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I'm back after yet another long wait. Muchas gracias to all who read and/or reviewed. Hope it's worth the wait.


Part VI

The deafening noise of a blaster going off in an enclosed space ripped through the air, the stench of burned flesh – the rotting stench of death – filling his nostrils, bringing forth waves of dizziness and nausea, smoke filling his eyes, stinging more than the wetness in them, of origin unknown. The smoke cleared. Wedge's eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, his face an unreadable mask as he fell. There was no resentment in the eyes – now dirt-coloured – no emotion of any kind, not even shock, but that was only due to the mortal wound that marred his countenance, a burned hole, square between the eyes.

The hiss of his dying breath went unnoticed, for all sound was drowned out by the deafening roar of Luke's own shaking breaths – Who am I now? – spaced closer and closer together. Inhale…exhale…inhale…exhale…inhale…inhale…inhale… No matter how much he breathedit still felt like drowning. But I've been drowning a long time…Tainted blood rushed through his veins, corrupting all of him, his heart pounding in his head, the rhythmic pulse mesmerizing, hypnotizing… Could I stop it from beating? The world was blurry and spinning and the ground was suddenly eager to meet him.

He struggled to remain stable. And then a shiver ran through him, the heat suddenly leaving the air, the blood leaving his flesh, the rhythm subsiding…The cold set in, announcing the arrival of a new winter…

I killed him…Couldn't have…I didn't…Did I? His eyes again wandered to the ground and – oh please, tell me I'm hallucinating… No apparition was so…real. Must leave…they can't know…he tried to flee, but it was too cold; his body was a sculpture carved from ice, feet frozen to the ground – hard as steel – black steel, like father's— and twice as heavy, the sensation tenfold inside – it was so numb, so empty, so lonely – lonely as an arctic desert, not a shred of life within.

So he averted his eyes. If you don't look at it, it's not so bad. But it was there and you could never shut the door on it, ever-present, like the whispers that hissed in his mind. Did you not love it? Did you not love the power that surged through you? All they did was lie? Why did he listen? Why did he trust above all else that which continued to poison him?

The unanswered questions lingered as he fled the dreadful place he'd created, but the aura of death – that infernal cloud of inky darkness, leeching the life from all things - clinging to him like filth, muddying the once still, now stormy waters of his mind.

He dashed into his quarters and collapsed on the cot, trying to catch his breath, which had long since been stolen from him. Black spots danced across his vision. He stumbled into the 'fresher, splashing water into his face , then looked up at the cracked, filthy mirror. A young face stared back at him. Pale, gaunt and weary, but youthful, almost innocent – almost…that part of him had been lost somewhere along this dreadful journey of three years, perhaps it had withered away with the burned corpses of the only relatives he'd ever known, perhaps ripped from him as he'd searched his feelings and realized the unmistakable truth in the Dark Lord's words, perhaps shattered by the perpetual darkness that haunted him.

As he stared into his – no, his outer shell's – clear blue eyes, he saw how little justice they did to what dwelled inside, he wanted nothing more than to be torn from his body, which had now become a coffin. He wanted to be free of this mask – if only he were hideous, then, at least, he would not be a lie – he would not be a liar.

With a quiet sigh, he leaned his forehead against the mirror, paying no mind to the dirt – For are you not dirt as well? Are you not by far a filthier creature? – and stayed there for Force knew how long. As if, by standing there, entranced, he could make it all, and himself disappear. As if it could all be forgotten in the blink of an eye.

He would have stayed forever, but he knew it could not be so. Things never left you alone, even if you did not touch them. You could make yourself forget, but the imprints could never be removed. Much like the scars.

Returning to his cot, he sat there, alone. Deserted by all he had once believed in, by everything and everyone he'd known. Even the Force was now eerily silent. He was forsaken.

Burying his face in his hands, he shut his eyes, as if to dispel the disturbing images. Focusing on the emptiness within, as if to shut out the backdrop of insidious words. What am I to do? What have I been reduced to?

What do I have left now?


That morning, Mara had awakened next to an unfamiliar but, for a reason unknown, not unwelcome form – as she'd pulled her sleep-weighted eyelids apart, her gaze had turned to rest at Skywalker's lean, hard body and her arm curled almost possessively around his waist. She'd mumbled something unintelligible even to her own ears and before the haze of sleep had lifted from her mind, Skywalker had left, but not before planting a brief kiss on her face. The gesture was not casual, but nearly so. It seemed…natural, for lack of a better word, but she had secretly melted under it. She wondered if he knew that he had such an effect on her. If he does, he probably enjoys it.

It was evening now, and she had not seen him since. Buried doubt arose from within – what if he was not sincere? Had he used her and thrown her away, like the scum she'd rightly thought him to be? What if he'd abandoned her, having realized what a mistake he had made? What if he knew everything? He wouldn't play dumb with me if he knew. Would he?

