A/N: I'm back. Longer chapter this time, kinda talky, but necessary.
Content warning for brainwashing and mentions of torture.
Chapter 2: Character Creation
In which Bastila fails at interrogation and receives some bad news. The Council deliberates! Meanwhile, Revan's brain is a mess.
o.O.o
The medical bay of the Republic flagship RAS Tempest buzzes with activity. Med-droids trundle along their rounds while nurses and doctors and trauma surgeons bury themselves to the elbows in one body after another. Zhar Lestin allows the chaos to wash over him as he meditates, awaiting Bastila's return.
The Council had scarcely dared to hope—but she did it. Against all odds, she did it. The sense of triumph, of relief that pervades the present Jedi is remarkable and heartening. Even Vrook looks happy.
Regardless. Bastila is alive, and Revan is badly wounded—no longer a threat.
Fleet Admiral Forn Dodonna has personally ordered a squadron to retrieve Bastila's escape pod, pulling them away from the mop-up of the battle with the Sith fleet. Even without Bastila's Battle Meditation, the Republic forces acquitted themselves well today. Admiral Dodonna can afford to give the Padawan what amounts to an honor guard.
However, when Bastila arrives on board the Tempest, honor is clearly the last thing on her mind. Once Revan is sent off to the medics—under heavy sedation already, in addition to her injuries—Bastila is summoned to the bridge. She is weary and heartsick, every step a battle of its own, every word exchanged with a smiling Dodonna heavy with loss. Zhar is proud of her for remaining on her feet at all.
Bastila answers the admiral's questions mechanically, eyes far away, her words drawn out of her in fits and starts. When she speaks of the fallen Knights and Masters, her voice breaks; when she speaks of her flight from the Crusader, of Revan's strange determination to keep her alive, her consternation and exhaustion weigh heavy upon her shoulders.
"Admiral," says Zhar, "perhaps further debriefing could be postponed until Bastila has rested? She has been through much these past few hours, and as you can see, the Sith fleet is in full retreat."
"Of course, Master Jedi," says Dodonna, with a little bow. "My apologies. Nevertheless, we thank you, Padawan Shan, for the great service you have done us this day."
"You're quite welcome," Bastila rasps.
Zhar guides her out of the hustle and bustle of the bridge, finds an unused conference room, and sits her down in one of the cushy chairs generally reserved for the admiralty. "I sense much turmoil in you, young one," he says gently. "Do you wish to speak of it?"
Bastila bites her lip, gazing fixedly at the tabletop. "Master Owyn is dead."
"A terrible loss to the Order," says Zhar, "but especially to you. I am sorry. He would be proud of what you accomplished today."
Her anger flashes in the Force like magnesium thrown into water. "Better alive and disappointed than—" She breaks off, raising her hands to her face as her eyes well up with tears. "Was all this worth it, Master Zhar?"
He sighs. "I do not know. But remember, Bastila, there is no death, there is only the Force. Daen Owyn is at peace. And he is with you, always."
Bastila is quiet for a long while as she regains control over her grief. Zhar is impressed that she manages it so quickly, though he worries she is merely suppressing her feelings rather than releasing them into the Force. "There's more," she says eventually, voice scratchy. "Something happened to the Force. Something terrible."
"The dark side is strongest in the midst of slaughter—"
"No, that's not—it was not while we were fighting. It was later, in the escape pod. It felt as though it were connected to . . . to me. Or to Revan."
"I would think the distinction would be clear," Zhar says, puzzled. He examines Bastila in the Force—frayed and worn, yes, but still bright, still strong. "Perhaps it is simply a reaction to the immensity of what transpired on that ship. We—you—have captured the Dark Lord. You may well have altered the course of history today."
"Perhaps, Master," Bastila says. "But I cannot help but feel uneasy."
"I'm sure this will prove a turning point in the war. A turn for the better," Zhar reassures her. "You did well, Bastila. Get some rest. It will clear your mind."
"Yes, Master," she says, still tense with anxiety and grief, but she leaves in search of a berth regardless.
