In all the years that she's known them, Meetra's only seen Revan and Malak duel once.

It was at the very beginning of the war, right before the runaway Jedi had gotten earnestly involved with the Republic. Maybe the two of them felt like they had to show off for the soldiers, to let them know what they were capable of. They were proud and fierce and knew they had something to prove.

More importantly, they had the ability to prove themselves.

Of course it worked. The crowd watched in awe as Revan and Malak fought in sync, like one person, or two halves of a whole. Even Meetra held her breath, sitting between Xaset and Talvon, as she watched them match blow for blow. She still remembers the disbelief she felt at the impossibility of what they did, moving as though they knew exactly what the other was thinking. When Revan finally disarmed Malak, Malak disarmed Revan, and then they fought with each other's blades like they were their own.

She should've known then, watching them, that there was more to their story. Perhaps it was obvious to anyone who didn't grow up believing that everyone held fast to the wisdom of keeping yourself from attachments. Perhaps it was obvious to anyone who wasn't Meetra, who carried a multitude of emotions about them that she had yet to name at that point.

Because Revan and Malak weren't the only ones who needed to prove themselves. Though the war gave them all a cause to fight for, it also gave them the cruel taste of violence, of justice, and soon the numbness that comes from fighting the same enemy for so long.

Meetra couldn't have known that at the start, not when she so furiously believed that they were doing the right thing. Not when she watched Revan and Malak move across their stage in perfect rhythm, jealousy looming in the back of her mind because for all her days spent sparring with Malak, she'd never come close to beating him.

All she knows now is—whatever happened between Revan and Malak on the Star Forge, it must've been one hell of a show.

Meetra meditates for a long time after Nathema.

It's the only way to make sense of what happened. Shame burns through her, unpleasant and unwelcome, but it's hard to shake off. It's hard to relive the pain of Malachor when she's spent so long pushing it away. She thought she'd finally healed from it, that going back there and facing it would finally put it to rest, but it's risen up again and gripped her as it always wants to.

The Wound is hungry, and alive, and sometimes she wonders what would've happened if she gave into it, as Nihilus did. It's frightening to know the potential of your pain, the effect it could have on the galaxy. Already it made her shatter under its weight again, to seek out Malak despite the way he didn't comfort her the first time.

Sometimes she thinks she could blame the war for every bad thing that's happened to her. She could blame it for what it took from her—comfort, home, community—and for what it gave her, for what it made her. She'd never killed anyone before she left Coruscant with Revan and Malak. She'd never compromised who she was, given up her warmth in the face of cold violence, or seen the galaxy through a lens of hopelessness.

But then she did, and despite all her healing, she still drags the war with her everywhere she goes.

It's harder to shake off now, though. Revan and the war are one and the same in Meetra's mind. She doesn't know how to separate one from the other—if there's even a way—and chasing after Revan's shadow is like picking up the pieces of a war that should be forgotten.

Then Nathema pushed that same feeling of Malachor through her veins, and her old bond with Malak wants to come alive again, relentlessly asking her to let it back in.

Maybe she shouldn't be surprised by that—reaching out for people is what she does. It's not a conscious thing but it happens all the same, and her bond with Malak was closer than most. They knew each other for years before the war, building something that was only strengthened by the battlefield. Like all things, it tore apart on Malachor, but that doesn't mean it wants to—or has the ability to—stay quiet.

The way he held her doesn't help. The patience and care he showed her—echoes of who he once was—only makes it harder to ignore.

Whatever calls to her deep down, though, she knows that she can't trust him. She knows that he'll always choose Revan over her, and it's always hurt them both.

But meditation helps. Meditation clears her mind and allows her to focus, despite how all of her thoughts want to rush at her at once. The void of Nathema and its residual effect. A moment of impact and the past suddenly alive again, different but somehow the same as it was in that cursed cave on Korriban.

Back then she had gone to Atton after, and he was there for her despite the roadblocks they put in each other's ways. After Nathema, she glossed over what happened and hid herself here in the cargo hold. It's what she's been trying to avoid. She knows that he understands this part of who she is, but it's one thing to know, and another to see.

And it's so hard to own these ghosts.

She'd be content to drown herself in her meditation, to allow the comfort of the Force to continue to veil the shame of what happened, but it can't last. If she wasn't alone—if Mical or Visas were here she could probably keep going, but her focus wanes as time drags on. The small discomforts in her body make themselves known: the stiffness of her neck, the ache in her knees, and when she finally stands up she stretches her arms out, listening to the satisfying crack of her joints.

