As it turned out, Bastila herself did not rouse from her meditations until an hour prior to midday. Having missed the communal morning meal with the rest of the Padawans and their Jedi instructors, she grabbed a nutrient bar out of her emergency cache and wolfed down the protein-paste filled carbohydrate exterior as she walked to procure food for Revan. She could stomach the taste, but she remembered reading something about Mandalorian physiology, and as such took a detour through the kitchens. Cooking was not something she enjoyed doing, though she could do it surprisingly well, but twenty minutes later, she was walking down the steps to Revan's cell, a tray piled high with food in her hands. When she stepped down to the floor, she saw for the first time a part of Revan's head that wasn't covered or shrouded. Indeed, Revan possessed long black hair that cascaded down past his shoulders a tad, though Bastila was almost certain that which extended below his shoulders was new growth, since being in prison under Jedi supervision did not allow for one to look after their vanity. He was sitting cross-legged in his meditation egg as it opened with a hiss and a rush of pressurised air.
"Ah. Bastila. Your timing is most…fortuitous," said Revan as he reached back with his gauntleted hands and donned his hood before rotating his isolation egg's seat to face her, his glowing yellow eyes locking with her grey orbs. That said, she could almost see his eyebrow twitch in the shadows of his cowl. "I take it you did not rest easy? A pity. You have my apologies for keeping you from your meditations as long as I did. I take comfort, however, in the possibility that my stories did aught to calm your mind and answer a number of questions that you might have had." He looked pointedly at the tray, and a smile entered his voice. "Ah, how very considerate of you. Knowing your enemy, I take it? Since I doubt you had the time to research Mandalorian physiology between when we spoke last night and right now."
"I… Yes… The Council thought it best that the Padawans study the Mandalorians, in the event that your war spread to us," Bastila said with a twinge of bitterness.
Revan chuckled. "Well, in any event, I'm certain that you did your best. Come, share it with me. None of the extra amino acids we Mandalorians need are necessarily dangerous to humans, and while I might well be famished, I never really did have much in the way of an appetite—even when out in the field."
It occurred to Bastila that Darth Revan was unusually polite for a Sith Lord; all the teachings the Jedi Masters had given her and her fellow Padawans on the subject was that the Sith were vile, belligerent monsters, twisted and warped by the Dark Side into mere mockeries of themselves, mangled and corrupted shadows of what they once were and hollow shells of what they once could have been, after all. And yet, despite this, Bastila did not feel especially surprised. Barring their first and second meetings, Revan had been, while perhaps a bit pedantic, certainly a pleasant individual to sit and converse with to the degree that Bastila found herself constantly having to remind herself that Revan was Sith—that he was the Enemy, the one who would, given the chance, bring ruin upon her, her friends, and all she knew and loved. "You know, Rev...Kylo…"
"Revan, please," the Sith Lord interjected. "I haven't been Kylo for nearly a decade."
Bastila hesitated before nodding. "Revan, then. You're awfully polite for a Sith."
"And you're awfully direct for a Jedi," Revan rebutted, a smile in the tone of his voice.
Despite her better judgement, Bastila found herself laughing—one of her biggest flaws according to the Council was merely a playful jab for Revan, which Bastila found to be something approaching refreshing.
Revan continued chuckling. "Indeed—I remember that I once, and in all probability, still do, hold the venerable moniker of 'Lord of Heresy.' It's a far cry from 'Lord of Vengeance,' but I find that it often has its own charm. Now, we were in the middle of a tale when we retired for the evening, were we not? Or would you like me to skip ahead a bit? I will allow you to choose, if only because today's story may well sound...fantastical, and sometimes does even to my ears—I who know unequivocally precisely what it was I found that day."
"I do not believe the Jedi Masters sent me down here that I might hear only an abridged version of the events that put you on the path to the present," Bastila pointed out.
Bastila could see no more of his face than she could the entire time she had spent here, listening to Revan's stories. And yet, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Revan was smirking under that damnable hood of his. "I notice that you did not answer my question, and so I shall impart this piece of advice: I find that oftentimes, that which sentients do not say often speaks more thoroughly and more honestly than what they do. Regardless, today's story begins with a boy, enthralled by what he had seen, and the consequences of his rather...open and overt fascination with the sight in question."
