The Disciple stared out the window as the ship made its slow descent onto Onderon's forest moon, Dxun. As they neared the landing pad, the past seemed to rise up to meet him. There would be time, he knew, to explore those memories. For now he needed to stay in the present. He and Bao-Dur had come with the intention of learning where exactly the Exile had gone, and he knew their target might not be forthcoming with the information.

"This is Bao-Dur piloting the Ruby Thrush, we are embarking on our final decent, do you copy, tower?" Bao-Dur called into the com; a second later a low voice crackled to life on the other end and echoed in the small cockpit.

"Ruby Thrush you have clearance for landing, over."

"This is it," Bao-Dur murmured, not looking at the Disciple. The ship straightened out a little roughly, lowering its sleek body into the wide open hangar of the Madalorian camp. A faint crashing noise issued from the back of the ship near the cargo hold.

"What in the name of Yun-Harla was that?" Bao-Dur demanded, spinning around. The Disciple stood, placing a hand on the Iridonian's shoulder.

"Land the ship, I'll search the cargo hold," the Disciple replied, taking up his lightsabers. He crept slowly to the back of the ship, past the navigational charts, medical bay and engine room. A muted rustling could be heard behind the door of the cargo hold. His hand reached slowly, silently and then flipped the locking mechanism outside the door. It flew open and he saw a flourish of blue. His lightsabers were crossed in front of his face to intercept the blow before he could even think enough to send the signal to his brain.

"Mission?" he blurted out, baffled. There was the Twi'lek, the blue blade of her lightsaber cradled in the green X of his. She stumbled backward, crying out in surprise, and sheathed her weapon.

"What do you think you're doing here?" he demanded, advancing on her. Mission struggled to get to her feet, wiping furiously at a spot of grease on her forearm.

"Guess. I couldn't let you two go off without me - You'd get yourselves killed!"

"You shouldn't be here, Mission, this isn't a game," the Disciple said sternly, tucking his lightsabers into his belt.

"I'm a big girl," she countered, tipping her chin skyward.

"After we finish up here we'll take you back to Dantooine," the Disciple said. Mission balked.

"You most certainly will not!"

"Don't argue with me, Mission, you can't possibly understand how much danger you're in. Dantooine needs you right now, they need Jedi."

She shrugged and pushed past him, sassing her way to the cockpit.

"Dantooine needs Jedi, do they? Maybe you should take your own advice, pal. Besides, the enclave would be boring without you guys, I didn't want to stay so here I am," she said nonchalantly. "Hey Bao!"

The Iridonian was already facing her, his arms crossed over his chest.

"I cannot believe you, Mission," he said, shaking his head. She patted his horned head good-naturedly.

"Relax, I can handle myself, remember? Hello? Star Forge?"

"We'll discuss this later," Bao-Dur muttered, turning back to the cockpit controls, "just stay out of trouble for now."

The ship touched down with a rocking motion and Mission clutched Bao-Dur's shoulder to keep from falling over. The Disciple ignored them, sweeping out of the cockpit; he could guess that they would share some kind of secret look, a tacit pact to keep the Disciple in line, but he was determined to have his own way. He had been kept in the dark long enough; there was no more room for secrets and lies.

A blast of chill air met him as he disembarked the Ruby Thrush. Four Mandalorians in full battle dress stood waiting. They saluted, their weapons sheathed. The Disciple bowed low to them and then spotted a taller, broader Mandalorian approaching from the open hangar bay doors; the escorts moved apart to allow the larger man through.

"Mandalore, thank you for receiving us," the Disciple said, bowing again.

"As a former partner in battle you are always welcome here. The Mandalorians owe you their respect and gratitude for aiding in the troubles of our kind. I must warn you, however, that you may not find the answers you've undoubtedly come looking for," Mandalore said, stepping forward. Just then Bao-Dur and Mission arrived behind the Disciple.

"Ah, I see you're not alone. Just as I thought," Mandalore said with a little laugh. "Allow my men to show you to the guest quarters. Stay as long as you like."

"We won't trouble you for long," Bao-Dur promised, glancing at the Disciple.

