It was almost too easy.
Once he understood the magnitude of the deception, the Disciple began to untangle the knot with surprising speed. He paid close attention to the nature of the conversations that cut off and he began to see a pattern. There were repeated words, ideas, phrases, things that hinted at a deeper significance. Often, the conversations were about a "she" or "Sith Empire." The Disciple had learned that the Sith were growing an army somewhere, that their entire culture still flourished somewhere in the depths of space. This threat had been secondary to the problems immediately facing the enclave, such as the formation of the new Jedi Council, and the establishment of reliable ties on other planets. The Sith Empire was referred to in the future; it would have to be dealt with eventually, but for now the Jedi were too weak to be an effective countermeasure.
His search went on for weeks, during which he was uncharacteristically helpful and obliging. No one interpreted this sign correctly, believing him only to be recovering more and more and embracing his new life in the enclave. At night the Disciple wrestled with his own shattered memories, fighting incessantly to rebuild, remember, and confront.
Finally, in the coldest days of winter, the Disciple stumbled upon the final and greatest clue. He had had a subtle hand in bringing about the discovery, mentioning frequently to Mission that he felt occupied with his memories. Cunningly, he made her swear silence and proceeded to tell her that he was suspicious of his past, and that he had discovered a great hole that he was determined to fill in. The effect on Mission was not immediate, but the conversations persisted until one freezing, rainy evening. A full moon glowed behind the rain clouds, casting an eerie, milky light over the drenched enclave.
The Disciple had crept silently through the halls, cloaking himself in the power of the Force. He arrived outside Bao-Dur's quarters and pressed himself to the wall, hearing at once the argument that raged inside. Closing his eyes he projected himself into the room and heard with perfect clarity the conversation between Bao-Dur and Mission.
"Look, I swore I wouldn't say anything to anyone but I can't stay quiet any longer. He knows, Bao, he knows we're keeping something from him. He won't stop talking about it, he's obsessed," Mission cried, exasperated. Bao-Dur's pacing footsteps thundered in the Disciple's mind, a ticking clock.
"Did you tell him anything?" Bao-Dur demanded, coming to a stop.
"No!"
"Mission…"
"I didn't say a word."
"Good."
"What do you mean 'good'? How can you do this to him, he's your friend!"
"Mission, you don't know the whole story, I know it seems unfair, but I was entrusted with a task - "
"Task or no it isn't right. So what if she's in the Unknown Regions? Let him go! It's not our decision to make!"
"It's not that simple, Mission, he has a destiny to fulfill here."
There was a pause and the Disciple's heart began to beat furiously. It was coming, the secret, it was close enough to taste.
"Why was he out for so long?" Mission asked, a note of suspicion in her voice.
"What do you mean?"
"The others, you and the Exile and Mira, whoever, they recovered in a month or two, no problem, and go on their way. But him… He's out for a year? It doesn't add up."
"Mission - "
"Don't 'Mission' me, bantha breath, you owe me an explanation, and you owe him even more."
"I don't know exactly why. There was an idea… The Exile thought maybe he tried to save her. It's complicated, we don't even know where the blast came from."
"But you said it was Kre - "
"I know what I said, but nothing is certain. Yes, the Exile believed Kreia's death sent a ripple through the galaxy and the Ebon Hawk was caught in it. It wasn't… It was mental, this energy. It knocked the ship around, sure, but it was meant to destroy us. The Exile… I don't know, she thinks the Disciple intervened, anticipated the blast somehow and tried to throw himself in front of her, not physically, with his mind. Next thing we know we're in a heap of metal on Jaroon and the Disciple is dying."
"So that's why his memory is gone? You think the blast wiped it out?"
"He was hit the worst; it would explain a lot."
They were quiet for a moment and again the Disciple could hear his heart beating in his head like a herd of dewbacks on the charge. His breath was coming short, his concentration was breaking; he needed to hold on.
"You have to tell him," Mission finally whispered.
"No."
"What are you afraid of? That he'll go ballistic and run away? Isn't that his right?"
"We need him here!"
"Bao."
"It wasn't my decision, Mission, his destiny was already decided. You know I was just following orders. But I think I'm starting to agree. He has so much to teach; he should be here where he can be most useful. He was to be brought here and -"
"Bao!"
"Do you think I want to hurt my friend? It's destroying me, I can't sleep, I can't think, I - "
"He loved her!"
The Disciple could feel the weight of the Force that had been pushing him into the ground, the burden of the secret, lifting. His pulse was racing, adrenaline streaming through his veins, sweat pouring down his face. He needed to escape, lie down. He needed a chance to process all of the new information.