Master Kreia, you must understand, had good reason for never having taken another Padawan before or after me. She was not a kind woman, and understood concepts such as compassion and empathy in the abstract sense much more than the inherent. And knowing what I know now, were she alive, she would have made a great Sith Master—one of the best, even, I would venture to say. She had no patience for the trappings of childhood and the idle fancies inherent therein, and that often informed her demeanour and the methods she chose to better acquaint me with the Force.
The morning after the bout between Kavar and Master Kreia, the rising sun found me in the yard where an impromptu Padawan training ring had been set up, trying to mimic Kavar's movements with a lightfoil in each hand. It...wasn't as simple as I thought it would be. It is said that the skill of a master can make even the most elaborate of techniques seem simple child's play, and in my hubris, I thought that my natural ambidexterity would at once translate perfectly into the use of both weapons.
However, there was, as I learned, more to wielding two weapons at once than simply being able to hold them. Even for an ambidextrous person, there were issues of weight, balance, mass, kinesthesia—a myriad of issues conspired, it seemed, to keep me from achieving that image of prowess I saw when I looked upon Kavar and his lightsabers. Nevertheless, as a child, I knew not the meaning of a fruitless endeavour, and as such I continued day in and day out. Every morning for two months, I awoke before the dawn, and in the grey that preceded the sun, I would continue to practise holding and moving both weapons at once, and my success was not immediate. Little by little did I improve my skills—frustratingly little, or so it seemed through the veil of my childish impatience.
At any rate, on the morning two months exactly after Master Kreia and Kavar fought, I was finally getting the hang of utilising both blades in some of the more basic kata of Jar'Kai I had learned by watching Kavar, when I turned to complete a rotation and glimpsed Master Kreia standing there, watching with her sightless eyes, startling me to the extent that I very nearly lopped my own head off with the lightfoils I was practising with. I did my best to recover my decorum, but though I thought about attempting to hide the lightfoils behind my back, I decided against it on the grounds that such a manoeuvre, beyond being completely useless since I knew not how long Master Kreia had been standing there, watching silently and somehow masking her presence in the Force, would likely wind up more comical than effective, and might well draw attention to the practise weapons, which would have been more than a little counterproductive, to say the least. "M-Master Kreia!" I stuttered, trying unsuccessfully to calm my pulse. This was before I knew that she enjoyed playing little tricks like this on me—I wouldn't realise that little factoid until I was fifteen.
"And why is it that I walk outside to find my Padawan attempting to kill himself?" she asked in that judgemental monotone of hers—the one that oozed disapproval like blood out of a hibernating Trandoshan…and no, you may not ask me how I know that.
I coloured a bit, still not quite comfortable on this strange planet, and as such still easily cowed by Master Kreia. "I've been trying to study the basics of Jar'Kai…" I muttered, still evidently loud enough for Master Kreia to have heard it.
"Well if you're going to keep moving like you just were, then perhaps first mastering one 'saber would be more practical," Kreia droned, and I couldn't shake the profound feeling that she was belittling me—although, at the time, it would have perhaps been more accurate to say that she 'demonstrated her lack of faith in my abilities.'
I could feel myself growing at once indignant and resolute, and I knew I was about to double down—it had ever been my inclination to prove wrong those who doubted my capabilities, and still is to this day…that is, if you converse with Malak's missing jaw on the issue, at any rate. But I digress; nowadays, I can recognise the signs and oftentimes bring them into line, but at that age? I was a glorified youngling with a chip on my shoulder the size of a Selkath head frozen in carbonite. I barely knew which way was up, but I had the temerity, even then, to challenge my master on the matter of my abilities. "Master Kreia, with all due respect, if you were to instruct me in just about anything, I'd wager I could master this in just under a Coruscanti standard week," I said as I went into parade rest, doing my best to keep the childish spite out of my voice.
Master Kreia seemed...amused, somehow. "Oh?" she challenged, giving me one chance to back down.