Mandalore nodded and turned to go. The Disciple, Bao-Dur and Mission followed a few steps behind. The Disciple could sense their apprehension as well as their deep concern. Mission's appearance added a new and frightening dimension to the journey; Bao-Dur's feelings for her might change his willingness to proceed and his ability to do all that was necessary. Mission was still a young woman with a long life ahead of her, involving her in their search for the Exile might mean her premature death. She was, after all, a Jedi, and Jedi were a vanishing commodity.

Dxun had not changed much since they had last seen it. The Mandalorians were sharp, terse and aggressive as always. Still, they treated the visitors with respect, recognizing their hand in helping Mandalore and the planet of Onderon. It was a humid day and many of the soldiers were inside escaping the oppressive heat. As they travelled through the grounds of the camp the sound of the surrounding woodland rose up around them, a mysterious cacophony of grunts, squealing birds and buzzing insects.

They were each given a separate room, which the Disciple was thankful for. He would need time to collect himself and his dreams had become troubled; he often awoke covered in a cold sweat, throwing his fists and invisible enemies. They would need to hurry, the Exile was in trouble, that much was easily felt through the Force, and yet she was hidden somehow, just a fuzzy dot somewhere in the middle of a vast darkness. Finding her seemed more and more unlikely, yet he knew it was imperative to try.

The Mandalorians brought the visitors a light lunch and Bao-Dur and Mission ate together in her room. The Disciple kept himself apart, picking at his food with absolutely no appetite. He would wait until evening to approach Mandalore and he would go without Bao-Dur. Despite his new devotion to honesty, there were things he did not want to share with the Iridonian yet, but if he needed to confess his feelings for the Exile to get the information they needed, then he would. He hoped Mandalore would understand and had an inkling that he would.

The Disciple placed the tray of food on the low bedside table and began to pace irritably. The quarters he had been given were small but adequate, with one East-facing window and a comfortable bed. He suspected these were the clean, Spartan quarters given to every Mandalorian regardless of rank or circumstance. In a way, he felt the Jedi and Mandalorians were very similar, they were both zealously devoted to an impossible ideal that meant their teachings were under constant scrutiny and criticism. It was amusing that they had fought against each other so brutally when in reality they were more alike than they wanted to admit.

He looked out of the window and watched the Mandalorian soldiers sparring. They threw each other around like ragdolls, fighting tirelessly; for what, the Disciple did not know. What battles could they hope to fight, broken and fractured as they were? The heavy armor they wore must have been horribly uncomfortable in the sweaty heat and glaring sun. The Disciple shuddered anxiously, remembering a time when he had watched others sparring from a window not unlike this one.

The sound of the fight had broken into his dreams and he sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes and glanced out the window to see two people wrestling in the early-morning sunshine. One of them was tall and muscular, with a crazy shock of chestnut hair; he wore only a pair of gray shorts. The other wrestler was much smaller but holding her own, with shiny golden hair swept up from her neck with a faded red scarf. It was a strange sight, the little sylvan nymph tossing the man over her shoulder, throwing him to the ground. A dark feeling roiled in his stomach and the Disciple knew it wasn't hunger that made him feel sick.

He had leapt from the bed, naked, and thrown on the loose slacks and traditional waist cloth of the Jedi and stormed, barefoot, out of his room.

The Disciple crossed the field to the sparring ring carrying two mugs of piping hot Jaffa cider. Spicy wisps of steam rolled off of the surface of the mugs, concealing for a moment the rich, earthy smell of the nearby woods. As the Disciple approached the ring he could hear laughter and the slap of skin on skin as the wrestlers continued their match. Atton caught sight of him first and hesitated, giving the Exile an opening which she eagerly took, pushing him backward over her outstretched leg. As Atton tumbled to the ground she too saw the Disciple and paused, waving to him and shielding her eyes from the sun with her other hand.

"What's that you've brought us?" she called, jogging up to him. The Disciple handed her a mug.

"You're a saint! You sly thing, where could you have possibly found this?" she cried, sticking her nose into the mug to inhale the tangy steam.