Zhar sits down at the long curved conference table, letting himself relax for the first time since the mission was suggested. The Force is still knotted and tangled, uncertain, corrupted—but now, at least, there is the potential to unravel it, reweave it, make it whole once more.
An hour later such optimism seems premature, as the Council members on Dantooine and Coruscant convene via holoprojector to determine what, exactly, they are supposed to do with an unconscious Sith Lord. Thanks to Bastila's intervention Revan probably will not die just yet, but the fact remains that if and when she awakens, it will not be as an ally of the Republic.
"We knew this mission was unlikely to succeed," Vandar Tokare says, brow furrowed in deep thought. "And we knew that, even if it did, the aftermath would not be an easy road."
"Are we certain that we can afford the risk of leaving Revan alive?" says Atris, white robes luminous blue from the hologram's light.
The other Councilors mutter amongst themselves. Vandar clears his throat. "We are Jedi," he says sternly. "All life is sacred. The day we begin to compromise our Code for expediency's sake is the day that the Order is truly lost. Is that not the reason why Revan fell?"
"Then what do you propose we do? I opposed this mission when it was first suggested, and this is exactly why—we may have captured her, but we lost four experienced Knights in the effort, and even now she is no friend of ours."
"We have not yet spoken with her," says Zhar, feeling the weight of the Council's eyes upon him. "She might be willing to seek redemption, if it were offered. Her cooperation in atonement for her war crimes."
Vrook Lamar scowls, his image flickering blue. "And if she is not?"
"Then we will try something else."
"What, pray tell?" Atris says. She crosses her arms, fixing each Councilor in turn in a steely look. "Indefinite imprisonment?"
"The Republic will want her knowledge—that is, after all, how we convinced them to agree to support us in this plan," says Vandar. "If we cannot convince her to divulge the source of the enemy's power, they will try. And they will fail. She is a powerful Sith. It will take far more than truth serum to draw out her secrets."
"Then what has been the point of this entire venture?" Vrook demands. "Have we sacrificed four of our best Knights for nothing?"
"Revan is no longer a threat to the Republic," Vandar says. "Without her commanding the Sith fleet—"
"—they still have Darth Malak, who for all his reliance on brute force over cunning is still a dangerous opponent!"
"Calm yourself, Master Vrook," Zez-Kai Ell says, stroking his mustache. "Now is not the time for infighting."
"No," Vandar says, "my friend makes a good point. We have discussed and debated this issue time and again. Ultimately, it comes down to this: we must discover the Sith's power source, whether Revan commands them or not. Terrible damage can be inflicted upon the galaxy, even by a mediocre general, if enough ships and troops are unleashed. And Malak is by no stretch of the imagination mediocre."
"Then Revan must be revived and interrogated," says Vrook.
"Padawan Shan is an exceptional healer," Zhar says. "And from what she has told me, she and Revan established something of a rapport during their escape from the Crusader."
"Are you suggesting we leave the fate of the Republic—for that is what is at stake here, Zhar—in the hands of an inexperienced apprentice?" Vrook says incredulously.
Zhar gives his colleague a long, level look. "She is a singularly gifted apprentice, and of course others should and will be present to assist her."
"I will gladly lend my aid should the need arise," Vandar says. As the only other Council member physically present with the fleet, and as one of Bastila's oldest mentors, it seems appropriate.
"So we wait and see," Zez-Kai says. "And if Revan should prove unwilling . . .?"
". . . She—her mind is vulnerable, at the moment," Zhar says haltingly, a terrible idea occurring to him. "There are ways to . . . press the advantage, so to speak."
"Tear her mind apart looking for intel?" Atris snorts. "What if something goes wrong? All hope of finding the Sith's weapon would be lost!"
"There may be another option," says Zhar. "It is difficult, and requires the efforts of several Masters, but it can be done . . ."
Zhar outlines the plan and listens as it is argued over, refined, and finally postponed until more is known of Revan's attitudes. He wonders if this is how corruption begins—one tiny step over the line, and another, and another.