Her mind is mercifully blank as she snaps to awareness, but she knows it won't last for long—it never does. Even so, it's a small break from the racing thoughts that she's been fighting for the past two weeks.

Kriff—is that all it's been? Two weeks ago Kreia was still aboard this ship, Atris's secrets remained hidden, and Meetra had no idea that Malak was alive. Perhaps she shouldn't be surprised at this point—how quickly life moves along—but the realization still sweeps over her in a flash and leaves her a little dumbfounded.

It isn't until she hears the low murmur of two voices that she snaps out of it. She follows the sound into the main hold, where she finds Malak and Atton sitting across from each other, pazaak cards in their hands. There's something fragile about both of them, but the Force sits comfortably in the room instead of the burden it's been.

Meetra tries very hard not to frown.

It's Atton who looks up first, and his expression loosens into a familiar grin. "Hey, Sweets."

"Hi," she says after a beat of hesitation. Malak glances up when she speaks, and maybe he doesn't look at her like Atton does, but he seems calm despite the concern in his eyes.

She wishes she'd gone to Nathema alone, that she could've faced what was there by herself. Heat like anger churns in her stomach at the thought of Malak seeing her like that—broken, weak, and lost in the past. These are things she has survived on her own, and none of it belongs to him.

But still—he pulled her out of it, and maybe that's even more upsetting.

"Were you able to reach Bastila?" she asks, and clears her throat. Her voice sounds hollow and out of practice, and she can see the shift in Atton's gaze at it.

"Not through holocall," he answers carefully. He glances at Malak, who shakes his head. "I think we're too far out. We sent a message, though."

She sucks in a short breath. Something about seeing Malak and Atton together like this doesn't sit right, but she knows better than to say anything about it. Instead, she nods to herself and murmurs, "Okay. How soon until we arrive?"

Atton's brows lower in thought. "About four or five hours."

"Okay," she says again, and takes a breath. "I'm going to study T3's scans in the meantime."

"Sounds good."

Malak doesn't say anything to her, and Atton goes back to their game. Meetra stands there for only a moment longer, uncertain of what, exactly, she's feeling but feeling it all the same. She doesn't understand why Atton would want to spend time with Malak. Doesn't the former Sith remind him of his past in a way that hurts?

Has Meetra even asked?

It's with a sigh that she crumples into the copilot seat, beckoning T3 to display the images of the temple in place of the volley of stars that blur towards them.

"This is what Revan does to me," she says to the droid, letting her eyes settle on the calming blue light at the center of his dome

T3 beeps, and she presses her lips together. She was always kind to me, he says, and Meetra finds herself smiling.

"Well who could possibly be mean to you, hm?"

He beeps again, and this time her attention turns to the scans in front of her as she sits back and prepares to figure out whatever mystery Revan's chasing.

It's a little while later that she hears Atton's steps head down the corridor towards her. It's not as familiar as it could be, considering he's usually the one that's here and she's the one seeking him out, but she still knows it's him as she continues to study the viewport as though simply staring at it will give her the answers she seeks.

"Replacing me with the cargo cylinder?" Atton asks, and she can hear the sound of a grin in his voice before she turns to confirm that it's there.

"Thinking about it," she answers, somewhat absently. "Did you win?"

"Did I win—" he repeats. "You ever know me to lose?"

Meetra raises an unimpressed brow. "Yes. Several times, in fact."

"Playing against you doesn't count," he explains. "And any other time...I meant to do that. It's called hustling."

"Sure, babe," she says, swallowing the laugh that threatens to come out.

The expression on his face is an odd mix of annoyance and embarrassment, not something she usually sees on him. He changes the subject: "Make any progress here?"

She shakes her head. "Not yet. You?"

He raises a brow as he stops what he's doing. His eyes glance up at the scans, and his lips form a frown. "I haven't even looked at it."

"No—you and Malak," she says. "Looks like you two are friends now."

"Don't worry," he says back. "You know I only have eyes for you."

"Not the mental image I needed," she says, and Atton scrunches his nose in response. Meetra lets herself smile a little before letting out a breath and asking a question in the form of one word: "Why?"

He looks at her and she hopes that he understands, that somehow the bond between them makes it clear. I can't trust him, I can't let him get close to you. Perhaps it says enough that she can feel the joking answer that poises at his lips, ready and there just as it always is, but she can also feel the moment it gives way to the truth.