No, it was none of these things. She knew slime when she saw it, and so far her scopes were negative. He was above such things. But are you? Would you do such a thing to him. You would, wouldn't you? As far as she knew there was not a dishonorable bone in his body, but she was far less certain when it came to herself. And then came the thought that had come to haunt her.

Perhaps it would have been better if he had left you.

It would have been far better for him, though he was blissfully unaware of this. It would have been best for him to distance himself and keep away, avoid her like the plague. Too bad he would never leave – too bad he loved her. Such painful irony, a cruel joke of fate, perhaps one of the Force's spiteful little games.

If only he knew. He'd be long gone by now. I should never have gotten involved with him. She did not regret loving him. It was the most wonderful thing she'd ever known. What she did regret was dragging him into her mess. Why did I do it? I knew it was wrong. I knew it would ruin him. Have I over all these years become but a mindless instrument?

Then surfaced another stray thought. What gave you the right? How dare she plant the seed that would blossom into his destruction – the destruction of a living, breathing, feeling person, not just another task – then tempt her victim into falling in love with his murderer? How dare she?

And why had she not been honest? Why had she not let the truth come out? All was lost now, whether he knew it or not. Why would she not let the covers fall away, let the deceptions fade and everything be as is? The answer was there.

Because he will leave me if I do. That, she could not afford. He was the only one who could ever love one as vile and filthy as herself. In the end, it was all one needed – to be loved. The Emperor had given her all she had: a purpose. But he could never give her love.

Do you deserve it? If she only dealt in truths, she already knew. No. She was a traitor and a whore, and he was the only one who could love her for it, no matter how dirty she was. She did not deserve it, but she needed it. As all living things did.

She would tell him, even if all hell broke loose. It pained her to be dishonest when he would willingly pour out his soul to her. Maybe he could find it in his heart to forgive her. Don't hold your breath. It's over. Mara stepped out into the hallway with a newfound resolve.

Once at his door, she considered turning back. Telling him would change nothing. Either way, he would watch helplessly as his whole life unraveled, thread by thread. Wouldn't it make it worse if he knew that she was the one at fault? Or would it be worse if he would until his end ask himself the ever-present one-word question why? Perhaps the latter. Still, she had to – selfishly – get it off her chest.Before she could decide against it, she knocked on the door.

"Come in." Blank words, softly spoken. The door slid open, albeit clumsily, for the mechanism had not been oiled in ages and was in about as good shape as the rest of the ship. The officers' quarters were not much better than hers, though he had the luxury of having no snoring roommates. The room was, as usual, cold, bleak and dirt-encrusted. Why did it feel even more so now?

Skywalker was seated on his cot, shadows on his face, eyes closed tight as if to shield them from the world. They snapped open and his gaze fixed on her. Ever silent, he rose. Unpredictable, dangerous, yet so delicate, so fragile.

"Skywalker. I…We need to talk." No response. He walked over to the other side of the room, where his things lay scattered – was he packing? A planetside mission?

"Where are you going?" Silence. Then he turned to stare at her. He looked weary and spent.

"Nowhere. I'm going nowhere," Was the reply, sad but without passion. Not burning agony, but faded grey pain. Mara crossed her arms, ridding herself of empathy.

"Where?" Harsher, now. Again, he stared deeper into her soul. The soul she'd hardened long ago.

"I'm leaving," Was the terse reply. His features were a mask of serenity. A rapidly faltering disguise.

"Why? You can't leave? These people need you! You are the best pilot this kriffin' rebellion has! You'd dedicate three years of your life to it then just leave, like it doesn't matter?" What a hypocrite you are. After all, you are the one who changes sides at the turn of the tide.

"Don't You understand? I have no choice!" Anger? Outrage?

"So, you are going throw your life away, aren't you?" Asked Mara with uncalled for indignation. It sounded so naïve, even to her.

"What life?" Words punctuated by a cross between a laugh and a sob. "This is not a life. Hell, it makes death sound appealing." A hitch in his breath, almost undetectable. He threw the last of his few possessions into the bag and leaned against the wall, again looking down.

"I should have left long ago. I'm a danger to all of them. You included, Jade." Something inside her trembled.

"Mara," She said, hoarsely. "It's Mara." Why did her throat tighten so?

"I don't want to leave. I love you, Mara Jade…I wish I could stay. I can't. I don't know what's wrong with me." His voice cracked.

"Tell me, " he whispered, suddenly at her side, " Why is it so empty…so cold?" Wide blue eyes shining with tears he would not shed. They belonged on someone else, someone younger, more innocent. So lost.

And she could provide no answer.

"Why do I feel so dead inside?" Sobbing, now.

"I don't know…I don't know," She whispered. And she held him tight, like the truth she could never tell him.


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