He wonders if they can afford to refuse the chance.
o.O.o
She closes her eyes, allows her trepidation to dissolve into the Force. Or tries to, anyway. It settles cold and unpleasant at the back of her mind, a sludgy precipitate. She does not want to do this. She can't do this—
"You'll be fine," Zhar says, patting her shoulder, ever the supportive mentor.
"We have the utmost faith in you," says Vandar, from near her knees.
Sometimes she wishes her mentors would stop telling her how brilliant and exceptional she is, and say, "Sorry, Padawan, but you're in far over your head. Let us take care of things for you." Selfish, perhaps, but in this case, she'd rather be anywhere but here in the highest-security detention block of the Tempest.
Bastila tries once more to center herself. It's a feeble and inadequate effort, but she has no choice but to open the cell and walk inside.
Revan lies supine on a cot, attended by a medical droid, her nose and mouth obscured by an oxygen mask, her wrists and ankles restrained. Bastila cannot help but stare, because she is frail, spindly and wasted, flesh stretched dry and tight over her bones. Her face is ashen, all the color leached from her skin. Her closed eyes are sunken and shadowed as if by deep, long weariness. Every breath is thin and reedy, rasping in her throat.
Without the Mandalorian helm, she is not some looming legend, all power and menace and mystique—just a human shell, the vitality burned out by long exposure to the dark side.
"Is she aware?" Bastila hears Master Vandar say.
"Unlikely," says the medical droid. "Although she does seem to be developing a resistance to the sedatives we have been using."
"Wake her," says Vandar, as Zhar moves to affix the neural disruptor collar and removes the oxygen mask. Bastila swallows hard as it clicks into place around Revan's painfully thin throat.
"Of course, Master Jedi."
A brief injection and thirty long seconds of waiting later, Revan blinks awake, bloodshot eyes glazed and unfocused from the neural disruptor.
"Darth Revan," Bastila says, priding herself that her voice does not tremble. "You are on board the RAS Tempest as a prisoner of war. Are you familiar with your rights as such, under Republic law?" A formality: Revan did fight on their side against the Mandalorians, but protocol and law cannot be sacrificed for convenience's sake—that is what separates them from the Sith.
Revan makes a noise, chokes. Deep dry coughs rattle in her chest. "Yes," she rasps eventually.
"I would like to ask you a few questions," says Bastila.
Revan laughs, all bitterness and spite. "You can ask."
"But you will not answer?"
She just looks through Bastila, gaze drifting lazily over her, and a creeping chill runs down the Jedi's spine. She clears her throat. "You are Revan, once a Jedi Knight of the Order, born on Deralia?"
"Yes."
"Deralia is a Rim world, is it not? In the Tammuz system. Not too far from the areas worst ravaged by the Mandalorians in the latter days of the war."
Revan smiles knowingly. "Yes."
"Is that why you were so adamant that the Jedi join the conflict?"
"The home—I haven't seen in over a decade. Of course." Still smiling, still mocking.
Bastila sets her jaw. This is not an auspicious start, yet Vandar and Zhar remain silent, simply observing. Perhaps another approach. "Revan, I am trying to understand you," she beseeches. "I only wish to know how—"
"You want to know where—where the Fleet comes from," Revan says. "How all those ships—how we build them. Helping me—is the last thing on your mind."
"What do you want from us, then?"
"I want you all dead," Revan says, a soft hiss.
Bastila folds her arms and shakes her head, sensing a complete lack of conviction. "What do you want?" she repeats.
Revan scoffs as best she can when her eyes will barely focus. "I don't . . . nothing you can give me."
"Not even your freedom?"
Vandar makes a faint noise of protest, quickly stifled. Revan huffs out an amused breath. "As if that were ever on the table, Jedi."
Bastila is getting desperate. She is no interrogator; she is not made for this, for wrangling recalcitrant enemy commanders because they've exchanged a few words that are not entirely antagonistic, saved each other's lives through sheer necessity—how can the Council expect her to make any headway whatsoever?