"I wanted to talk to him," he says, and sighs. "It's easier, sometimes, with cards in your hands."

And Meetra remembers a conversation on Nar Shaddaa, the way it continued on the Ebon Hawk. She remembers the way his eyes narrowed as he spit out words about the war, about what he did, and thinks that it makes sense that some part of him would feel compelled to talk to Malak about it.

She's not the only one with history with them.

"Okay," she says, because despite how she's pushed him before about this, it wouldn't feel right, now. She looks at him and she knows how it feels to grapple with your past. He doesn't need her deepening the wound.

"What do you want, Surik?" he asks, but it doesn't sound mean. It's a genuine question, one borne of confusion that she's undoubtedly caused.

She thinks she'd like to go home, only there isn't anywhere to call home now. After the war, moving on looked a lot like running away, and she's tired of running. Her and Atton are both the type that need to keep moving, so maybe it makes sense that they're here together, still going at the end of it all. If there was a place—if there was just one place for them—

"I want to understand what this means," she says, pointing at T3's scans. This is how they'll move on. "It looks like a form of Jedi script, but it's different from anything I've studied. The words I thought I could make out don't make any sense together."

Atton spares her a long look before shifting his gaze to the scans as well. He knows what she's doing.

"Well what about these lines?" he asks, pointing to the ones that curve around the figures.

"I don't know—could be roads, or paths, or...something completely abstract," she says with a short breath that sounds something like a laugh. When she looks up, her eyes land on his face, close in proximity but he still feels distant. He looks at the scans with intent, softer than usual. His walls are completely down with her, and it's so unfair that she hasn't done the same with him.

"I'm sorry," she says, and that gets him to move his gaze to her. "This is harder than I thought it would be."

"Yeah," he says back. "I know. You warned me."

Her frustration ebbs but she can still feel it under the surface. "I don't want to hurt you."

And that lazy grin comes over his lips. "Trust me, it takes a lot more than this to hurt my feelings."

She wishes she could tell him how grateful she is that he's here, but he must know that. He must feel it in their bond—what's alive and good between them might be the only thing on this ship alive and good.

"What did Malak say?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "That he's worried about you. Which makes me feel like I should be, too."

"I'm okay," she says. It's almost the truth, because the truth is that she will be. She'll get over it. "Nathema shook me up a little, and I can't say that I'm happy to be on this mission, but I'll be okay."

"What about Malak?"

"What about him?"

"I don't know," Atton says, and he moves his gaze to the viewport, where the light ghosts over his profile. "I feel like we're gonna need him on our side. There might come a point where we can't consider him an enemy."

Meetra swallows. "You read Revan's letter."

"Forces in this universe greater than what we've encountered'," he repeats. "I know we've beaten the odds before, but are you sure about this one?"

"As much as I can be," she admits, but they both know that doesn't count for much when she still doubts everything. She amends: "I'm sure about us. What we've been through."

That's the one thing she can trust in. That counts for more than anything else.

Atton's lopsided gin is response enough.

Meetra lingers in the corridor for far too long. She left Atton to talk to Malak, the rational part of her brain reminding her that she chose to stay on this mission, chose to let Malak aboard the ship, and if they're going to get anything done, she can't let her emotions get in the way.

Which, like everything else, is easer said than done.

A deep breath. Another one. She takes her final steps into the main hold, where Malak sits with Revan's letter in his hands. He glances up at Meetra, meeting her gaze for just a second before dropping it again. Meetra, for her part, ignores him as she strides over to a seat a good distance away.

Time stretches on with the emptiness between them, but finally Malak fills the space for her: "Revan always did have lousy handwriting."

"Like yours is any better," she says absently.

"Hey," he says, and his gaze is already on her when she looks up to meet it. "I've worked on mine."

She raises a brow.

"Frela gets flare ups with arthritis," he explains. "It makes it tough to write, so she has me fill out a lot of forms for her. She said there was no point if they were illegible."

"Good woman."

"She is," he agrees. "Always too good for us."

Meetra considers that for a moment, watching Malak carefully. "Not according to her."

She sees the moment his brow quirks as he takes in what she just said. "What do you mean?"

"She asked me to apologize to Revan for her," Meetra answers, keeping her voice even. "She thinks she contributed to Revan's fall—whatever that means."

It's out in the open, free for Malak to take and explain if he wants to. Meetra just watches him as emotion work its way subtly over his face. It starts with the set of his jaw, and despite the curiosity that burns in her mind, she knows she has to leave it up to him.

He takes the bait.