And like an Alderaanian nerf herder, I didn't. "Indeed, Master Kreia. I mean no disrespect, but I am a Padawan learner, not some youngling that must be counselled in how to stop screaming for their mother because they had their first Force vision."
She chuckled, shaking her head. "Very well then, my young Padawan. On the other side of Dantooine is a cave—a cave holding a crystal of some great significance. You are to go there, alone, and meditate before the crystal. Then, you will comprehend your first true lesson." She bent down and picked a stick off of the ground and pressed it into my grasp. "You will make this journey with nothing more than the clothes on your back and this stick, or you will die. This is what is expected of a Padawan learner. If you are truly up to that calibre of power and maturity, then surely, this lesson ought to be a pittance of a task—child's play, some might say."
Now, in retrospect, it seemed obvious that this was my last chance to take the out, but I was bullheaded and foolish—though I was much wiser back then than I became later, I must admit. Regardless, at the time, I saw it as one final expression of her doubt in my abilities, and I could not let that stand. "Very well, Master. I trust you will await my return?"
"If you survive," she replied wryly. "If you survive…"
"Why do I get the feeling that things did not go entirely according to plan?" Bastila asked with a smirk.
"Because you're not a blind, deaf, comatose lobotomy patient? Or Atris?" Revan replied blithely. "I mean, seriously, the woman surrounds herself with supple, nubile Echani woman-flesh day in and day out for every day there's not a convention of the Jedi Council on Coruscant. Who does she think she's fooling? But I digress. One thing I learned very early on, Bastila, is that no plan ever quite survives first contact with the enemy. In this case, the enemy was the logistics of travel beyond that which most children should be expected to undertake. However, since I, in my hubris, had volunteered for this task, I set out with my Jedi robes, since I had not yet gotten my braid, and with the stick in hand and without any credits, I began to strike out for the other side of the planet."
Bastila, however was still reeling from that which Revan had spoken entirely out of hand. "I'm sorry, what was that about Master Atris?" she cried in incredulity.
"What, that Atris enjoys the company of other women, little girls especially?" Revan replied. "Why do you think that she keeps a gaggle of teenage girls in that academy with her all day, forbids men entry, and conveniently forgets to teach them about the Jedi statutes of celibacy? There's more of hand and less of maiden about them, certainly."
"I...I...I…"
"Three I's in one sentence? Makes you sound a tad egotistical, doesn't it?" Revan laughed, before sobering. "Let this be a lesson to you, Bastila: the Jedi Masters are not nearly so spic-and-spam as they like to appear. There are literally thousands of zetabytes of reports from my spies chronicling each and every Jedi Master's dirty little secrets. Zhar Lestin's lust for young boys is well-documented. Vrook delights in being suspended from the ceiling. And Vandar… Well, aside from a short-lived and rather unsuccessful stand-up career at a dive on Coruscant, he didn't have much in the way of vices, but I suspect I've made my point."
Bastila's brain finally rebooted, and was assaulted with a cavalcade of 'No'. He can't be serious… she thought. He has to be lying… He has to be making this up… He has to be! I don't care that I don't sense any deception from him! He's tricking me somehow! He's using the Force to aid in his lies! It's a mind-trick! No more than a mind-trick! It has to be!
"And I can see that you don't believe me," Revan sighed. "A pity, but understandable, I suppose. I can't imagine how I would react were I to find that Master Kreia was an exotic dancer in her youth…" Revan visibly shuddered. "Bastila, what would I have to gain by lying to you?"
"My distrust in the Jedi Council?" she returned, cocking her head as she reevaluated the veracity of Revan's vaunted intellect.
"...Let me rephrase. Bastila, what would I gain by lying to you that wouldn't be so much easier to gain were I to tell you the truth?" Revan returned. "Lies are such cumbersome, uncivilised things. They are the true currency of the galaxy, certainly—lies and secrets change hands on a daily, if not hourly basis. But lies are a skein, a stop-gap measure, a patch job. The truth, however, can be as terrible and devastating as it is immutable and unassailable. And beyond that, why would I want you to distrust the Jedi Council? That'd literally only be doing half the job, and marking me for death in the inevitable case that the truth comes to light. I need allies, Bastila, not poisoned daggers."
