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Part Two: Masquerade

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Allana Djo isn't a princess anymore. She doesn't live in a world of lavish palaces and endless smiles and court intrigue. She lives in service to the Force and to all life, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

But as she stands in front of the mirror in the guest suite of Kurin's grand palace, watching the train of her perfect, lilac-colored dress drape around her on the smooth floor while Maritte puts the finishing touches on her hair, it isn't hard to imagine what her life might have been like in another world. What would that Allana have been like, she wonders? Sheltered and pampered, probably. She certainly wouldn't have been out fighting Sith Lords when she was only fifteen.

In another world, there might not have been any Sith Lords to fight.

"There you are, my lady," Maritte says, tucking one final pin into Allana's hair. "Ready?"

Allana smiles at her reflection. For one night, she can be Lady Allana, and she can allow herself to indulge in some of the better parts of the life she missed out on. That wouldn't be so terrible, would it? And anyway, Ben told her to have fun. This is really all his fault.

She turns to Maritte and grins. "Almost forgot the mask."

The handmaiden is practically bouncing with excitement as she picks up the mask and ties it in place. "There. Now you're ready."

Allana turns to the girl and throws her arms around her, enveloping her in a hug. "Thank you," she whispers, fighting back a sudden swell of emotion. She senses Maritte's surprise, then genuine affection as the handmaiden returns the hug.

"You're very welcome, my lady." She pulls away and puts her hands on Allana's shoulders, a glimmer of mischief lighting her eyes. "Now you'd better hurry, before all the good dance partners are taken."

Allana laughs. "I was thinking more of the food."

"Well, of course, my lady, the food is the best part." She lets go and smiles. "Now hurry!"

Allana makes her way from the guest wing, passing under the marble colonnade on her way to the palace. She glimpses the narrow reflecting pool out of the corner of her eye and slows for a moment to look at it. Old pain and melancholy swirl inside her, a steady, deep-water current that she can never truly be rid of; but it feels more distant tonight. She turns away from the pool and continues on to the main palace.

The first thing that strikes her as she walks through the grand set of doors – on hinges, like so many in the palace, and held open by a pair of finely-dressed footmen – is how bright the ballroom is. There are lights absolutely everywhere: shaded lamps on ornate tables all along the perimeter of the room; incandescent wall sconces patterned after flames; tiny, glittering fairy lights strung above the doors and across the windows, and even woven in among and between the massive chandeliers that dominate the ceiling.

Oh, the chandeliers. There are three of them, evenly spaced from one end of the long, rectangular room to the other, though the central chandelier is the largest and most intricate. She can't even begin to guess the number of crystals or the amount of gold leaf required to craft even one of these stunning works of art, let alone three. And the way they catch all of the other light, sending it dancing across the ceiling above and the floor below… it's enough to take anyone's breath away, even a girl who once lived in Hapes' magnificent Fountain Palace.

Allana's heart beats a little faster as she steps further into the room, trying to drink in every detail. Around the edges of the room, next to all those ornate tables, are equally luxurious chairs, many of them occupied by guests who are either watching the festivities or taking a break from dancing. She looks out at the crowd – Force, there are so many people here – and stares in awe as they spin about at speeds she finds nearly impossible to comprehend, even as a Jedi. She vaguely recalls observing a dance like this once. A waltz, she thinks. Not the slower one she remembers her parents dancing, but a giddy, almost wild thing that makes her head spin just watching it.

Yeah, she's not ready for that. Not at all. Maybe she will go get some food, like Ben suggested—

"Lady Allana!"

Her eyes snap toward the voice, drawn to the middle section of the room where the Queen of Kurin – an elegant, middle-aged woman with raven-black hair and sharp amber eyes – sits upon a white throne, her husband at her side. Allana takes a small breath and weaves through the twirling couples to make her way toward the queen.

"Your Majesty," she says, old, ingrained habits kicking in as she drops into a curtsy that would have made her etiquette mistress weep for joy. She hadn't even hesitated, she realizes. Years and years of plain, utilitarian clothes and robes and the practiced Jedi bow, and she'd switched to the curtsy as easily as switching on her lightsaber. She's not sure what to make of that.