"Patience," murmurs Zhar.
Patience. This is not the work of a single conversation. This will be the work of days, perhaps weeks. Or longer. She must learn what makes Revan who she is, learn how to persuade the most charismatic, strong-willed leader of a generation . . .
The Republic doesn't have that kind of time.
"Very well," says Bastila, heavily. "Answer one more question for me, then. Why did you fall?"
Revan is chuckling again. It is a singularly mirthless sound. "The Jedi are weak," she says, with difficulty. "You and your—precious Republic, you are weak."
"That is not an answer." She's certain of it—surely it can't be that . . . that ordinary. That boring. She has spoken with a few fallen Jedi prisoners, to better gauge the enemy's mindset and thus manipulate it with her Battle Meditation, and they all say the same thing. But Revan? Surely the hero of the Mandalorian Wars had a better reason to fall to the Dark Side!
Of course, Master Dorak would say that all fallen Jedi's motivations boil down to the basest of emotions. Lust for power among them. Still. It sits wrong with Bastila.
"Is it not?"
"I know that you left the Order to fight in the wars first out of noble intentions. You wanted peace."
"Peace is a lie," Revan says, toneless. "There is only passion."
"There is no emotion; there is peace," Bastila says automatically. She clamps her jaw shut, then, because really? Quoting their respective Codes at a time like this? Counterproductive in the extreme. No debate—and this is not a debate, but an interrogation, Bastila must remember that—was ever won by parroting creeds at each other.
Revan should know that. She was—is—among the most persuasive speakers of their time. So why give such a non-answer?
Everything about this, Bastila thinks, is wrong. Like their exchange on the bridge of the Crusader, they are both playing to a script. And it will get them absolutely nowhere. So. How to proceed? How can she bypass the armor of a Sith Lord with no interest in cooperating with Bastila, much less taking her seriously? Brute force—or Force—is always an option, if an inelegant and morally questionable one. She has heard some of the Masters insist that overpowering a prisoner's mental defenses with the Force is an entirely acceptable act in a time of war. She has heard others claim that such an act is an affront to the Jedi way.
Bastila gingerly probes the edges of Revan's mind, and nearly chokes as a familiar barrier slams down before her. On the cot, Revan's lips twitch into a smirk. "It'd take—far more than a child's power—to break me," she rasps.
"Perhaps," Vandar says gravely, "but she is not alone." Bastila can feel his consciousness stretching out to join hers, bolstering her should she try again.
Revan's head flops a bit sideways, bringing the diminutive Jedi Master into her field of view. "By all means, then," she sneers.
"No," Bastila says. "There will be no need." Because they are still following the script. Still locked in a farce of pronouncement and threat and counter-threat. Revan is powerful, even now. The threat of pain, physical or mental, will not sway her. But perhaps a different approach . . . Bastila takes a step closer, releasing the Force and focusing solely on Revan. "There will be no need for such measures, because I know you, I think, better than you'd like. I felt something within you when I saved your life. Hidden, buried deep, but undeniable. Something . . . beautiful."
Revan, to her credit, is not terribly thrown by the change in tactics. She leers a bit. It would be almost funny if it weren't both pitiful and repulsive.
"A spark of goodness," Bastila says loudly, ignoring her. "Still burning, or you would not have saved my life. You are not beyond hope of redemption, Revan. You never were."
"Why would I want—"
"Because you were once a hero," says Bastila. "Once, you fought to protect the people of the galaxy. You stood on the ravaged shores of Cathar and vowed never to rest until the galaxy was made safe again."
Revan's eyes narrow. "A work in—progress, I'll grant you."
"This is what you'd call saving the galaxy?" Bastila demands. "Is it worth the billions upon billions of innocents killed in the name of some utopian Empire?"
Anger snaps through her, out of nowhere, molten metal against unprotected flesh. Bastila staggers back—this is not sensing another's emotions, this is not mere empathy—it is real, immediate and dangerous and not hers.