Bastila sighed, and waved her hand for Revan to continue his story. He sighed himself, shaking his head, before moving on.
It wasn't precisely difficult to arrange for transport to the closest hub of civilisation on Dantooine. All I had to do, after all, was walk. Day after day I walked as the sun of Dantooine shone upon my back, through days when there was no sun and only a deluge from the skies. I knew what it was to be miserable. I learned what it was to be hungry. To be alone. But a Mandalorian is never helpless—this applies doubly to Jedi—and so I spent my nights in deep meditation, deriving nourishment and sustenance from the Force itself. I know not for how long I travelled from civilisation into the untamed wilds and uncharted plains of Dantooine, for every day seemed to blend into the next. I know, however, that upon reaching the other side of the planet, I was surprised. The area was sparse and lifeless, and there was this pall, the very quintessence of death and dread that hung over the area and choked the will to live from the mightiest beast and the smallest, most timid of shrubs. I came to know that overwhelming feeling as the presence of the Dark Side of the Force.
Unlike many Jedi, whose first exposure to the Dark Side was to its nature as seductive and alluring, for me, whose only exposure to the Dark Side was that lifeless, barren hinterland, and who relied on the Force to sustain myself, it was a living nightmare. Death pressed in from all directions, and only scavengers made their meagre livings out there, maugre the lack of all but the occasional corpse. Vultures were too emaciated to fly, tukata too scrawny to hunt, and I, armed only with a stick that had since been fashioned into a crude approximation of a spear, walked abroad in lands that knew not the footfalls of any who was not twisted or maddened by the Dark Side. But where with others, the scavengers might have pounced, me being a child made lean by feeding only through the Force, the sense I got beyond the aura of primeval dread that overshadowed me was a sense of curiosity, of assessment, almost. And thus was a trickle of the Force allowed to remain untainted and unstrangled to reach me, though only enough for my body to sustain itself, no more. It was in such a state, after one long nightmare of crossing those lands, that I came upon that which I knew to be the cave of which Master Kreia spoke.
"Umm…h-hello?" I called into the gaping maw of the cavernous abyss as I stepped over the threshold. The Dark Side was stronger here than it was beyond the mouth of that primordial abattoir, so thick that it choked the very air that I breathed, causing it to become clotted like the black ichor of a corpse, and a Stygian stagnance rendered it at once viscous and ephemeral. Every step I took increased the weight that pressed down upon me, like each step was a stride closer to my inevitable and unenviable doom.
Despite my initial impressions, however, the cavern was not part of some grandiose underdark, some gate beyond which lay only despair and betrayal—indeed, it took perhaps a quarter-hour for me to steal across the winding corridor to the great chamber that housed the crystal I was sent to obtain. The crystal was open to the air as if upon a throne made from lesser gems, and it was here, oddly enough, that I found the only semblance of peace to be found in those lands of furtive shadow and ravenous, bestial, carrion. I knew not why at the time, and indeed, it was only after having joined the war that I found that every hurricane has an eye of peace and rapprochement at the centre of the storm—the concept seemed quite similar to the practise of standing in the presence of that luminescent jewel.
At any rate, upon finding this seemingly-natural altar, I made my way closer to it, and knelt before it before I began to attempt to clear my mind and send it spiralling throughout the Force. It was in that position that my trial there became abundantly transparent, albeit not at first glance. At first, I thought it some trial of patience or forbearance, for I knelt there in meditation for twelve days, uninterrupted. Here, the Force was strong, and in the eye of the whirling miasma that had strangled the life of that land did I find clarity. Twelve days, nearly two standard weeks I waited there as my mind wandered through the eddies and flows of the Force, and it was only then, as the twelfth sun began to set beyond the horizon, that the inhabitant of the cave came forth and revealed their presence to me. I say 'they' because there is truly no record that exists on any planet in the Known Galaxy, nor in much of the Uncharted Regions, of this being's sex or gender.