The queen returns the gesture with a delicate nod and a warm, gracious smile. "I hope you are enjoying the party, my dear?"

"Oh, very much, Your Majesty. It's breathtaking."

"And have you had a chance to sample some of the delicacies my chefs have prepared?"

"Not yet," she says with a smile, "but I've only just arrived."

The queen waves dismissively. "There will be plenty of time for that, after you've had a dance or two." She waves again, this time motioning to a young man standing a few meters away. He turns and steps quickly to the queen's side. "Lady Allana, may I introduce my cousin: Captain Haldin of the Kurin Royal Defense Fleet."

So much for food, Allana thinks as she turns to greet the man. He has short, golden blond hair – sort of ridiculously golden, like he's a figure from a painting or a holostar or something – and bright, friendly green eyes sparkling from behind a white mask; and she has to admit he cuts a nice figure in his dark blue dress uniform. He takes her hand gently in his as they exchange a formal greeting. She thinks she likes this. Likes him, maybe. Too soon to really tell, but she gets the feeling she'll have the opportunity.

And now she's pretty sure she'll have to dance with him. Her stomach lurches a little at that prospect, but she tries to remember what Ben told her.

Have fun, she thinks. How hard can that be?

"Lady Allana," Captain Haldin says, "might I have the pleasure of this dance?"

Allana puts on her most gracious smile – not too wide, child; don't show your teeth – and places her hand in his, allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor. He guides her toward the far end of the room where it's slightly less crowded, away from the immediate attention of the queen. Allana is grateful for the distance. She's happy the queen seems to like her so much, but if she's going to potentially embarrass herself, she'd rather not do it right under Her Majesty's nose.

"I have to warn you," she says as she takes her position opposite Captain Haldin, "I haven't danced like this since I was a little girl, and even then I wasn't very good."

He smiles at her as the orchestra starts up another song, this one lively but not as quick as that first waltz. "I can't imagine that to be true, my lady." Haldin holds out his arm to her. "This dance is fairly simple; just follow my lead, and I promise you'll do fine."

She rests one hand lightly atop his arm, and he takes her other hand in his, maintaining a bit of distance between them as he starts to lead her through the steps. Thanks to her Force-sensitivity and Jedi training, she can anticipate where he will step next, which gives her a bit of an advantage in keeping up with him, despite her lack of experience. She vaguely recalls learning something like this in her very first dance lessons, not long before she left Hapes. It's a combination of slow and quick steps, and after they've gone through a few sets or variations – or whatever they're called – she starts to get the hang of it. She even enjoys it a little. It doesn't hurt that her partner is nice to look at, either.

"My cousin said you were instrumental in ensuring the treaty negotiations went smoothly," she hears him say. Allana looks up at him and smiles.

"Her Majesty is very kind. I'm not sure 'instrumental' is the word I would use, but I did what I could to help."

The captain returns her smile. "It's that sort of modesty that is sorely lacking in most of our leaders these days, both here and across the galaxy," he says. "You're a credit to your people and to the Jedi Order, Lady Allana."

A credit to her people? She knows he's being sincere, but she doesn't really know what to say to that. She nods as graciously as possible and says nothing more.

As she and Haldin travel around the dance floor with increasing ease, weaving in and out between the other couples, she finds herself concentrating less on the steps and more on the people around them. She notices many of the dancers adding different flourishes to their movements, sometimes throwing in more complicated turns – enriching the dance, she supposes, by giving it a unique flair. As interesting as she finds it to watch – and it truly is impressive, she thinks in a detached sort of way – it's not really something she feels compelled to imitate. She's never really been one for pageantry. Is it because of her childhood, because of everything she experienced in the shadow of the Hapan elite? Beautiful, elegant women who would smile and curtsy and weave lies made of silk, all while plotting how best to murder her and her mother. It's unfair, she knows, to compare this lovely scene with the viper's den of her youth, but she can't help it.

