The Temple feels lifeless. Empty. It's the way their footsteps echo as the masters guide them back towards the airspeeder. It's the absence of voices reverberating on the ceiling, of students whispering or hurrying across the hall. Most of all, it's the faces he doesn't see. Meetra. Zhar. Old Nemo. Perhaps they're dead, rotting somewhere in the ruins of the Enclave on Dantooine. Perhaps he's killed them. From afar, through assassins, through bombs… he doesn't know. Perhaps there's no way of knowing, and if they were alive, they wouldn't want to see him. Because it's his doing. His and Revan's, yes, but mostly his. And there's no forgetting that. Perhaps that's why he was so scared of coming back. Perhaps that's why he thought he would choose death over redemption. What he had failed to consider, was that Revan would be the one to bring him back… and that changes everything. It always has, and there's a good chance it always will. Still, perhaps that won't be enough.
He casts Vrook a quick glance
'Assassination, then?'
'If need be.'
He should have seen it coming. He should have known they would use him too, the way they have used her, the way they're still using her, but the strange part is, he doesn't even mind. At least they're being honest about it. At least they're doing something, not like all those years ago, when the galaxy burned and they sat back and watched. The problem is, helping them won't change a thing. It won't erase what he's done. It won't bring true, lasting peace. Not if the Republic fails to prepare itself, not as long as the threat still lurks in the shadows. Peace. What would he know about peace? He's only ever waged war. And he wants peace, he does, but… it almost feels like a myth, or a children's story. Something you might easily dismiss as an outright lie. He wasn't always like that. Even after Quelli, he had hoped, for a time. He and Revan would bring peace, once and for all… except they didn't, and fell to the Dark Side instead. It all feels so pointless now.
They pass by the fountain at the end of the hall, and perhaps he stares at it a little too long, or perhaps his steps come to a brief halt, he doesn't really know, but Revan stops and looks at him.
"What is it?" she asks, almost in a whisper.
"Nothing," he says, but Revan casts him a severe look, and he can tell she's not buying it.
He gestures towards the small pool.
"One night, we sneaked out of the dorms and went for a midnight swim. Well, more of a midnight paddle, really. Got a cold, too, but we had fun. We were sixteen… and Zhar was furious."
"In this thing?"
Malak nods.
"Whose idea?"
Oh, that one's obvious.
"Yours."
Revan gives him an apologetic half-smile, and for a fraction of a second, Malak catches himself hoping she remembers. There's no point. She doesn't.
"Come on," she says, and they resume walking.
The masters are a good ten metres away, now, not that their pace makes it hard to catch up. That's one thing he never quite understood about the Jedi Council. How slowly they always moved, even with war at their doorstep. How one could remain this calm and glide on through life, even as their worlds burned and their students died. He's in no position to lecture them, of course – or anyone else, really – but he still doesn't fully understand. There was a time he would wonder if some of them had ever been human. Now, he only wonders if he still is.
They're outside, now, and Revan casts him a worried look as they board the speeder again. Vrook hazards a question.
"Where do you plan on starting?"
They look at each other, and there's no knowing what the other thinks but…
"Korriban," they both say.
Vrook nods. It makes sense. Korriban has always meant trouble for the Republic, and the old master knows that. It doesn't stop him from asking:
"Why?"
Revan shrugs.
"A hunch."
"Well, that," he adds, "and the fact that the third fleet was stationed there before I… was defeated on the Star Forge. And since the first two were destroyed in the battle…"
"That makes it the best place to start tracking our new fleet admiral."
"Exactly."
Vrook tilts his head to the side.
"Any idea who that could be?"
"Normally, Saul Karath would have assumed command, but he and his second were killed four weeks ago, and I… haven't had the occasion to look further into the matter."
Malak doesn't need to tell them why. Bastila was hardly the first prisoner he'd tortured, nor the one who'd suffered the most… but she was the closest to Revan, and the way she winces at his words is enough to deter him from any further explanation.
"The Sith Academy might be a lead as well. I've long been wary of Uthar Wynn's ambition, but in light of recent developments… Perhaps Jorak Uln?"
Revan shakes her head.
"No. Dead too."
Ah. He should have guessed. No matter. There are enough upstarts on Korriban that the new Sith leader might still be one of them. And if they're not… well he doesn't have much else to go on. But no one presses the matter, and there's a slight, temporary relief in not having to say more.
They reach the landing pad, and the crowd has been dispelled – mostly – so they hasten towards the ship until…
"Lord Malak?"
Kriff.
"Lord Malak?" the voice repeats.
Malak keeps walking, until a small, purple-haired woman plants herself in front of him and extends a firm, steady hand.
"Bariss Lane, from the Coruscant Herald."
Malak grudgingly shakes it, then tries to get round her. The woman shifts to the side, effectively blocking his path, and the words 'force choke' briefly cross his mind… no, no. This is not the way.
"As you can see, Miss Lane, we are in a hurry."
"I'll be brief," she says, and gets a pad out of her pocket. "Do you foresee an end to the war in the near future?"
The truth is, he doesn't know.
"Lord Malak," she repeats. "Is the Empire currently negotiating a ceasefire with the Republic?"
"Ask them," he snaps.
The woman starts scribbling.
"Lord Malak," she says, "am I to understand that you are no longer affiliated with the Sith Empire? Are you then to be tried as a citizen of the Republic?"
Malak feels his knuckles crack. He doesn't know. He doesn't care. What he does know, right now, is that he wants her gone.