The being said nothing, a ghost in the Force, sitting there in much the same position that I was in, also deep in meditation. I became aware of them through their presence in the Force, for though the eye of the storm was a chamber of rapprochement, as I said prior, I could still feel their overwhelming power, and the dark aura they brought with them. "So, are you the being whose presence I have been awaiting?" I asked, so deeply entrenched in meditation that I cared not that this being had the ability to annihilate me with a thought—or perhaps it was through some knowledge of my own that my destruction did not interest them; to this day, I know not the reason why. "I would say that you were nearly two weeks late, but then again, I strongly suspect I would be correct in the assumption that you have been here the entire time, and only now did I notice your presence. I am Kylo Wren, formerly of the Mandalorian clan Wren, Padawan learner under the tutelage of Jedi Master Kreia. Pr…"
I could say no more, for it was as if a great hand seized my throat and forced the air from my lungs. "What are you doing here? I mean, really. What are you trying to accomplish?"
"Ack...Urgh...Eck…" I sputtered, attempting to engage the being, still convinced that this was simply an advanced trial for Padawans on the cusp of becoming Jedi.
The creature—for to look upon them, there was really no other way to describe their mutilated countenance—simply smiled, and it was a smile that was wretched to look upon, for even through the haze that enshrouded the ghost, I could see that their skin was grey and cracked, and I could feel waves of agony emanating from them, but in emanating, being consumed. It was then that I began to wonder if I had done something wrong, or if this was supposed to be some lesson on why it is not wise to only ever obey, and that I had failed, and was about to die. I did my best to recite the Jedi Code over and over again, a mantra to prepare myself for my own demise—but ultimately, all that stilled my racing heart and prepared me for death was a nursery rhyme I had heard as a child. The memory of it brought me, while perhaps not to peace, certainly into equilibrium.
"You might want to try something a little different," the ghost remarked, seeming to be bemused under all the excruciating pain wrapped about them like armour. "I'm not going to let you breathe until you tell me exactly what you are doing here…"
"Urgh...Orgh...Ungah…" I responded, trying to explain the task onto which I had been set by Master Kreia, and failing, not for lack of trying, but rather for lack of air with which to form words of any kind save the strangled gasps I was managing.
"Ah… The Crone has sent you…" the ghost sighed, before the hand around my throat relented, and I dropped to the floor on all fours, gasping for breath. "Well, why did you not simply say so?"
"I did…" I replied once I had the presence of mind to attempt to regain my composure.
"Really? All I heard was a lot of blathering, followed by an awful lot of choking…" the ghost remarked, seeming once again bemused. "Also, on a side note, you've got one hell of a set of pipes, kid."
Shaking my head at this, I went back into my seated position as the other did the same on the opposite side of the crystal formation. Choosing another subject, I asked instead, "You know Master Kreia?"
"...By another name, admittedly, but yes," the Force ghost replied ominously, and I sensed it to be unwise to pursue such a line of inquiry with them, at least at this point in time. "Now, if she sent you, we had best be getting to your instruction."
I nodded. "Of course, Master…?" I left the syllable hanging and unfinished in the attempt to gain some form of a name from the entity I believed to be a long-dead Jedi Master.
"It matters little," the ghost replied dismissively, and then plucked the crystal from atop its throne. "I assume you came looking for this, then?"
"It matters little," I replied—and it occurs to me that I was a rather…brash sort in my youth, callow and without fear.
"Right then, up you go," the ghost sighed, and once again, I was in the air and gasping for breath as the phantom hand once more seized my throat. "Having said that, I do like you, kid. You're certainly a spirited little sprat, aren't you?"
"Ack!" I gasped, keeping my hands away from my throat—I knew even then that when you're being choked, the neck is the one place where your hands are the least useful. However, I ought to note that I was growing more and more certain that this wasn't a Jedi Master of old I was contending with. A trifling concern at the moment, I'm aware, but back then, I was not exactly the picture of calm under fire.
"...And we're just now coming to the conclusion that I am Sith…" the Force ghost chuckled. "A little slow on the uptake, aren't you, kid?"
Just behind my survival instinct in the queue of thoughts to enter my head was confusion—what is Sith?
