, in the coming time. No, Padawan, I do not speak of myself. You have many more things in the galaxy to fear besides me." His eyes were flinty, narrow, and unfocused. He did not see her anymore. He was Away. Bastila resisted the urge to shuffle her feet.
From some deep place, Revan returned with a shake of his head. "You will adjust. You are remarkably resilient, and quite stalwart. You have survived so many of my earlier attempts to capture your attention."
Force, but she had to deal with a crazed, murderous Sith Lord that also liked to make lame jokes? The Jedi had not offered enough advice, and she wanted to make his stop, so she could read through her datapads, and search on the Holonet for how to deal with insistent fools that smiled in odd moments at her.
"You only agreed to my offer when it was to be my bride, Shan. My equal partner." He showed those startling dimples. "We must learn to trust each other, and work together."
He held his hand out. "Can we agree, just here, by ourselves, to get along?"
Bastila did not want to take his hand, but they had already a bond, and were Bound, and married, and it seemed a foolish, needless thing to complain about. Still, she lingered. Revan's hand encompassed hers again, even more unwanted or unexpected than before. Still, the Sith was amused as he pumped it like a grinning politician. "This is an encouraging step forward."
Revan met her confused with a raised brow, and she could grow to hate that expression. "We did perform it on Coruscant. You are aware of traditions here, yes?"
Yes. Yes she was. She had seen wedding ceremonies before and—oh. Kriff. Bastila dropped his hand. Well, he better not. He better not dare. This 'relationship,' already so horrid, will remain platonic, nonphysical entirely, and he had agreed to that. Revan better not think about it. He better not come any closer either. Revan. Stop. Bastila nearly reached out through the Force to push him away, and perhaps cause an Incident, just as they had warned her not to.
She was backed into a corner, and her hands fumbled to find the door latch and wanted her weapon. It hung right there.
This was because she had saved him. If she had not-
Revan was nattering on, and she struggled to pay attention and look away from his exposed neck. "...what makes our marriage legally binding?"
What was he hinting about?
"My bed chamber is quite comfortable you'll find," Revan continued.
His sheets. His bed. Right over there. That's what he'd been herding her like a batha into the corner. Towards…
Now she could faint.
But no, she could not.
His face was alight, jutting cheekbones and upturned lips. "No, my little Padawan; I will not pressure you. You must be willing to accept. You must choose, again."
She could breathe again, and was distressed by her physical reactions. Jedi should have more control. "And why would I ever choose that?"
Revan shrugged. But his expression was serious. "We will share the rest of our lives together. Surely, at some point, you may warm to me."
She snorted.
He remained optimistic, this murderer. "We will have an entire lifetime together, to explore such things."
Oh no, nope, no. No, thank you. No, she would not-
A flood crashed into her, as jarring as a waterfall, as being pushed into a lake. She could feel him, through the Force. Through their Bond, Bastila understood. It was open, as the Jedi High Council had warned, wanted, and she could sense his emotions running hot, flush and nearly wild, ecstatic and crackling with emotion. He was doing this on purpose. They had warned her he would try to control her, he would try to turn her, he had learned from his Master, a woman that had also forgotten herself and broken vows and lost herself and left the Jedi. She had never felt anything like this lightning, from Sith or Jedi.
"You want to know why I married you? Why I chose you, of all being in this galaxy, Padawan?" He reached up with one bare hand to cup her cheek. She flinched, but otherwise remained still. "Can you imagine why, partner?"
His mouth was warm and his breath nearly tickled the spot beneath her nose that she hadn't realize was so sensitive. She could see ever pore on his nose and spatial lines that twisted away from his pupils that had remained black as pitch even as the irises had yellowed and the whites reddened. It lasted long enough for her to notice vaguely that his lips were unpleasantly, unexpectedly, disgustingly soft. Revan parted from her before she could properly understand and express her reaction to what he had done. There had been a sound when he separated himself, and the memory of that noise would strike her at odd moments in the weeks to come. He peered deep into her eyes, and she understood she didn't understand him at all. "I dreamed of you, Bastila Shan. I dreamed of you and all the things I will teach you."
What had that been? He wanted...approval, and weakness. She was but a Padawan and him the Lord of the Sith. She was confused, overwhelmed. Her upper lip itched. His fingers and palms were still cold, firm.
She inhaled and slipped away, stepping back. Then spun around and was thankful her hands found the button to open the door. "Good night, Revan."
It felt so good to shut the door in his face, until the immediate pleasure fled and Bastila realized that she might spend the rest of her life like this.
She would lie briefly on the bed, then jump up, disgusted. She would wipe her mouth with one frantic hand until she tasted blood on her lips. She was a grown woman, a Jedi, and would have one day been a Master of the Jedi Order. She would not wallow in self-pity like a child, or think about the words 'betrayal' and 'betrothal'. She would think of her lessons on what to do if captured by the Sith, and what that meant in this situation. She would not cry or think back to a month ago, when she had been fighting the creature out there, and not married to him with one scrawled signature.
She would not worry insistently about what tomorrow would bring.