"I—we—haven't really talked about it much," he says. "I suppose she feels guilty for the way things ended with them on Taanab, but I don't think Revan ever blamed her."

"Is that why—" Meetra starts, and cuts herself off. She thinks of the Coruscant spaceport, of the one and only time she saw Revan cry. She thinks of her own hands shaking and the way Malak's arms wrapped around the woman who still had yet to become both the hero and the villain. She takes a breath. "What did Frela do?"

Her voice is quiet, and the question stays in the air for what feels like too long between them.

Malak watches her carefully until he doesn't, until he looks away and sighs. "It was more like what she didn't do," he starts. "The day they found out that the Averre boys died, Frela's husband took out his grief on Revan. He blamed her for the Jedi not being there, said that it wouldn't have happened if we were doing something. He kicked her out. Frela didn't say anything—she just watched—and Revan lost all of them that day."

Meetra presses her lips together, uncomfortable with the pity that sings out in her heart. She shakes it off, looking Malak up and down for a second before saying, "She wasn't very good at avoiding attachments."

In response, Malak lifts the letter in his hands.

A small sound escapes her mouth, like it could be a laugh if she was willing. The moment of levity doesn't last long because it can't last long, because she has to keep going. "About Nathema—"

She still doesn't know what to say. Her words cut off as she looks back at the rest of the main hold, over this place that she has lived for months now. Maybe this is a home. Maybe she has made this place a home.

"You don't have to," Malak says quietly as the silence drags on.

"It felt like it did before," she says, hoping that it's as much of an explanation as he needs. As if six words could summarize years of raw feeling. "I'm mad at myself for letting it affect me like that, and I'm mad at you for witnessing it. For responding with kindness."

"That...isn't what I expected," he says, and there's some sense of amusement there, even under the hurt that sits so obviously in his eyes. She knows she isn't the only reason for it, but it still makes her feel guilty.

She sighs. "I don't know how to move forward like this, Malak."

"I don't either," he responds, and she thinks that maybe this is it—maybe the past isn't something the two of them can recover from—but then the corners of his lips turn up. "I'm willing to try, though."

And damn his ability to get under her skin, access the part of her heart that always cared about him, even as he fell. No attachments—she supposes she's never been particularly good at it, either. She knows how useful it would be, if she could've been a better Jedi both then and now. She thinks of her friends back on Dantooine, Atton in the cockpit, and Malak here, and presses her lips together as she turns her head.

"Okay," she says, and at first it's the only thing she thinks she's going to say until she hears herself continue, "I can't promise that I'll get there."

When she returns her gaze to him, he nods.

"Okay," he says back, and part of her wishes he would fight for it. That he would have something other than this resigned sadness about him.

But as it is, he has nothing else for her, and it's only a few minutes later that she gets up and leaves.

It takes less than two hours for them to arrive. Meetra feels her body tense as this new planet fills the viewport—with what happened on Nathema, she can't help but fear this will have the same feeling. The same emptiness. Whatever Revan's after, it's not like anything they've faced before, and if Revan's afraid of it, then what is Meetra supposed to feel?

But where Nathema was visibly dead, even from such a distance, this planet looks vividly alive. Her eyes widen at the lush greenery, peaks and valleys of verdant green in shifting shades. The only similarity it bears to Nathema is the black mark across its surface. A visible wound—both violent and unmistakable. Stark burn versus stark life.

"You think that's like her tag?" Atton asks.

She smirks. "Might be our 'Greater Forces' at work."

"Seems to me like she already dealt with them."

"That's one way of putting it," Meetra says. In truth, she doesn't know what to make of it. The mystery of what Revan's doing feels like it should have an answer. All the clues are there—as if just one piece of the puzzle is missing, and once they find it, everything else will click into place.

Or at least, she hopes that's what happens.

Atton brings the ship down to the coordinates Revan left for them, and like Nathema, it's just outside that charred line across the surface of the planet. The Force stays strong and clear, so Meetra eyes that line carefully, hoping that this time they'll have the opportunity to investigate it.

"So," Atton starts once they touch the ground. "Am I allowed to come with you, or am I stuck babysitting the ship again?"

Meetra considers it as she glances out the viewport at the lush forest beyond it. The Force gives her no warning, no impending sense of danger—something that couldn't be found on Nathema—and so she nods when she turns back to him. "Come on, flyboy."