Master Zhar catches her before she can topple over backwards. "Bastila? Bastila, what is wrong?"
"I—I don't know," she says, pressing a hand to her forehead. The rage has passed, but something else remains, a simmering ugly morass—disdain, hate, and utter certainty.
Not mine!
"Master Vandar, perhaps we should continue this at another time," Zhar says.
"Very well," Vandar says with a short nod, turning to the medical droid. "Sedate her again, please."
The droid presses the oxygen mask to Revan's lower face as it makes another injection, and within seconds she is out cold.
Bastila totters out of the cell block, leaning heavily on Master Zhar for support as the alien emotions fade away.
"What happened?" Zhar asks, guiding her to the elevator.
She tries not to think about the Crusader, and falling, and the dull crack of Revan's ribs breaking on impact with the side of the shaft . . .
"I felt something," she says. "Anger. Terrible anger. I—I think it was hers. I couldn't block it out, I couldn't stop it—"
"Oh, dear."
Her heart rate skyrockets. "What?"
"Bastila . . . How intensely did you delve into her mind to heal her in the escape pod?"
". . . I'm not sure I follow," she says faintly as the elevator doors hiss open.
Zhar pulls her in after him and punches the button for the hangar bay. "The only reason she lives is your intervention. You said that there was a massive disturbance in the Force—but none of the other Jedi present in the battle felt it. I think you may have forged a Force bond with Revan."
Bastila stares at him. "I what?"
o.O.o
An hour later, she stands before the full Council.
"I—I'm not quite sure what this entails," Bastila says shakily. "I know a Force bond means that two Jedi are linked, somehow . . ."
"It means that your destinies are intertwined," says Dorak, "although to what purpose, we do not know. Whether for good or ill, you are connected."
She wants to shout But I don't want this, I never wanted this!, to rant and sob and snarl at how unfair it is that her fate is now shackled to that of a Sith Lord. She does none of these things. Bastila, because she is a Jedi still, lets go. She chokes back her frustration and fear, releases them into the Force, allows it to fill her with calm and serenity and peace. It is difficult—so very difficult. She cannot extinguish the last few embers. But she retains control and does not humiliate herself with a childish temper tantrum. Life is not fair. She serves the Force's will regardless. That is the Jedi way.
"Masters," she says, "what am I to do now?"
"Nothing," says Vandar. "We will determine the next step, Padawan. For now, leave us. It has been a very trying few days for you, and for us all."
"Yes, Master," she says, bowing, resolutely ignoring the panic building up again at the back of her mind.
In her quarters that evening, she scrutinizes her face in the mirror, searching for some outward sign of the change within her. There is none. Nevertheless, she feels . . . tainted, somehow, by touching Revan's mind, binding them together, however inadvertently. As if even sedated and badly wounded, Revan might reach out and pull her under, drown her in the same darkness that consumed the once-valiant Knight.
Pure fancy, she knows, and she shakes her head and turns from the mirror.
Revan's mask, salvaged from the escape pod, watches her from atop the locker at the foot of her bed. It was originally a symbol of defiance, casting Revan as some kind of avenging angel for those slain by the Mandalorians. Now it is synonymous with one of the greatest evils the galaxy has ever faced.
The black eyeslit seems to pull the light from the room. Bastila shivers, and stuffs it into the footlocker under a set of her spare robes. She resolves to ignore it.
She cannot ignore her own vulnerabilities, though. She is prideful and headstrong—this she knows for certain, having been on the receiving end of more than one lecture from her Masters to that effect—and these are dangers in and of themselves. More so now that she cannot trust her own mind.
o.O.o
In the morning they tell her that they had planned to scour Revan's mind for intelligence after her efforts failed—they seem to have expected failure, which stings a bit—but with the bond, Bastila's mind might be damaged as well. They tell her that the bond places her in exponentially greater danger from the dark side's influence.
They tell her, in sum, that her efforts to complete her mission have rendered its end purpose unachievable. They cannot have both—either they lose Bastila's Battle Meditation, or Revan's knowledge of the Sith.