Just have fun, Ben had said. If only it was that simple.

Something brushes across her senses, then – an elusive presence, but one she recognizes instantly despite his attempts at concealment. Heart suddenly in her throat, she pulls away from her partner and spins around, searching; but in a sea of bodies and gowns and masks and glittering lights, it's too much, and over the years she's learned that he's good at hiding in plain sight.

She turns back to the captain and finds that another man has taken his place. Her breath catches, the air around her sparking with anticipation and heat, and her every sense whispers danger. It takes everything in her not to visibly react as she looks up at him, past the plain black mask, into his ice blue eyes.

One corner of his mouth turns up in a faint smirk, and he tilts his head slightly to one side. "You weren't looking for me, were you, Princess?"

Before she can back away from him, Darth Festus reaches out lightning fast and catches her by the wrist. She tries to yank her arm away, but he spins her toward him, pulling her backside flush against his front.

"That's not how this dance goes," he whispers in her ear, his arm tightening around her waist.

Despite the danger she is in – or maybe because of it, she doesn't really know – she lets out a quiet, gasping laugh. "How would you know?"

"I may not have been born in a palace like some people, but I'm a pretty quick study." His hold on her tightens further – a warning, she thinks. "It's not that different from fighting, really."

"Except your dance partner isn't usually trying to kill you."

He laughs under his breath, and she feels it whisper across her skin. "Is that why you think I'm here? To kill you?"

"Oh, I'm sure you have some other horrific goal in mind. Killing me is just a happy bonus, isn't it?"

She startles as he takes her left hand in his, drawing it away from her waist; and for a moment she has trouble concentrating on anything but the little static jolts his touch sends through her.

"What are you doing?" she says, unable to take her eyes off of the hand holding hers.

"I'm trying to blend in," he says, "but it's hard to do that when we're the only ones not dancing." He adjusts his grip, fingers brushing against the inside of her wrist. "You're kinda making a scene, Princess."

They are attracting attention, she realizes. Several couples have had to move around them, and the way he's holding her is drawing more than a few stares. Her skin warms at the thought of how this must look. There are probably other emotions she should be feeling right now, but indignation rises above them all.

She turns her head just enough to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, trying to ignore the lack of distance between them. "Feel free to let me go if it's making you so uncomfortable."

He leans closer, his lips grazing her ear. "I'm not the one who's trembling, Allana."

Stars, no, this is wrong. How many times has he tried to kill her? He shouldn't be holding her like this, as if—

Nope, don't you even think it, that's definitely not what this is…

She tries to pull away from him, but he holds firm.

"Don't fight me," he says. "You know what'll happen if you do."

She takes a shallow breath. "Enlighten me."

He lets out something akin to a sigh. "There are a lot of people here. A lot of collateral damage."

A slight hiss as she takes a sharper breath. "You're despicable."

"I'd hate to disappoint you by being anything less." He spins her around to face him, putting a bit of distance between them before releasing her. "Why don't you practice some of that enviable Jedi patience and maybe keep these people alive a little while longer?"

He holds out his left hand, and she stares at it for a few seconds, realization dawning. She glares up at him. "You can't be serious."

He shrugs, but doesn't withdraw the offered hand. "Aren't you a little curious?"

"About what?"

"About whether I know what I'm doing." He looks like he's holding back a laugh, and for some reason that really infuriates her. "You're not worried I'll show you up, are you?"

Before she can talk herself out of it, she takes his hand and steps toward him. "Of course you'd use manipulation to get your way. I don't know why I'm even a little surprised."

He shakes his head and wraps his other arm around her, hand resting just below her shoulder blades. "I don't know why either."

Gods, I've actually lost my mind, she thinks as she raises her free hand to his shoulder. This is the stupidest thing I've ever done.

She tries to ignore the warmth of his hand through the sheer back of her dress by running through a mental list – admittedly not that long – of all the stupid things she's done in her life. This is definitely at the top of that list.