They meet Malak and T3 at the loading ramp. He doesn't say anything as they approach, and despite the way she's blocked out their bond, his anxiety is remarkably palpable. It shakes through her, dissipating only where the solid line of Atton's body follows behind her. The three of them and their droid wait in silence as the loading ramp lowers to the ground.

Cool air rushes in, gentle and sweet-smelling, and nearly lulls Meetra into its softness. Stepping down into the grass, she's reminded of her limited time on Dantooine, both in the past and present. It's in the way the sun angles down, pouring through the leaves of the trees above them like water. It spills down, casting the ground in a relief of shadows and spots of soft, golden light.

"Careful," she says, even as the words ring hollow against the sweet air. "We don't know what Revan fought here."

"Because it's inevitable that she fought something," Atton mutters beside her, but she turns to see the way the sun coats over his olive skin, and how he marginally tilts his face up towards it.

Malak doesn't say anything.

"Something had to leave that mark," she continues eventually, and her gaze travels to a line of trees in the distance. The woods are too thick to see the damage from here, but it's close. "Perhaps this time we'll find out what it was."

The sound of their footsteps is quiet on the soft grass. The entire planet is quiet save for the sound of distant birds calling back and forth to one another. Meetra greedily breathes in the fresh air, crushing down the memory of Nathema with it. It feels so good to be beneath the trees like this, tracing her eyes up their thick trunks into the nestles of green leaves against the blue sky.

For whatever reason Revan sent them to Nathema, at least she's made it up to them by sending them here.

She glances at Malak. "Does this place seem familiar at all?"

"No," he says, but the line of his shoulders softens. "She must have found it after the wars. She'd been to Nathema, but there wouldn't have been an opportunity to come here until much later."

Meetra presses her lips together, focusing her attention on the ground as she steps over a wayward root. "Seems like she found her own trail to follow."

They walk in relative silence, save for some of Atton's observations of the landscape, until a stone structure appears through the spaces between the trees. It's undefined at first—hard to make out until they draw close enough to reach the clearing that it sits in. It's short, square with several tiers that are covered in moss and weeds. Above the door is writing that closely resembles what they found on Nathema, and at the very top of the temple sits some kind of sculpture. It rises on a thin metal pole, curving into a crescent moon shape against the sky.

"Wow," Atton says under his breath, and Meetra can't help but share the sentiment. Unlike Nathema, they have the luxury of time to observe it, and she can feel its age permeate the space. This place has sat here alone for a very, very long time.

Inside looks much like the last temple they visited. T3 lights up the space, illuminating drawings on the walls that bear much resemblance to the previous ones. Meetra lets her gaze travel over them lightly, looking for anything that stands out, before she sees the podium at the back of the room where what looks like another letter from Revan waits.

Malak heads back there first, and Meetra sighs. "I'm gonna go check out up top," she says to Atton, and ducks out of the dark room back into the sunlight.

It takes some effort to climb to the top of the temple. Despite the cool air, sweat breaks out on her forehead as she hauls herself up each tier of the temple. The top is still below the tree line, so the only view she has as she stands with her hands on her hips, eyes gazing out at the area surrounding the temple, is the same verdant green they've seen so far.

"What did you find here?" she asks aloud, but the trees don't have an answer for her. She thinks of Kreia in this moment, wondering if the older woman really was part of Revan's plan. Or maybe it was the other way around, that Kreia was more of a puppet master than she revealed herself to be.

A chill shakes through her as she considers the implication of Revan and Kreia plotting this together, reeling Meetra back into the fold of it. Why couldn't you tell me the truth? she wonders, wishing that for a moment her old Master was still alive, that she could answer Meetra's questions in a way that would make sense.

She sighs, but instead of climbing back down, she turns to the pole that rises from the roof. This close, it stands much taller than she'd expected and she reaches out, getting only a moment's notice from the Force before pain shoots through her hand.

It's hot to the touch.

She hisses, pulling away with a sharp motion before her lips curve into a frown and her burned hand curls into a fist. Frustration sits at the base of her throat—there are too many pieces to this puzzle, and staring at this...what looks to be an antenna of some kind, is just another thing she doesn't understand.

If there's heat, though, there's energy. Meetra lets her mind trace back to her lessons with Visas, where the two of them kneeled together and looked at the world through the Force. Maybe she's not looking in the right way...

She takes a breath, closes her eyes, and reaches out with her senses.

It's faint at first, difficult to draw near to, but it sets itself ablaze the moment after it clears. The pure energy of it rises from the rooftop, stretching into the sky above her and arcing over the trees towards where she knows that black mark is. It rushes—deep colors she can see only through the Force—and swirls from the point in front of her, spiraling out from the half-moon shape, and it takes her breath away.