Shaking, he stumbled back to his quarters. Half of him was screaming with excitement, delight, at finally knowing the final piece of the puzzle. The other half of him, however, trembled with what little was left unknown. In his room he collapsed onto his bed, muscles twitching. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his mouth slightly open. For some reason he hadn't expected all of it to come rushing back, but it did; like a bucket of freezing water being poured on his head, the memories bubbled to the surface. Bao-Dur had explained that it would take time for him to remember the past, that it would be a gradual, frustrating process. The Iridonian was wrong; he had simply been missing the correct key. For months, his brain had been his enemy, full of locked doors and shadowy windows. Now he held the key and the doors would be open, the windows thrown wide to let in the blinding sunlight.
The Disciple knew what he must do. He would rest for an hour and then he would confront the past.
- - -
Bao-Dur's shuttle still sat in the launch bay outside of Khoonda. The Disciple, cloaked in darkness and cold, snuck gracefully through the low brush of the plains to the hangar. He was not tired or hungry, only focused on his goal. Scraps of memory were binding together, leading him to the shuttle and the secrets stored in the ship's cargo hold. The Ebon Hawk had been abandoned on Jaroon and the Disciple knew, through instinct or the Force that the shuttle they had taken to Dantooine would reveal even more than the conversation he had overheard.
The hangar's locked doors yielded to the Force easily and he slipped inside the bay, unseen by the sleeping guards. Dantooine had become a peaceful place; no one was looking for a determined Jedi. The shuttle sat in the shadows, clean and ready to depart at any moment. He toyed with the idea of simply leaving Dantooine behind, but he knew that it would serve him better to plan his departure after knowing the full scope of his hidden past.
Boarding the shuttle was simple; the doors were no match for his probing mind. The interior was pitch black and smelled of cold metal. He observed a narrow hall of seats, consoles and storage containers. The last time he had been aboard the shuttle he had been barely conscience. He crept to the back of the craft, blending seamlessly into the darkness. The cargo bay was small and nearly empty except for a neat stack of crates in the far corner. He passed the medical supplies and a battered crate full of broken parts labeled: GO-TO. The crate he desired was hidden behind the other, in the farther corner under a heavy pallet of blaster cartridges. The Disciple lifted the pallet away with the Force, setting it down with a thud in the opposite corner.
And there it was. The rest of his life sat in an unremarkable box with a smooth silver top. A label had been there once, but it was now scratched, almost to the point of illegibility. Unknown Jedi's Personal Effects. The hospital had crated up his things for Bao-Dur and here they had remained, hidden, forgotten. The Disciple picked up the box and cradled it to his chest. He fought the urge to open the lid and riffle through the contents immediately. No, he would take it to his quarters, take it apart bit by bit and carefully examine everything inside.
He returned to the enclave with unbelievable speed, dodging the sentry droids and militia like a swift, silent wind. The enclave was still, the Jedi in bed, resting their minds for the next day of training and meditation. The Disciple threw open the door to his room and locked it behind him; inside his chest, his heart knocked savagely against his ribcage.
Sitting on the bed, he placed the box carefully down on a stool and removed the lid. He realized then that he had been holding his breath since discovering the crate on the shuttle. The Disciple exhaled, forcing himself to relax, to breathe, and to take in the moment with an even keel. A sweet, dusty aroma drifted to him from inside the box. He reached inside and removed a faded Jedi robe that had once been a vibrant purple-blue. The Disciple set the folded robe aside and reached in the box again, this time pulling out a pair of lightsabers. He sparked them to life and found that they were both bright, vibrant green.
"Curious," he whispered, setting them aside.
Peering inside the box he found a journal hand-bound in albino kath skin and one final thing, a package of parchment, scraps of paper, fabric and other oddments tied in a bundle with fraying twine. The Disciple felt a powerful flash of recognition and of pain. His curiosity was almost overcome by a great fear of what lay inside the bundle. This, he realized, was the critical moment; he could delve into its contents or destroy them and let his past sleep, perhaps forever. It was too easy, he thought, to burn the parchments to ash; he would confront the details of his past, even if it meant immersion in hurtful memories.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, the Disciple pulled on the twine and the bundle came free. He pulled the pieces apart and found a tall stack of letters among the assorted scraps. A ripped piece of paper fluttered to the ground and he reached to retrieve it, finding that it was a printed propaganda pamphlet, or part of one.
"Save Iziz! Stand with the Que" was the only readable heading; the rest had been torn away. The Disciple stared at the scrap, puzzled, and then turned it over. He recognized the writing immediately as his own.
We are but shadows on this planet, dark figures casting our terrible spell over a people torn asunder. She attempts, rightfully, to quell their treasonous passion but finds the hypocrisy too painful to bear.