"The Mandalorians seemed to have developed a taste for it," the Disciple murmured, admiring the way the sunlight played along her collarbone. Atton slowly crawled to his feet, rubbing his backside. 

The Disciple held out the mug to his rival with a blank expression and Atton took it with a little grimace.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

"You're very welcome," the Disciple said pointedly. Even if Atton couldn't contain his antipathy, the Disciple, at least, would be polite. And he couldn't help it, he was sizing Atton up. This was the first time he had seen the boy without his clothes on and he was forced to admit, his rival was formidable in that respect. Atton had kept in good shape and had a slim, wiry frame that suited his jaunty attitude. The rogue stood with his hip jutted to one side, blowing on the cider to cool it down.

"You're up early," the Exile observed cheerfully, sipping her drink.

"Yes, I rose to meditate and saw you two out here. I thought I might join you for some morning exercise," he lied, flicking his eyes to the Exile's face. She smiled and he knew at once she had caught him in a fib; she said nothing.

"You both have excellent form, are you hoping to go up against the Mandalorians?" the Disciple asked, changing the subject, keeping his eyes off of Atton and his steely glare.

"Yes, well, I am at least. Atton was nice enough to help out; I need all the practice I can get," the Exile said, laughing. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her whole body seemed to fluoresce with the radiance of exertion. She wore one of the Republic's old military grade harnesses for women; they left little to the imagination but were sturdy and part of every female soldier's uniform. Her hips and thighs were clad in a pair of thermal shorts made of an odd, clinging material that the Mandalorian's stocked.

Atton seemed to notice the Disciple's rather thorough examination of the Exile and cleared his throat rudely.

"I see, well I thought I would offer myself as another opponent. You may encounter a variety of fighting techniques in the ring and it could serve you to practice assessing those differences," he said, throwing a sharp look at Atton, who rolled his eyes over the Exile's shoulder.

"That's not a bad idea," she said, draining the last of her cider. He might have only imagined it, but he thought that for a moment her eyes lingered on his broad chest and then glanced at the thin line of hair leading down from his navel. Atton took her mug with a plastic smile and made sure his shoulder was in the way when the Disciple passed.

"I've got your number, buddy, you may have a cute little accent but I wouldn't get so cocky just yet," Atton hissed at him as he walked by. The Exile was in the ring already, stretching, and the Disciple took the opportunity to throw a quick, bored glance at Atton.

"You've been outclassed, whelp. Do have the good sense to accept defeat graciously."

Atton started as if to tackle the Jedi but checked himself, instead letting the Disciple walk on into the ring. The Disciple was surprised at himself, he had never addressed Atton's rival status so directly and it made him feel oddly powerful. Grinning, he turned his attention to his opponent, who was bent over at the waist touching her toes. It was obvious to him that Atton had had limited success against her for more than one reason; not only was she an agile fighter, she was also easy on the eyes, bearing a striking resemblance to a fawn in a sun-struck meadow, smooth and lean, a superbly beautiful young thing.

The Exile dashed toward him without warning and the Disciple had to drop himself, like a stone, into the deep ocean of the Force. It was like diving into a lake of cold, crystal-clear water. He saw her advancing in slow motion, and calculated her rate of advance and the position of her body. As if time had slowed to a grinding halt, he picked up on the forward tilt of her torso and added up the amount of pressure it would take to offset her balance.

The Disciple squared his feet and stood in profile to her, his arms bent and ready to strike. But the Exile had anticipated his reaction and suddenly dove forward, tucking and rolling before springing up behind him. He tried to spin fast enough to catch her, but she had already struck, kicking him hard in the spine. The Disciple reeled forward, grunting, turning to face her and hopefully intercept her next move.

Suddenly she was there, in his head, inside of him. She came at him then, her face a mask of serious concentration. As she sprung toward him she also twirled, extending her leg to catch him in the face. But the Disciple had read her, let her into his mind and tricked her into believing he was waiting for a blow to the legs. His left hand caught her and he held her by the ankle. A quick flash of recognition darkened her face as she realized she had been outmaneuvered. The Exile tried to correct her balance, but the precarious position would send her flying no matter what.