"What the hell?" she murmurs, and opens her eyes. The peaceful quiet of the space is jarring in the face of what's beneath the surface. She stares at it for what feels like a long time, cycling through her thoughts for one that makes sense, until she hears Atton's voice call from down below.

"Hey Surik!" he yells, and when she looks over her shoulder he's standing outside the entrance to the temple, head tilted back. "Find anything up there?"

She presses her lips together, glancing back at the still empty space, and shakes her head. "Not really."

Even if she could describe it, she isn't sure that what she just saw was the answer to anything. Down below, Malak steps out of the temple as well, Revan's letter in his hand, and he follows Atton's gaze up to her before he turns his back to both of them and heads in the direction of the charred earth. Meetra takes that as her cue to carefully climb down.

"Is your hand okay?" Atton asks once she lands against the grass next to him, and she looks down to see that it's still curled into a fist.

Sharp pain burns through her as she uncurls it, the skin red and blistered as a slight tremor shakes through to her fingertips. She looks up to see Atton's concern and tries a smile. "I guess not."

"How'd you get this?" he asks, keeping his voice light.

"By touching things I shouldn't be touching."

He rolls his eyes. "You never learn, do you?"

Instead of answering, she holds out her hand for him to take. They may not talk about it, but a smug smile creeps over her lips as he holds his hand in hers and closes his eyes. The warmth of the Force covers over her palm, something she's still not used to despite the ways she's been healed by it her entire life. It's the strange sensation of her skin knitting back together, something angry becoming something calm.

He lets go and she looks down again. The skin on her palm shines, slightly red still, but it's completely smooth and the pain is nonexistent. She smiles up at him. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," he says, but he half turns, gesturing with his head for her to walk with him in the direction that Malak went.

Atton's never been good at talking about healing. He may have given in to the Force, but she knows he struggles with it, even moreso because it comes so naturally to him. As much as he brags about most things in his life, he's always so quiet when it comes to this. Even Mical has spoken to her about it in hushed tones in the medbay—that Atton should be utilized more often than he is.

Normally she'd confront him on it, but today she slips her good hand into his as they walk behind Malak, lifting it and pressing her lips against his knuckles. Their footsteps are quiet still, and though her senses are on alert, the Force tells her that whatever threat was here is long gone. That whatever she felt on top of that Temple is of the past, not of the present.

"I think he was expecting her to be here," Atton says.

"I don't know why," Meetra responds. Malak's a fair distance ahead of them but stays in sight. His coat is shrugged up by his shoulders, revealing only the hint of his fading tattoos. "Nothing's that easy for us."

Atton snorts. "And here I thought I was supposed to be the pessimist in this relationship."

"Not when it comes to Revan and Malak."

She can feel his gaze on her but she doesn't meet it, even as the corners of her lips turn up. He turns back to the path ahead of them. "I guess that's fair."

They both fall into silence as they approach the scorched earth. Black seeps through the cracks of the trees, and up ahead, Malak kneels down at the trunk of one in particular. Gone is the soft, sweet air, and instead the smell of smoke rises from the earth—bitter and hot.

"What do you think caused it?" she asks once they've caught up to Malak.

He looks up at her. "Whatever happened, it happened fast," he says, and he stands up. His hand points to the charred leaves. "Everything is still intact—these are burnt, but they didn't burn. Something tore through here hot enough to cause this, but it couldn't have stayed for long."

Meetra thinks of her injured hand, the vision of light above the temple, and what this could all possibly mean together.

"She couldn't make it easy on us, huh?" Atton murmurs.

Meetra's lips quirk. "What did her letter say this time?"

Malak doesn't look at her, he merely holds the paper out in her direction as his eyes continue to scan their scorched surroundings. She takes it from him, stepping away from the two men as they pull down some branches and leaves to examine them. Heading for fresher air, she ends up sitting at a tree just far enough away to feel the peace of the planet again while still keeping an eye on them.

Before she reads it, she allows herself a moment. Just one. It's what she did on Dantooine, after she first saw the remnants of the temple. Her exhaustion was already bone deep from the

politics, from the pressure of finding Master Vrook, of all people, so she stole a moment. She took a breath by the blba trees, wishing that her and Kavar had spent more time on the planet before everything happened.

So now she allows herself this moment, a pause in the confusion, just to breathe in and pretend that for now everything is okay.