He steps toward her, and she steps back, following his lead as they join in with the other couples. The music isn't quite as fast as some of the previous songs, and she's grateful for that. She might be a Jedi, but she thinks even she would have a hard time keeping her wits about her while trying to dance to something that quick.

Less than a minute into the dance, she realizes – rather annoyingly – that he isn't terrible at this. In fact, he's more than capable. She's not sure what she expected from him – maybe something rough, or hurried. Or maybe she thought it would be like he'd said, like an actual fight, with her guarding every second against certain death at his hands. She didn't expect him to be so measured or so tuned into his surroundings. Tuned into her. And while the way he moves lacks some of the sophistication of the other men here, part of her thinks it suits him.

She looks him over quickly, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes as she notes that he's wearing all black, as usual. He's definitely underdressed compared to everyone else here, by a fairly large margin. He's left his jacket behind, though, and the rest of his clothes actually remind her of what her grandpa Han used to wear. No frills, just basic pants and boots and a long-sleeved shirt with a high, loose collar; but in a ballroom full of men decked out in their finest, it makes him look almost roguish. If he were any other man – any other man – she might find the effect to be just the tiniest bit dashing.

Don't start with that, she tells herself, glancing away from him. This isn't a real dance, and he could still kill everyone in here without flinching. Even her.

Especially her.

"You're tensing up," he says, and she feels a lessening of pressure from the hand on her back. It takes half a second to realize he's guiding her backward. She's honestly not sure if she wants to fight against his lead right now or follow him just to prove she's up to the challenge.

"I wonder why that is?" she mutters, opting for the path of least resistance. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices some of the other couples performing the same steps, smiling and laughing. They have no idea how quickly this could all end.

She looks up at him, only to find him already watching her. "Why are you here?" she asks, suddenly quiet.

She half expects to see that smug, teasing grin on his face, but his expression is surprisingly neutral. "You know I'm not going to tell you that," he says.

They rotate around one another, and then he stops and turns her back in the opposite direction as they continue through the steps. "I thought you only went after the most dangerous bounties," she says. "Why come here?"

He lets out a short laugh. "Been keeping tabs on me, Princess? I'm flattered."

She rolls her eyes. "Please. You haven't exactly been subtle in recent years."

He doesn't quite tilt his head to one side, but she can tell he wants to. "Maybe there's a job here, and I needed the credits. Or maybe I knew you would be here."

Is she imagining the sudden intensity in his gaze? She has to be. It's the mask, she thinks. They make people harder to read, especially someone whose presence in the Force is always so murky.

"You couldn't have known," she says, barely a whisper as she remembers all the other times he's shown up unexpectedly over the years.

He does tilt his head, then, coupled with an amused half-shrug. "Then I guess it was fate that we met like this. Destiny, the Force… take your pick."

"You think you were destined to dance with your mortal enemy at some silly masquerade ball?"

He draws her toward him, and in a flash of insight she realizes what the last move of this dance is, and she has only a second to decide whether to go through with it or not.

He takes her waist in both hands, and she doesn't stop him; and as he lifts her off the floor and holds her against him, she finds herself once again breathless. She'd like to think it's from the suddenness of the motion that literally swept her off her feet, but as she looks down at him and holds his gaze, fingers tightly grasping his shoulders, she knows that isn't why.

He lowers her to the floor, slowly, the space between them reduced to nothing. "You're right," he says quietly, his face suddenly very close to hers, "it sounds pretty ridiculous when you say it like that."

There's an uneasy flutter in her stomach, like the rapid beating of soft moth's wings. Stars, what is wrong with her? The last time she was this close to him – bodies pressed against each other, breath mingling, close – was on Vjun, when he nearly succeeded in murdering her. Why is she acting like a silly little girl at her first dance instead of the intelligent and discerning Jedi Knight she's supposed to be?

Because you could have had this life.

Because you've never actually done this before, and you've always wondered how it would feel.

Because deep down you like it.

Deep down, you like—

No. Absolutely not. She can't go down that path. He is what he is, and she is what she is, and there's no use pretending it could ever be any different.