The Disciple shot his hand forward, catching her around the neck and he threw her, leg and all, to the ground. They landed together with a hollow thud. He allowed his weight to travel with her and he ended up on top of her, pinning her bent leg against her chest, his right hand still holding her neck. Their eyes met and for a moment he saw real fear. They had never had this much physical contact before and it was almost overwhelming to the senses; never before had he felt such incandescent buoyancy. It was like a sudden awakening, the Force flowing freely through their bodies, intertwining them, their minds locked together. The Disciple realized he was shaking. He was holding her neck very gently and he knew what she was thinking: If he so decided he could crush the life out of her then and there. It was a mark of her deep trust in him that she did not struggle.

It had all seemed to happen so slowly and deliberately but the entire fight had taken place in the blink of an eye. They lay in the wet grass, both of them gasping for breath. The red scarf had come loose and her golden hair fanned out around her face. He looked at her lips, they were just barely parted and her sweet breath tickled the underside of his chin. Swallowing nervously, he felt her pulse racing in her throat and his palm absorbed the erratic bum-bum-ba-bum. The heat of her body coiled around him, calling to some deep, hidden part of him, insisting, until an animalistic surge of lust swelled in his chest.

He pressed her deeper into the grass; he might have stayed there all day, holding her to the ground, mingling his sweat with hers. But he knew secretly that they could not stay frozen that way; he knew he must choose whether or not to fight off the wave of dangerous urges that planted feverish, ecstatic suggestions in his brain. His fingers itched to tear at her clothing and clutch her to him until she understood, until she saw just how far he was willing to go to secure her love.

Just then, the Exile reached toward him, tentatively, as if he were a cornered animal that would start at any sudden movement. With her free hand she tenderly placed a piece of blonde hair behind his ear. The spell was broken.

The Disciple sat back on his heels swiftly and stood, wiping the back of his hand across his damp forehead.

"Forgive me," he whispered.

The Exile stayed on the ground, watching him, a golden statue in a sea of green.

Tell me I am mad, I will believe you. Who in this universe could keep their wits about them knowing that you exist? Tell me who could, when you are near, smiling and charging, fighting and dancing, whirling through our lives like a sudden storm. We are all dying, but you are dying magnificently, bathing us all in your light as you implode, the last, the greatest dying star in the galaxy.

"You two finished?" Atton muttered, his arms crossed over his chest defensively as he watched the Disciple step away from her.

The Disciple marched over to Atton and yanked the empty mugs from him before striding away, silent and consumed.

Meditation envy. That's what the bounty hunter Mira had called it. But it was more than that, the Disciple knew, sitting in his empty room, looking out at the Mandalorians sparring where he had once held his love in the dew-slick grass. He and Atton were foils, two fools mixed up in a game neither of them could control. Atton shared his feelings with the Exile slyly, always sarcastic, always giving his little hints of affection with a sneer in case she rebuffed him. He played at the rogue but his feelings for her were true. The Disciple had not underestimated Atton Rand, he simply hoped the Exile saw his own love for her for what it was: A pure and exquisite light.

He should have kissed her, (that much was obvious) he should have been more assertive. On the whole he had handled the situation indelicately. Why hadn't he acted when he had the chance? She had been in his sole possession in that moment, even with Atton there, standing like an idiot off to the side, she had been his own as he held her warm little body in the morning air. And there she had trembled, vulnerable, waiting, like a frightened sparrow in his big, clumsy hands. But he had backed away from her, and perhaps she had interpreted that as a sign that he lacked courage to… To what?

If only she had known, he lamented, if only she had felt the hot, terrible wanting that had made his heart nearly burst with hunger. He should have devoured her.

He would not flub a chance like that again; there would be no more room for cowardly hesitation. It could be his inspiration, he decided, to have another moment to act. He could change things, pour his heart into finding her, out there somewhere, alone in the wilds, and perhaps he could prove to her that apathy was unacceptable, that inaction meant death.