Then her hands tighten around Revan's letter, and she looks down.

Mal,

I hope you're the one who's finding these letters—they'd be useless to anyone else. I'm not sure if I even want you to read this, to be honest. I'm not sure about a lot of things anymore. It's been four years since I've seen you and that's such a strange thought. Apart from my lost years, I haven't gone this long without you since we were thirteen.

I wish I could do it all over again. I wish I could see you as a boy again, back when we were the same height and you were missing your front teeth. You always had the best smile, Mal. I suppose you still would, but that's another thing I've ruined.

I suppose that's part of why I'm doing this. I keep thinking of everything I've ruined and it never stops. I wanted to remember so badly but you were right. You knew it then, and you yelled at me for it, and I was so frustrated but I should've trusted you. I need to—I want to make up for it, but I'm scared that nothing I do will ever give me peace again.

I know you're not going to like this, but I'm also just scared, Mal. Of everything. I kept Jolee's novels, though, and they help. They chase away both the fear and the boredom. When I read them I can almost pretend we're in his living room together, tucked up on his couch in front of the fire. Those moments were the closest I was to being happy at that time, and I wish I knew then that it would've been okay to tell you how I felt. I keep laughing at the idea that I almost fell for you all over again.

I'm sorry that I was so confused, that I demanded so much from you. Kissing you goodbye might've been the only thing I got right.

Meetra pauses, lifting her gaze to Malak in the distance. He and Atton stand facing each other speaking words that Meetra can't hear from here. This letter is the confirmation that they needed that Revan remembers her past, but the intimacy of it is nearly too much to bear.

She takes a breath and continues.

Please be careful. I mean it. Please, please be careful. I hope you're not alone, that maybe at least some of the plan has been salvaged, but if you are: turn around. Don't do it. I know what you're thinking—it's what I'd be thinking, after all—but it's not worth it. If I don't come back, and this is all that's left, don't count on seeing me again.

I say that because I care about you, and I need you to be safe.

R.

That's it. Meetra looks up again and she thinks she understands why Malak's expressions sits the way it does on his features. He and Atton are still talking by the trees but she doesn't feel irritation now. She doesn't feel sad either. She just...feels.

The second page is a map similar to what they found on Nathema, the coordinates not far from where they are now.

Where they are now—Meetra breathes in the warm air, wishing they didn't have to leave this place. It would've been nice if Revan was here, like Malak expected. If they could spend some time feeling the energy of this planet. No name, nothing special, just one haven tucked away into a pocket in the galaxy, where it can exist freely on its own.

She knows this can't last, so she takes it in for what its worth before she makes herself get up and head back towards the boys. She holds the letter out for Malak the same way he did for her, and he takes it back with a carefully blank expression. Careful, because he tries too hard to keep the emotion off of his features, but he can't quite hide the way it sits in his eyes.

"You ready to get going?" Atton asks her, and she nods, still watching Malak as if she can understand him and Revan just by doing so. "We don't think we're going to find any more answers here."

"Yeah," she says, and the three of them pick their way back to the ship, where T3 waits for them at the loading ramp. They're slow to leave, but soon enough Meetra stands at the galaxy map, logging these new coordinates while Atton prepares the ship for takeoff.

"Did you read it?" Meetra asks in a quiet voice. The whole experience washes over her in waves, overwhelming in a way that's different from Nathema, but overwhelming all the same.

"Revan's letter?" Atton asks. "Yeah. I'd be pissed if I was him."

She breathes out a laugh that sounds more confused than anything else. "He doesn't seem like he feels anything."

He looks back over his shoulder. "I don't think he's allowed—you know, the whole Sith Lord deal."

"Really puts a damper on things," she says with a short laugh as she finally takes the seat next to him. Her lips thin out into a straight line. "Shouldn't joke about that, I guess."

Atton just shrugs. "What else can you do?"

"I don't know—get over it?"

They share a look, an unspoken easier said than done passes between them, and Meetra desperately thinks of something else to say in the face of it.

Of course it's Atton who always saves her, this time by saying, "We should heat up some of the food Frela gave us. Force knows we could all use a real meal."

Atton saves her in more ways than he knows. He saves her in ways that he'd deny if she told him, that he'd turn around on her and say that does even moreso for him. She thinks about what they've sacrificed, what they have freely given, and what they've taken from each other. Atton and Meetra both need each other, and it's a constant push and pull that works.

She knows she would not be here without him.