"Peace...is a lie…" the Sith recited. "There is only Passion."
That phrase sent my mind into even further confusion. Did not the Jedi teach that there is no passion, but that there was serenity? What was this… this 'Sith' person on about?
"Through Passion, I gain Strength. Through Strength, I gain Power," the Sith continued, and at that point, I knew I was certain that this person was not a Jedi. It was then that the Sith finally let me down onto my feet. "What is it that the Force is whispering into your ear right now?"
I was on all fours for a little while, coughing and gasping for air like I had just returned from a swim on the surface of Manaan. "'Through Power...I gain Victory… And through Victory, my chains are broken…'" I responded with some difficulty.
"And so, kid, just how are you going to take this from me?" the Sith asked, waggling the violet crystal in front of their face like a fob.
An idea popped into my head, a final line whispered to me on the cusp of the wind. "The Force...shall set me free…!" I cried, lifting up my arm and using the Force to pull the crystal into my grasp, and once it hit my hand, time seemed to slow for me, and the Mandalorian battle-frenzy was upon me at once. Without conscious thought and simply by instinct, I drove my feet into the dirt of the cave floor and bolted, the Force making my feet swift and fleet, though I came to a stop beyond the threshold. I thought to go for my spear, but immediately realised that this foe was beyond mundane weapons, and that spears were no more use there. And so I recited the Resol'nare as the Force whispered the other code, the darker aria into my ear, and settled into a hand-to-hand combat stance.
The Sith's first attack was to take my makeshift spear and launch it at me like a javelin, which I managed to catch with the Force, if only barely. Indeed, the head of the spear was not so much as a millimetre from my face when the Force did halt its advance. The problem was, however, that the Sith was also using the Force, and so the piece of wood tipped with flint was held there for a moment, coming slowly closer and closer as my opponent toyed with me. When the inevitable happened and the spear shattered, I was blasted backwards, hitting the ground hard as I did my best to regain my footing in the same motion, discarding my shredded robes and taking my stance again.
"Wait, wait, wait," Bastila interjected. "You mean to tell me that at the age of seven—"
"Eight," Revan corrected.
"Eight—at the age of eight, you managed to survive an encounter with an ancient Sith Lord?" she stated in disbelief.
"I never said they weren't toying with me," Revan replied with a wry smirk in his tone. "Now, where was I…"
The wraith-like Sith Lord did not chase me, but simply walked out of the cave to find me ready and prepared for a hand-to-hand fight. They smirked, taking their own battle-stance, and simply waiting, doing nothing while I waited for them to make the first move. "Here's how this is going to work, kid. You have fifteen seconds to stop me. In those fifteen seconds, I will not dodge, I will not attack, I will not move. However, if by the end of those fifteen seconds I am not incapacitated, I will hit you once, and we will then proceed to the next round. We go until one of us is, as I have said, incapacitated. Do you understand?"
I nodded slowly, never taking my eyes off of the Sith Lord.
"Good. I knew there was a reason I liked you," they said genuinely. "Now, come on. Don't be shy. Fifteen seconds starts…now."
I didn't believe them at first, and so I took a more cautious approach than what I would have otherwise attempted…
"You charged them," Bastila guessed with a deadpan expression.
"Oh, Force, head-bloody-on," Revan replied with a chuckle.
As I was saying, and as you so…poignantly deduced, I charged the Sith Lord head-on with a wordless battle-cry. I put all my weight behind a punch to the Sith's solar plexus, or at least, that's what I was aiming for. And using the Force to augment my strength, not only did I hit, but the Sith's stony skin fractured in all directions, radiating from the crater my fist had left behind. It didn't even stagger them, and they just kept walking, counting down the seconds. I was counting myself, and after my first punch, I tried another, and another, until I began to fall into the rhythmic routine of the Mandalorian battle-dance—figuratively translated, of course; to translate it literally would have me uttering the words "crane-fish-to-water-drown"—with every Force-augmented punch creating more craters in the Sith's body.