"This places us in a . . . difficult position," says Vandar. "Removing the bond may well be our only option, but the shock will surely kill Revan, and with her any hope of discovering the source of the Sith's power."
"Then let her die," says Atris. "The Republic desperately needs Bastila—"
"—who may suffer greatly from the backlash," Vandar continues. "We could lose them both if Revan dies, whether by severed bond or directly at our hands."
"But we cannot in good conscience let this state of affairs continue!" Vrook bursts out. "If Bastila falls it will spell disaster for the Republic—imagine what the Sith could do if augmented by her abilities!"
"I will not fall over this," she declares, and the entire Council turns to her. She wilts slightly under their gazes, ranging from the compassion of Nomi Sunrider to the flinty consideration of Vrook to the reserved caution of Vandar. Zhar, at least, does not look at her as if she is about to go mad and start killing things if someone sneezes.
"You advocate maintaining the bond? To what end?" Atris says, frowning.
She presses her hands against the tabletop in an effort to keep from fidgeting. "I—I am not a good interrogator," she says slowly. "And Revan would likely take her secrets to the pyre even if we brought in the best of the best. But perhaps, though the bond, there could be—there could be some way to draw out the information we need."
Vandar looks wary. "A great risk," he says. "Particularly to you . . ."
"If we remove it, she will die," Bastila says simply. "And—and did you not command us to capture her, not kill her? Did you not say that all life is sacred, even that of a Sith Lord?"
The Council members exchange guarded glances. Across the circle, Zhar gives a tiny nod of approval.
"I believe this brings us to my earlier proposed solution," he says.
o.O.o
"A career soldier. It will reinforce her loyalty to the Repubilc."
"But if any of Revan should resurface, the dissonance between the implanted personality and the original might precipitate a breakdown."
"We can't simply paint over Revan with—with more of the same!"
"We will not, I assure you. She will have an ironclad moral code."
"Revan has an ironclad moral code, however flawed. That's the problem."
". . . Yes, well. What say you, Master Zhar?"
"Make her something a bit shady. A smuggler, a thief—a liar. Let her be repentant though—she wants to help us, she feels guilt over her past crimes. Let her use her undeniable skills for a more positive end."
"I still think this is a bad idea." A sigh. "But you're right, both of you."
"What of the Force? We can't set this—this smuggler turned soldier loose upon the galaxy with the full range of her powers."
"True. Without any recollection of Jedi training, she would be certain to suspect something."
"So block it."
"Indeed."
"So she'll have been a smuggler, and she'll have no knowledge of the Force. The Republic captured her, offered her freedom in exchange for her services . . . as what?"
"Not a front-line fighter. It would be nigh impossible to keep an eye on her. And if she were to die . . ."
"A codebreaker. They are under constant supervision. And we can certainly give her some knowledge of slicing and cryptography."
"A fine suggestion. Now, let us discuss the details of her early life . . ."
o.O.o
They dig. They carve into her, pick her apart, searching for the secret—she will not tell them, she will not let them, she will not. Cannot.
She doesn't ask why not. Can't.
Skinless hands and naked bone, scrabbling in the dust and the desert, burying the secret. They will not take it. They will not have it.
. . .
"To think we once believed ourselves at a disadvantage," Malak said, gazing out at the massive floating in the emptiness above the star of - - - - -. "But this? This is true power. We will be unstoppable."
"Overconfidence, my apprentice?"
"Merely an observation. The - - - - - is operating at nearly fifty percent capacity and shows no signs of slowing. At this rate we will have a fleet large enough to overrun the Republic within a matter of—"
"Numbers give an edge, not a guarantee. Do not place all your trust in - - - - -. Look at where it landed the - - - - -."
Malak laughed, leaning against the wall with folded arms. "Come, now, surely you can feel it, Revan—this place is alive with the Dark Side. With it at our command, how can we fail?"
She smiled grimly, behind the mask. "Pray that we do not find out."
. . .