The music fades, and the couples around them applaud for several seconds. She starts to pull away from him, forgetting his earlier threat. He doesn't let go, though, and her eyes dart up to meet his.

"Come on, Princess," he says, still quiet, a mischievous glint in those pale blue eyes. "You can handle one more, can't you?"

The orchestra starts up again, their tempo slowing once more, and she hears one of the stringed instruments playing a low chord like a heartbeat. It vibrates through her, deep and steady and impossible to shake. She slides her left hand further up his shoulder as his right arm completely encircles her waist.

"Do you still think this is exactly like fighting?" she asks as they turn in a slow circle.

"I didn't say it was exactly like it. I said it's not that different." He lets go of her waist for a moment, raising his other arm to spin her underneath it. Then he catches her against him and pulls her close. "Action and reaction. You move, your opponent counters. Isn't that what a dance is?"

Her chest constricts a little as she thinks of that last grand ball on Hapes, before everything changed. "Why do you assume I'd know?"

"I thought that was the sort of thing princesses learn in the great Fountain Palace?"

She looks up into his eyes, pushing back every painful memory his words conjure. "I'm not a princess anymore," she says quietly.

He shakes his head, eyes never leaving hers. "In that dress? You could've fooled me."

She can't quite tell if it's an insult disguised as a compliment or a compliment disguised as an insult, but she feels her face – already warm from all the dancing – flush even further.

He reverses direction, and she follows, their bodies maintaining close and constant contact. Action and reaction, moves and countermoves... maybe he's a little bit right, but he's also so, so wrong.

"Dancing isn't a contest of wills between two opponents," she says with a hint of defiance. "It's about partnership and trust."

He makes an amused sort of noise in the back of his throat. "Are you saying you had a deep and trusting bond with that guy you were dancing with before?"

"I trusted him not to try to kill me." A flash of shame as she realizes how quickly she'd forgotten about the queen's cousin. "What did you do with him anyway?"

"Guess he wasn't much of a partner if you're just now asking about him." There's that smirk again, so smug and irritating and not at all distracting. She looks away quickly, and he notices. "Calm down," he says, equal parts soft and dismissive. "I just suggested that he go for a walk."

"A walk," she says dryly.

He doesn't respond to her sarcasm, smiling a little to himself instead. "You're wrong about the whole partnership and trust thing."

"Is that so?"

"It's a language, isn't it? A way of communicating. Some people are terrible at it, and others are skilled, and you don't have to trust someone at all to understand what they're saying, or to respond."

She looks away from him again, staring over his shoulder at the giddy, twirling masses. "So what are you saying?"

He stops moving without warning, and her momentum presses her even closer to him. She lets out a surprised gasp as his lips briefly trace the curve of her neck. "Can't you tell?" he murmurs in her ear. "I guess I'm not very good at this after all."

Her skin burns where he touched her, and his face is entirely too close. This isn't real, this definitely, definitely isn't real… She shakes her head, still refusing to look at him. "Do you think I'm stupid?" she says in a harsh whisper. "That I would believe anything you say or do?"

He's still holding her hand, and he adjusts his grip, letting his thumb trail across her palm, down the inside of her wrist. "I think you're—"

"What?" she says, anger rising as she tries to ignore the shiver that runs through her at his touch. "Weak? Pathetic? Naïve?"

He doesn't answer, and she finally looks at him. He stares back at her, silent, just like Kordros, and Taris; and her pulse quickens as she finds herself caught up in his gaze.

They're doing it again, she thinks a bit distantly. Standing still while the other dancers whirl around them. The eye of the storm.

She's always been able to handle his taunting, his insults. Words are as much a weapon as a lightsaber, and she'd rather fight with them than anything else. Maybe that's why she finds his silence so frightening. It's the one thing she can't defend against.

Why can't she look away from him? It's as though they've fallen into a separate plane of reality where neither of them is quite who they're supposed to be – cut off from everything that has come before and everything that will happen after. Not unlike a dream.

I think you're… what? Why is it suddenly so important that she know the end of that sentence? Why does she care what he's thinking in that twisted mind of his?