Onderon: he could picture it again. Iziz had all the markings of a once-beautiful place fallen to war and fractious citizens. Their stay had been brief, and that was all he could recall from just the scrap of paper. And there was the mention of "she" again. The Disciple knew he would soon learn who she was and feared the knowledge.
With shaking hands, the Disciple reached for the stack of letters and took up the top one, unfolding the creases gently. He scanned the date and found the letter had been written two and a half years ago, in the midst of his travels with Bao-Dur and the others. The letter was not addressed to anyone.
I hesitated to begin this letter, knowing in my heart that leaving a trail of feelings is counter to the teachings of the Jedi. But you have already expressed your opinions on that matter to me; you spoke with conviction regarding your belief that the Jedi are an imperfect lot. On this point we agree, most especially me, knowing that I write this letter to express feelings which are outright banned by the Jedi Order. Passion, desire, these are supposedly the traits better reserved for the Sith we hunt. But I must always ask why, and you have chided me for doing so, pointing out that such rabid curiosity is likely to land me in trouble.
Perhaps I did not write only to tell you of my feelings; perhaps there is a deeper meaning to this humble scrap of parchment. I know the old Jedi, Kreia, regards me as just a pup and I cannot help believing her. You are my teacher, the teacher I admired in youth and only grew to respect as time and my life advanced. I am in awe of you. I have always prided myself on my temperance, my evenness of thought and deed but I will freely confess that I feel unbalanced in your presence. Kreia teaches that we must confront our weakness and root it out, tear it from our soul until we are stronger, impenetrable warriors. This I cannot do, for if I am truly honest with myself and with you, then I would say that you are a weakness. But to tear you out, to remove you from my life? That is something I cannot do. What would I have if I lost our connection?
I drift from the point; in fact, I find it difficult to discover a point at all to these ramblings. I feel only a driving, drilling need to speak to you and in person… Well, we need not speak of my inability to articulate certain areas of the human experience. I succeeded in thanking you for removing me from my library tomb on Dantooine and I have expressed my sincere admiration in regards to your prowess as both a teacher and soldier, but I have failed in one very important respect. This failure runs deeper than you know, it points to the source of my power as a Jedi, and that source is my regrettable ability to force down, swallow, and hide the painful facts that lead to confrontation.
I am not explaining myself well. Unfortunately, I find myself short on time and cannot devote anymore paper to this problem. In this way, I can promise to write again to discuss in greater detail what it is that keeps me, in the words of the Iridonian, "bottled up."
Ever yours,
M. V.
The Disciple set down the letter, a horrible sadness resonating through his body. This was one of dozens of letters, perfectly preserved, addressed to no one. There at the bottom was the clue he had been hoping for: M. V. Still, the initials did not activate any memories. He fought the desire to crumple the note into a ball and instead picked up the second letter.
It is odd to look out from a moon and see a planet below. It feels somehow unnatural, as if I should be on the surface of the planet looking up at the moon, observing what phase it is in, admiring its radiance. But this is not a radiant place, not by any stretch of the imagination; it is an evil, foul place crawling with deceit and crime. You would caution me, I'm sure, in my quick judgment of Nar Shadaa, but can you give me evidence to the contrary? Perhaps I should search for its beauty, for you yourself try to discover the beauty in every moment and every shadow, and this is a worthwhile lesson I should attempt to learn.
Previously, I wrote to explain myself and failed to do so. I claimed it was for lack of time, but that was a lie. Believe me when I say that I do wish to reveal myself to you, but it is not an easy task. Recall that I was shut up in a library for a very long time, companion only to silence and learning. It was there that I taught myself to write with clarity and presence of mind, and though you chide me for using this archaic form of ink and paper, I find simplicity in it that is soothing, a kind of active meditation.
It is difficult for me to proclaim my feelings, this much is obvious, and here, at last, is the truth: I lost you once, in youth, watched you leave to pursue glory and war, waited for your shining return and was sorely, desperately disappointed. I told these disappointments to the Jedi that took over my teaching when you left and he was severe, punishing me for entertaining thoughts of passion. It was inappropriate, he said, to harbor any feelings beyond respect for a Jedi teacher, and furthermore, that I was allowing myself to give into passion, a path that would lead me to the Dark side. You can imagine my reaction, my crushed heart; I had desired only to reach out to another to receive solace for my pain and instead received chastisement and humiliation.
Perhaps if I had been older or wiser I might have recognized his speech for what it was: rote regurgitation of ideas he did not really understand. I might have realized that a man incapable of feeling love is not a man one should pay any attention to, but instead, these thoughts were in my head constantly as a young man, battling what I knew to be the correct path of the Jedi and what I knew to be true of myself: I loved you, selflessly, and with no expectations of returned affection. It was a pure love, unstained with the kind of ambition Sith apply to even their most transparent feelings. Being punished for feeling love, I could not understand this, and I blamed the Jedi teacher for setting my thoughts to wilder things. His horrified reaction only intensified my thoughts of you, and yes, they may be accurately called fantasies, for my blood had been set on fire and I burned tirelessly, thinking only of seeing you again. As you have probably guessed, he and I discontinued our lessons and I turned away from the path of the Jedi.
