Epilogue

(Obi-Wan)

As the Temple Healers waft between Satine and Siri's beds, I stare into my reflection, warbled by the window's frosted glass. I suppose the sick are better viewed from such places, I've learned. Too much clarity, too few objects barring your view, and you might actually see something. And what your eyes find…you might just wish they hadn't.

The Healer's tell me that Siri's been induced into a coma, explaining that this is the best way to purify her mind of the Bando-Gora's rankling stench. They had quite a hold on her, they say—stronger than what was bound around Satine, in fact. If she hadn't collapsed when she did, floor rushing to meet her boneless form, she might've been destroyed completely. Ground to a pulp by the Bando-Gora's cruel, cruel will.

According to Culmon Ash, it is entirely possible that the Bando-Gorans have adopted Vosa's twisted, soured mind. Because maybe they have suffered the same fate as Satine and Siri: they've been taken over, infused with another's heart. With another's hell-bent desire for revenge on the man who refused to look, look, look at her.

Someday, they'll collapse as well.

But for now, we watch. Wait. And hope, pray they don't take hold of anyone else's mind.

Luckily, Siri won't remember any of this. She won't be haunted with nightmare's of assassinating that innocent woman by the tea shop, won't relive the splitting scream that only the dying can manage. And she won't recall taking a shot at me or Satine, either; in fact, I don't think she'll remember her at all. The Temple Healers aren't taking any chances, after all, and have made certain that their memory wipes have erased all traces of even the faintest echo of the Bando-Gora.

Oh, and she won't remember stealing the Kintars, either. Or that strands of her hair have been found within the armory, next to a Kintar that's missing its power pack. Won't recall that business with Ahsoka, either (Culmon found her in Siri's closet, unconscious but otherwise unhurt), and with any luck, neither will she.

I hope she never discovers that I convinced the Justice Department to grant her amnesty, either. She'd be…cross. But I wouldn't mind if she raged and ranted at me, as long as she's safe.

If I hadn't requested amnesty, she'd possibly be facing capital charges.

Shivering in the midst of this harsh, anti-septic room, I close my eyes. Satine's not in as bad of shape as Siri (like I said earlier, the Bando-Gorans hadn't had that the potent of a sway over her), but she's still going to have her mind wiped. Scrubbed clean and raw of all thing Bando-Goran. Only…well, I've asked the Healers to keep her past well intact, because we have things to discuss. Things to work through.

Hopefully, they haven't unraveled too much of Siri's past, either.

Sighing, I open my eyes. Stare down at the silly little board in my hands, and have to smile. It's a rueful one, yes—but at least I'm trying.

The board—it's Ahsoka's, actually, the one her Master wanted her to fill with nails. Like the one I had him fill, when he was her age. Or the one my master gave to me, watching with sad eyes as I pounded away, driving nail after nail into stubborn wood.

Don't tell Anakin, but I opted to complete Ahsoka's maddening task for her. I mean, it's the least I can do, after all that's happened. And besides, I think I need to reminisce a little, let the blasted little board impart its lesson once more.

It took some doing, but I finally got all the nails driven in to their heads. And then I pulled, plucked them out, one by one, till the board was nail-free. Empty, save for the holes. The holes that would forever mar the wood's surface, gaping reminders that the past will forever linger on, indelible.

Once a hole has been made, it can never be undone. It can be filled, yes. Can be covered with dirt or ashes or the blanched remnants of the dead—but it cannot return to what it was. Will never, ever be the same.

But then there's the final step in the lesson, the part that I've left for Ahsoka: you see the holes. Recognize that they cannot, will not be removed, and set it ablaze. Watch as the spark twist, rise, leap into the air…then get a new board. A clean slate.

And this time around, we—Satine, Siri, and I-will be careful not to drive in so many nails.