He releases her hand and lifts a finger to her chin, tilting it up ever so slightly. She should stop him, she knows she should. But there's a very small, very dangerous part of her that wants to know what happens next.

He bends his head toward her, lips brushing against her ear, and she closes her eyes without meaning to. This is wrong, she tells herself. This is so, so—

"I think you're distracted, Princess."

The words hit her dead center in her chest, a cold, heavy weight threatening to drag her under and drown her. She opens her eyes to see he's pulled back, though his arm is still around her. There's a hint of a smirk on his face, but his eyes… stars, they really are like ice, and she wonders what the hell she even thought was happening between them.

Then she hears a scream from across the ballroom – no, multiple screams, and the distinct snap-hiss of a lightsaber activating as the music cuts off.

She shoves him away from her as hard as she can, turning to see what's happening. Darth Ferrus stands in the far entry, dragging one of the masked guests by the collar, grinning like a madman as he points his crimson saber out at the crowd.

Allana spins around, half expecting Festus to have vanished just as quickly as he'd appeared; but he's still standing there, staring at her from behind the mask. She tears her own mask off and throws it on the ground at his feet. "You bastard," she says, shaking.

He holds his hands out at his sides, saying in a quiet voice, "I'd hate to disappoint you by being anything less."

People begin to press in around her, and she loses sight of Festus for a moment as she picks up the train of her gown and tries to navigate the panicked, stumbling crowd. When she spots him again, he's slipping through the pair of doors closest to her.

Allana pushes her way through the crowd, relying on her Jedi training and senses to find the quickest path. She notes that Ferrus is already gone, along with the man he was dragging. She has to get to him and stop him from doing whatever it is he and Festus came here to do.

As she reaches the main corridor outside the ballroom, she sees some of the royal guard are attempting to herd people toward the interior of the palace. She extends her perception in the opposite direction, toward the doors at the end of the corridor that lead outside… and she senses Ferrus's blazing presence, as if a shroud has been thrown off it. She turns to go after him, when she feels tendrils of energy wrap around her, pushing her up against the wall behind her.

"Don't try it," Festus says as he emerges from the crowd, hand raised toward her.

"You can't just come here and— gah!" She tries to break his hold, straining to tap into her own power. "I won't let you do it!"

He grabs her by the wrists and pins her arms up against the wall. "You can't stop this," he says, his jaw tight. "You're not even armed."

Frustration and helplessness and desperation roil within her, and beneath it all a fury that has long lain dormant, awakening now as she struggles against his grip. "I don't need a lightsaber to stop you," she growls, reaching out with the Force to push him back. He's ready for her, though, and his fingers tighten around her wrists.

"Enough," he says, his voice low as he leans in close. "You've lost this one, Princess."

There are still people trying to exit the corridor, moving past them without even noticing. She's grateful, in a way. She wouldn't want anyone to die trying to help her out of her own mess.

My fault, she thinks, feeling the weight of that realization press in on her from all sides. All my fault.

Festus lowers himself enough to bring his eyes level with hers, pinning her with that unnerving stare. Then he lets out a heavy breath. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

I'm sorry. She hears those words reaching out to her from a dream, one that has stayed with her for sixteen years. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…

"No, you're not." Her eyes are burning, but she won't cry. She won't. "You're not sorry at all. You're a liar, and—" And I should have known. I should have known it was a lie. I should have been stronger.

Even with the mask obscuring his features, she sees a shadow pass over his face. "What did you expect, Allana? I learned from the best, didn't I?"

She can't quite stifle the sob that rises up in her throat at that barb, so carelessly thrown. Does he know how deep those wounds still go? Of course he does. This is just a game to him, and he knows exactly what he's doing.

"I hate you." She hurls the words with as much venom as she can summon, trying to ignore the sound of her own voice breaking.

His fingers loosen from around her wrists, sliding up to spread across the palms of her hands; and stars, she hates him for that, too.

"That's just perfect, isn't it?" he says through clenched teeth as he leans in, fingers interlacing with hers, lips brushing along her neck, her jaw… "Because I hate you."