"Lord Malak?" she repeats, and if she says it once more, he's going to explode. He has no answers for her. And from what he can tell, Revan doesn't either – not that the woman pays her much heed. That doesn't stop her from stepping forward and leaning towards the journalist, as if to whisper in her ear.
"It's classified Jedi business, Miss. Now if you'll excuse us…"
The woman frowns, but relents.
"Well, then," she says, handing Revan a card, "should any developments arise… you may contact me at any time."
Revan slips the card in her pocket and forces a smile.
"I'll bear it in mind."
The woman nods and walks away.
"Tell me you're throwing that away."
"Nope."
"Fantastic."
There's tension in the lieutenant's voice – who could blame him, really? - but the briefing hasn't yet turned into open warfare, which Malak supposes he should feel grateful for.
"So… Korriban, right?"
"That's the plan."
"You know I almost thought the war would be over after all this. That all we had to do was kill Malak and all would magically fall into place. Turns out, we haven't killed Malak, and things are not falling into place."
Ah.
"I told you Carth, I can't just…"
"I know, and I never asked you to! I just… I'm tired alright. I just want it to be over."
"You don't have to do this Carth. You've done more than enough. You've earned some rest, and time with your son."
"You think I'm leaving you alone with him?"
No. Not a chance.
"I'm not alone, Carth."
"You're right, I… these past few weeks have been a lot. And I don't know anything about the Force, but I'm beginning to think it really hates me."
"I know. I'm sorry."
Malak doesn't know what happened that she should feel sorry for, but he can tell she's apologizing for more than just his presence here. For some reason, it's not helping.
"If any of you want to leave…"
The crew stares at her, but doesn't move.
"Alright, then. To Korriban."
It's a few more hours to Korriban, and the ship is silent save for the soft whir of the machines and the distant sound of Jolee's snoring. He finds Revan alone in the cockpit, eyes lost in the blue void, and a few seconds go by before she notices his presence
"Oh, hi," she says.
"Hi."
"Couldn't sleep?"
Malak shakes his head. It's easier to let go of guilt when you think of the other as the enemy. But when they're not anymore… well.
"You're not sleeping either."
"No. I had a flashback."
Ah. That's why.
"What did you see?"
"This," she says, gesturing at the blue vortex, "and a planet. Clouded. Blue."
"That could be anything."
"Or worth nothing. I know. And I hate that. Not knowing."
At least that hasn't changed.
She turns away and leans against the dashboard, all but glaring at the blue tunnel in front.
Then she reaches into her side-pocket and pulls the calling card out, along with a crumpled paper note, only to shove them in a small, overflowing drawer right underneath the dashboard, and he feels a faint smile creep up his ravaged face, because really, that's such a Revan thing to do.
It's only been three days. Three days since they were at each other's throats. Three days since he tried to kill her. Three days since she saved his life. But for a mere instant, a few seconds at most, he looks at her and almost forgets all that's happened. The betrayals, the wars, the pain… he looks at her and all he sees is the Revan from Dantooine, his Revan, the one from before the war, the one who laughed and argued and sparred with him in the fields. The one who liked sunsets and fast ships and climbing dangerously high trees. But then, she looks back at him, and she's so tired and confused and lost. The first time she gave him that look… well, her world had just collapsed, and he had been the one to bring it down. And he remembers, still, the words that crossed his mind then: she's not Revan. She's her corpse.
He couldn't have been further from the truth. Corpses don't remember. Corpses do not feel pain, and it's obvious that Revan does. She's broken, yes, but she's not a corpse. In the end, she's just like him: missing a piece, scarred by one she trusted, trying to ignore her wound, yet always reminded something's gone. Now all she has is a dull throbbing in a gaping hole. And at the time, it felt like she deserved it but right now… right now, he wishes she were whole. He'd feel a bit less monstrous if she were. The mere thought is absurd. She's not, and she won't be.
"What is it?" she says.
"Nothing," he lies.
"It's not nothing," she counters, and she's right, but he can't tell her that, so he points at the drawer instead.
"Well… you don't really need all that junk, Win, do you?"
Revan's eyebrows narrow ever so slightly.
"Win?"
Oh. Of course. She doesn't know.
"Winama? Winama Erso?"
Revan blinks. Once. Twice.
"Revan's just Quellian for 'daydream'," he explains.
"Really? What's 'Malak', then?"
"Honestly? You just added an 'm'."
She frowns.
"Wha… I'd never be that lazy. Were we drunk?"
"Very much so."
Revan simply purses her lips.
"I swear I'm not making it up," he says, throwing both his hands up. Then it hits him that her name is but one of the things she ought to know about herself. Alright, then. Step one.
"How old are you?" he blurts out.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"How old are you?" he repeats. It's utterly ridiculous, but then, is there one thing about the whole situation that is not?
She quirks an eyebrow at him.
"Is that a trick question?"
"Yes. How old are you?"
"Twenty-eight?"
"Hm hm. Plus six."
"No way."
"Way."
Revan seems to think, then smirks at him.
"Well, I think I look great for a woman my age."
Malak snorts.
"Yes. You also have a very bad memory for a woman your age."
The words tumble out before he can stop them. He's an idiot.
"Did you just…"
Yes, yes, he did, and if he had a tongue, he'd be biting it hard.
"I'm sorry."
Revan nods absently.
"I, um… I'm going to bed."
And she leaves him alone in the cockpit, staring at the blue vortex before him. He's an idiot.