And then fifteen seconds ran out, and saw me laid out on the ground, nursing a new and improved concussion to the point where vision became difficult, painful for me. I tried to blink it away, but only succeeded in washing my right eye red with the blood that dripped from the nearly-fatal wound on my head.
When my heart stopped pounding in my ears, muting all other sounds, I heard the Sith counting down again, and they had already hit ten when I was finally able to attempt to regain my footing. My chest heaving as I tried to force air into my lungs, I wiped the blood off of my forehead and tried to focus on what I had done, focusing on fighting smarter and not harder. Each of my hits had landed, and the Sith had kept their word, not having moved save to strike me. The damage I had done to their stony skin was irrefutable, but it seemed they no longer cared about the fact that their flesh was petrified and was now being stripped away. It was a terrifying sort of indifference that the Sith exhibited, and I'm not going to lie—in that moment, I knew true fear.
Deciding to press what I tried to convince myself was my advantage, I went up once more, seeking to further damage that which I had, by rights, already destroyed. That, as you can doubtless imagine, did not go very well, and by the end, I was on the ground again. It was on the sixth round, seventy-five seconds after the fight had begun, that I found myself nearing defeat. I was worn and weary, injured almost to the point of incapacitation. When I stood, I swayed on unsteady legs. When I looked at anything illuminating, it was as if there was a polesaber shoved into my eye. My left arm was broken, my left ankle sprained—I was in no condition to continue fighting. And yet...and yet I couldn't lose. That wasn't an option. Death, failure, to never see Meetra, my one and only friend, ever again—these were not options. I would not allow them to happen, not under any circumstances. But it was then that the Force failed me at last. I had exhausted myself, and was sustaining myself by way of my determination and my resolve, pure of purpose, and I found I could draw no more on the Light Side to aid me.
It was then that the Dark Side beckoned. It came not as a seducer, nor as a dominator, but as an old friend, offering aid in return for my passion, for my bloodlust, my need to survive and to thrive. And it was then that I touched it for the first time—I let it fill me, and while it was at first black and oily like a petrol spill, in short order it became warm, welcoming, even as frost began to form on the ground and rocky overhangs around me in all directions. I walked forward for the last round, and at the advice of the Dark Side, the saccharine, androgynous voice of that virulent corruption who introduced himself as Boga, I waited.
I waited as the Sith looked on, bemused. I waited as they continued counting down. When it got down to three, I raised my hand, and concentrated as Boga instructed me on what to do. I imagined a phantom hand wrapping around the Sith's throat, and I imagined it crushing their throat, exerting pressure on their larynx and compressing their lungs until they could breathe no more. And as I felt the Dark Side flowing through me, it was at once exhilarating and terrifying—it was undoubtedly one of the best feelings I had had in my young life, but I could sense a hidden malevolence… And suddenly, I understood—I understood why what I was doing was so dangerous. The Dark Side was addictive, like a spiritual narcotic, and once you used it enough, you would never be able to stop.
The Force-choking technique I used was not nearly as powerful nor as effective as the one the Sith had used on me, but mine at least gave the Sith Lord pause, and then they smiled. It was this that confused me, and made me lose my hold on the Dark Side, as it then flooded out of my body, leaving me feeling drained and empty, and so very cold…
When I awoke, I was alone, wrapped in my tattered robe as snow began to fall. The violet crystal, clasped in my hand, was pulsating with warmth and light, which was honestly how, I believe, I survived out there without suffering hypothermia or frostbite. My body ached, but I found that I had healed the damage done. And so I got to my feet unsteadily, leaning against a nearby stone, and then began my long journey back to the Jedi Enclave, leaving the cave behind me, and to this day, I have yet to revisit it.
Bastila sat in stunned silence. "You...what? You faced down the spectre of an ancient Sith Lord, and they just let you leave?"
"Believe me, I was as confused on the subject then as you are now. I could not believe that that had happened—at least, until I discovered the secrets of the Trayus Academy when I was on Dromund Kaas…" Revan replied, gravely serious.
"And…what was the name of this Sith Lord who simply let you go?" Bastila asked, still reeling in incredulity.
Revan sighed. "Their name was Darth Sion."
To be continued…