You must understand, I was an adolescent, and my infatuation can perhaps be explained away by youth and inexperience, but there was truth to what I thought; you are indeed a woman worthy of admiration. If my confession to the Jedi had been met with temperance, I might have learned to cool my passions and accept that I could not have you, but instead I was driven to secrecy. This Jedi taught me silence in all matters of the heart.
And so there is my confession, perhaps not elegantly rendered, but these events were ugly, condemning me to live a life of quiet pain. Even writing this letter I am not embracing freedom of thought and communication, but it is a step, no matter how small, in what I believe to be the right direction.
I fear I have said too much. Accept my apologies and accept my love even if you cannot return it.
Ever yours,
M.V.
He could feel the pain spreading from a deep, cavernous chamber in his heart. These were not things to be known, and he wondered in horrified silence if he had actually sent the letters. There was no clear indication whether or not they had been read. They were not addressed, but the intended recipient could not be mistaken. These could simply be copies of the originals or they could be the actual letters, returned to him or never read at all. Was this why she was gone? Had she read his words and hidden herself away to avoid hurting him? She, she… The words haunted him, annoyed him. Where was her name? Where was the face he loved with such intensity?
Suddenly, he felt very tired but the thought of sleep was remote, impossible. There would be no sleeping until he had combed all of the letters for clues. Did she know? He feared that pausing to rest would invite the memories to return. They would come, he knew that much, but he was not prepared to face the image of her in his mind. It was near, coming for him, hovering just outside of his mind, waiting, shimmering.
He hurled himself into the letters, sweat breaking out on his forehead and his eyes growing wet; the Disciple read them one after another, devouring every word and punctuation mark. Some were more revealing than others, but most were meandering meditations on their travels, their day to day activities. Many, he had to admit, were dull and uninspiring. He began to have the feeling that these letters were never written with the intention of showing the woman, that they were more like heart-felt self-examination. The last letter remained; he pulled it open, steeling himself.
It is now clear to me: you are determined to destroy yourself. I often wondered if you had room in your heart for two men, and judging from your behavior you do not have room for even one. There is such sadness in you, profound, beautiful sadness, and if I could, I would replace it with freedom. I know you believe you owe it to the universe to attempt this ludicrous mission, but please, I beg you, rethink this decision. Is it not enough that you put yourself in the greatest danger by bringing us all to Malachor V? Here I sit, surrounded by the charred wasteland of this planet, injured, unsure, waiting for you to return. And I know what is in your mind. You mean to leave us all and continue the fight on unknown battlegrounds; you wish to fight the sprawling, faceless enemy that has begun to threaten all life.
Do not go.
If you insist, if you persist in this absurd obsession, then I will follow, but only because you are not strong enough to face the Sith alone. There, I've said it. You are not strong enough to do this on your own, and no one person is. Revan made the mistake of abandoning Admiral Onasi to continue the campaign alone, and because of it she will fail. Listen to me now: She will return, defeated, because without the love of another we are all weak at heart. If you are concerned about my life, do not be. Even if you never speak another word to me again, I will be there to fight at your side. I am sick with love for you, determined to protect the one Jedi who had any faith in me at all. Rand will try to follow you; he will not relent as I will not relent because he and I have been thrust into this revolting battle for your attention.
Make your decision; you are draining the life out of us. We are only men, consumed with you, battered, starving, thirsting, and unless you show us your heart soon, we will crack. I have never liked Rand, but I would not wish him dead.
The letter stopped there, unfinished. The margins were stained with bloody fingerprints and ash and the penmanship was shaky. The Disciple put down the letters carefully, stacking them in order. He opened the journal but found that it was empty except for the first page, which read, "The Journal of M.V."
There were a few ragged edges sticking out of the binding, leading the Disciple to assume that pages had been ripped out. It was an apt metaphor, he thought, the missing pages, the title with nothing to follow, just a lot of empty space and silence. Anger had been rising in him as he read the letters, and with the blank journal it finally exploded. He lunged forward across the bed, throwing the journal hard against the wall. He had begun crying, sobbing, without knowing how to keep it at bay.
"Stupid!" he screamed, "Impotent, stupid boy!"
The Disciple collapsed in a heap, breathing raggedly, sprawled on the bed covered in his old life. He didn't mean to sleep, but suddenly he was terribly tired and he simply slipped away, tears still fresh on his face.