They want to tear her life apart. They have needles that drive in and out of her face, her flesh, her heart. They want to replace her. The seams do not meet up right. There is a heart tender and warm and noble and they are pressing it into her chest. They stitch it in. They stitch it in with their needles of thought. The edges bleed. There is a hole.
. . .
She was born on Deralia, the child of poor workers in the planet's agricultural zone. A long drought and a food shortage forced her parents to send her off-planet with her uncle, a spacer, who raised her until she came of age and got a ship of her own. She fell in with a rough crowd, incurred one debt too many, and eventually began freelancing as a smuggler. During the Mandalorian Wars she stayed off the Republic's radar, but with the onset of the Jedi Civil War she was caught in the crossfire and wound up in Republic custody. They impressed her into service for her skills with computers and security systems.
. . .
They try to take hers. But she guards it, holds it. Clutches it, blackened and shriveled and cold, in bleeding broken hands.
Mine. Get out. Get out. No.
They have taken her face and her name and her life but she still has this, her self, and she hides it, cuts open the sweeter soul and burrows deep like a worm at the center of a fruit.
They say, "What is your name?"
Liar. Traitor. Manipulator. Butcher. Revan.
She says, "Sen Tethis."
It's what they want to hear.
. . .
She was born on Deralia, the child of poor workers in the planet's agricultural zone. A Jedi on assignment to mediate a management dispute sensed her Force potential, and her parents gave her to the Order in the hopes that she would find a greater calling than harvesting other people's crops for a pittance. The money they received as compensation was enough to buy their own farm. Today they are prosperous and happy, and have made no connection between the girl they gave up and the Revanchist who defeated Mandalore the Ultimate, or the Dark Lord who threatened the Republic's very existence. And even if they did, they have long accepted that communication with their child is forbidden by the Jedi, and ill-advised in the case of the Sith.
She grew up on Dantooine, running amok amid the ruins and the stout trees and the sun-bright saw-edged grasslands. And then she came to Coruscant, a world of metal and glass and grimy light. A world of shadows. She devoured knowledge, glutted herself on it, delved deeper and deeper into secrets the Order wanted to keep hidden.
She did not fall. Not then.
(not yet)
. . .
They say, "Where is it?"
She says, "I don't know."
She doesn't know what they're talking about.
. . .
(This never happened to Sen Tethis:)
She saw him around the enclave a lot these days. He was new. He always looked sad, though, and today was worse than usual, so she followed him across the courtyard and tugged at his sleeve and said, "Are you okay?"
He looked down at her, startled. "Uh—yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks?"
"I'm Revan. What's your name?"
"Alek."
"Nice to meet you. Whatcha doing?"
"I was going to class . . . I'm gonna be late."
"Oh. Then you should probably—"
"No, no, I just—nobody talks to me. So, um. Why did you?"
"You're sad, and sometimes it helps to talk. Are you homesick? You only got here a couple weeks ago."
He bit his lip and stared at the ground. "I—it's, I don't—home's . . . It's gone. And I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
"Have you talked to anyone else about it?"
"I—no. I mean, I did at first, to the Masters, but all they said was to l-let go. That it would get better someday. They told me to meditate on the Living Force. Because m-my family is p-part—crap. Crap." He sucked in a deep breath that kind of hitched and he blinked really hard like he was trying not to cry. "Why do you even care, anyway?" he said, almost angrily.
She hesitated, then reached for his hand. He jumped a little when she touched him. "I'm sorry," she said.
He closed his eyes and bowed his head. His hair was cut so short she could see the freckles on his scalp. "Don't tell me it'll be better someday," he croaked.
"Okay. I won't."
". . . Thanks."
She didn't know what to say so she said the first thing that popped into her head. "Want to climb trees?"
"What?"
"You know. Sneak out, go to the old grove, climb trees."
"Instead of learning how to be a Jedi." But he was smiling, kind of, or at least his lips were twitching, so that was something.
"Even Jedi need to climb trees every once in a while!" she said, tugging him forward.
He followed her.
(he always does)
o.O.o
tbc