Then he lets go of her and disappears into the crowd.

.

.

When he finally makes it back to the ship, he finds his brother in the cargo hold, securing the last of the prisoners. There are three still living, plus one lying dead in a body bag next to them. Ferrus looks up at him and folds his arms across his chest.

"I see you decided not to wear the clothes I got you." He tilts his chin up and smirks. "Did you have fun playing make-believe?"

Festus pulls the mask off his face and tosses it on the deck. "So much fun," he deadpans. He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a short breath. "Tell me you at least saved one for me?"

Ferrus grins. "What kind of brother do you think I am?" He hauls one of the prisoners forward. "Pretty sure Caleg wants this guy dead."

Ferrus throws the man down on his knees, and Festus steps in front of him, drawing his lightsaber.

"Please," the man says, "please, I'll give you twice what Caleg's offering you. I'll give you anything. Anything you want."

Festus kneels down in front of the prisoner and wraps a hand around the back of his neck, pressing the emitter of his weapon to the man's chest as he pulls him close. "There's only one thing in this whole forsaken universe that I want," he whispers in his victim's ear, "and you can't give her to me."

Festus pulls back and holds the man's gaze as the lightsaber burns through his chest, melting flesh and bone. He doesn't look away. In all the years since he first stood at the doctor's side and held down one of his dying test subjects, he has never looked away.

The man slumps forward, dead. Festus deactivates his saber and releases the body, letting it fall onto the deck. Then he stands and hooks his weapon on his belt.

Ferrus is watching him, one eyebrow raised. "Feel better?"

He takes a long, deep breath and turns away from his brother. "No."

.

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The morning after the masquerade ball, Allana Djo prepares to leave Kurin.

She stops packing for a moment to stare at the dress, draped across a chair opposite the bed, right where Maritte left it the night before.

It wasn't your fault, the young handmaiden had said quietly, staring down at the lilac-colored gown in her arms. Her Majesty knows you weren't to blame.

She should have been stronger. She should have known what was happening.

You were there as a guest, not a Jedi. Maritte had held out the dress, then, offering it up to her. This was a gift. Her Majesty wants you to have it, to show she bears no ill will.

That's not why I can't take it, she'd wanted to say, unable to get the words past her throat.

These people, they all think she's so noble, holding herself to some higher standard because she's a Jedi or a princess or whatever. They think she's principled and virtuous and self-sacrificing. But that's not it at all.

The truth is, she can't look at that beautiful, perfect dress without thinking of him, without thinking of all the things she's spent years keeping locked deep inside her. Things she pretended not to notice or feel, things she refused to examine more closely, things she still can't stand to entertain in her thoughts because to do so would be shameful and wrong; and now she just wants to shove it back down, close it all up in a box where she never, ever has to look at it again.

I'm sorry.

She shakes her head, tearing her eyes from the gown. He isn't sorry at all. He doesn't even know what it means to be sorry, and she'll be damned if she's going to let another Sith Lord whisper those meaningless words to her, as if it somehow makes up for his betrayal.

And that's just so stupid, isn't it? Betrayal implies trust, and there's never been any trust between them. Not ever. He's nothing to her, just as she's nothing to him. Whatever twisted web has bound them together all these years, she's determined to be free of it now.

She shoulders her bag, glancing one last time at the dress before walking out the door.

The way back to the main palace leads through the colonnade, past the reflecting pool for the dead. She stops beside one of the columns and gazes out at the tranquil waters, remembering the dream she had that night and the presence that had flickered briefly across her awareness. She should know by now, shouldn't she, the danger of dwelling in a dream? Blinded by a tiny handful of childhood memories, unable to recognize reality for what it is. Maybe there is a world where that sad little dream ended differently, for both of them. But this isn't that world, and she can't pretend it is for even a second.

He's nothing to her. He's never been hers, not ever. It's time to wake up.

She walks on, leaving the reflecting pool and that beautiful gown and the dream of everything that might have been behind her.

.

Fin