AN: This the last regular chapter, in which I make small gestures toward bringing this AU in line with the actual canon. Tomorrow I'll post a brief epilogue, and that will be it for this one.

Thanks to everyone who's read (and reviewed, of course!) so far. I really enjoyed spending time with these characters again, so I hope it's been fun for all of you as well!

The door slid open before Meetra could press the buzzer. "I'm glad you came," Revan said, gesturing for her to enter. "Give me a minute; I made caffa."

She went into the kitchen, leaving Meetra to look around. The quarters on Citadel Station were spartan—the home of a man who lived alone and wasn't there often—but that suited a Jedi, Meetra thought. The legendary Revan looked strangely at home padding barefoot across the room in civilian clothing.

A happy-sounding whirr sounded from somewhere else in the apartment, and T3 wheeled to greet her so fast it nearly slammed into her knees. "It's good to see you too," Meetra said, patting it. "Just tell me HK-47 isn't here."

"HK's with Canderous. Despite my twisted affection for that droid, constant pleas to go out and engage in random acts of violence aren't all that conducive to domestic bliss." Revan was back, standing in the doorway with two steaming mugs. The two of them sat down together. For a few minutes, they sat in companionable silence, blowing into their caffa, T3 settled peacefully by their legs. Meetra had something she needed to talk about, but it could wait until the time was right.

"Do you remember the last time we had caffa together?" she

Revan nodded. "Yes. Before you split off for Dxun. We'd been up for hours discussing strategy, and we had a last cup together before you left. We almost fell asleep."

"It was one of the only times I saw your face during the entire war."

"The mask was my face." Revan took an experimental sip of caffa, then a longer one, evidently having determined that it was cool enough. "It's in with my old robes in the bottom drawer. I don't quite know what to do with it."

"You could make a tidy profit at the market on Nar Shadaa."

"No one would believe it was real. Maybe a serving dish? Conversation piece?"

"Do I detect an underlying existential crisis?"

Revan laughed. "Maybe. In a way it feels like I've been here before. When Bastila and I made it off the Star Forge, we had this conversation—she couldn't decide what to wear, now that she'd fallen to the dark side and come back again."

"But it wasn't really about clothes at all."

"No. It wasn't." Revan was still smiling, but her eyes were serious.

"Maybe I can help," Meetra said.

"Oh?"

"Atton just went up to the Academy at the north pole of the planet. It's going even better than I could have hoped for. My students are starting to take on students of their own."

"Bastila told me."

"I want you to join us. The Jedi need a Council."

"And you want me to be on it? This goes without saying, but I'm not exactly an orthodox Jedi."

"None of us are anymore."

Revan didn't respond. "This is your chance, Revan," Meetra urged her. "You were right, going to the Senate and reopening the Temple are bad ideas. But this is how you can help the Republic."

"And if I said I'd done enough for the Republic? Not to mention to it?"

"I'd say you don't believe that for a second. You're Revan. You're not just going to retire without a trace into a life like this, no matter how tempting it might sound at the moment."

Revan set her empty mug on the table and leaned back, looking at the ceiling. Finally she said, "I have a condition for accepting."

"Carth would be welcome," said Meetra, who had tried to anticipate as many possible objections as she could. "It would be an easy commute from Citadel Station."

"That's important. But I was actually thinking of something else." Revan's expression was thoughtful, eyes studying the ceiling so intently that Meetra glanced up to make sure there was nothing up there. "Revan—I gave myself that name a long time ago. Maybe it's time to let it rest."

"What?"

"Someone told me once, 'you don't have to be Revan; you can be so much more.' For years, I've thought he was wrong, that I could never escape that identity, especially after I started remembering my past. Now I think I actually have a chance."

"But the Republic still needs you."

"Part of the reason I started wearing the mask in the first place was that I believed my message and my actions were what the Republic needed, not my face. Now I have the opposite problem: the mask is my face, and I need to get away from it to get back to what's actually important."

"And just be Rinna again, like when you were a Padawan? That simple?"

"It won't be simple. I can't just put all my memories back into the mask, even if I wanted to. I'll always be Revan on some level, but as for Revan-the-legend…let's just say I think I can do a lot more good if she just stays lost in space."

"It won't be that hard for people to put two and two together," Meetra pointed out.

"My friends will know, of course. It will be an open secret at the Academy. A Jedi reading through the Archives in a few centuries, maybe—although those are easy enough to alter. Maybe I'll rewrite myself as a man, really throw them off." The corners of her mouth quirked up into a grin. "Now, though—the dermal regenerators have done all they can; from here, my treatments involve reconstruction. I won't look the same when the doctors are done with me. It's a good time for a new beginning."

"This still sounds like a half-baked plan to me."

Revan's grin broadened. "My favorite kind. Trust the Force, Meetra."

Meetra took a long drag of caffa, giving herself time to process, until she drained her mug and set it decisively on the table. "Well, if Revan is still out in unknown space, so is the Exile. To Rinna and Meetra. Let's hope a lot of people are willing to play dumb."

It was unusually calm outside when the small party emerged from the ship and stepped out into the snow near the north pole of Telos IV. The snowflakes were falling lightly, and the sky looked like it might just be about to clear up. Four of the group members were wearing long brown cloaks: two brown-haired, blue-eyed women, one tall and one shorter; a man with black hair and a wide grin; and a dark-haired woman with just a few traces of scars lining her face. The fifth man was wearing an orange jacket.

The dark-haired woman stepped forward and laid an object face-up on the ground: a red and gray metal mask, with just a thin slit for the eyes. She moved a pace back, stood for a long moment, then extended her hands. Energy surged outward from them, directed at the mask. The other three cloaked figures imitated her motions, concentrating the power of the Force until the mask finally shattered, exploding outward in a hail of tiny fragments that soon sunk into the snow and were lost.

The woman in front lowered her hands. And if she looked a little lost for just a second, all trace of it was gone when she turned back around and smiled.

"Well, then," she said, nodding at the entrance to the Academy, "let's go home."