And she knows him. From the jokes that he hides behind, to the soft set of his features when he opens up to her. She knows the lines of his body, the way his breath hitches when she kisses under his jaw, and how sometimes his fingers will reach out and grasp her wrist loosely in his hand. What she doesn't know is which one of them the gesture is supposed to comfort.

These are intimate ways to know someone, but nothing is as intimate as feeling what they feel, to bond so closely through the Force. To feel their hearts beat in tandem, to hear stray thoughts drifting through each other's minds. It is unlike any of her other bonds, it is—

It is love. She knows this.

It is love, and love, and love, and love.

And she knows this: confronting Malak no longer requires the same bravery it once did.

While seeking him out is still strange, uncomfortable, and something she'd rather avoid, it doesn't take the same strength it used to. Maybe it's Revan's letters, maybe it's their old bond, or maybe it's just Meetra, softening to the point where Malak is something to be pitied instead of feared.

Perhaps the trouble with knowing each other so well is that they both know that some part of her still cares.

She finds him in the starboard dormitories, curled up in his bunk with a datapad in his hand. If she hadn't already known that his connection to the Force was so diminished, she'd be aware of it just by the time it takes him to notice that she's there, leaned against the entrance of the room.

His brows raise once he catches a glimpse of her, and he sits up as he clicks off the datapad. "Hey, what's up?"

But she's not here to talk. "Can you fight?"

"What?"

"Can you fight?" she repeats, not pretending that she wants anything from him other than the answer to her question. "Revan's letters keep warning us, and I need to know that if it comes down to it, you'll be able to fight."

He makes a small sound in the back of his throat—something between a scoff and a huff of amusement. "I've spent more than half of my life fighting, Mee. I think I can manage when it comes down to it."

But Meetra isn't convinced, because she knows that this isn't the same Malak he once was. There isn't much left of that old spirit, and she both hopes and fears for its effect on him.

"When's the last time you picked up a lightsaber?"

She knows she was right to ask when he turns his head away. "The Star Forge."

"What about a practice saber or a sword?"

"Briefly—with Revan, but not since then."

Meetra raises a brow. "A blaster?"

He looks back at her, a loose smile working its way onto his lips. "A few times here and there to chase off the manka cats from Frela's farm. I hate them, though."

In all her years of knowing him, she's never seen a blaster in Malak's hands. The thought of it is too absurd to even imagine.

"I'm not putting my life in the hands of someone who hasn't trained in five years," she says, and a shadow passes over his eyes as he turns his head away. "I have a couple practice blades in the cargo hold," she continues, "if you want to try them out."

His gaze immediately lands on her again, and maybe some of that old spark is still there, given the way he perks up. There's a half-smile on his lips, and it almost rises before he pauses to ask, "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

I might surprise you, she thinks to herself, but all she does is nod. "Meet me there in two hours."

By the time they face each other in the cargo hold, practice sabers in hand, Meetra's had enough time to reconsider her answer.

Malak seems to, as well, considering the guarded expression on his face. It makes sense for both of them to hesitate. Malak—who took on the galaxy with a ruthlessness that Revan couldn't have taught him, only to put down his blade for five years. And Meetra—who still might be angry about it.

It doesn't matter, though. She knows this as she stands in ready position.

Malak matches her, meeting her gaze, and her stomach twists at the familiar sight. They start slow, with cautious steps that they both know so well. They did this several afternoons a week during his first year on Coruscant, back when she shadowed him and Kavar. She'd watch them spar, trading masterful blows, and when they were finished she'd ask to give it a shot.

He beat her every time. Her power was always stronger in the Force, but she liked pushing herself, always telling him next time despite the way next time never came.

So she's determined now. He's five years out of practice and she's been fighting for her life for the last several months. If she has any chance of beating him, this is it.

She gives it everything she has. Her single blade against his. It's been so long but she remembers the familiar motions of their duels. The routine of it. She pushes him and lets him push her back, finding a rhythm that neither of them thought would ever be found again.

Meetra's content to let him get lulled by it, putting up this false front of sticking to what they know. It takes several minutes for her to break it, abandoning her stance for a sharp turn to her left, ducking under his reach and raising her blade strike him, defenseless.

But he meets her there. For a moment their blades remain locked between them, and Meetra looks up at him with wide eyes, her lungs burning. Malak meets her gaze with a smirk.

Heat like anger rushes through her chest out to her fingertips. She tightens her grip on her blade, feeling her expression harden, and doubles down on her efforts. She knows it's foolish, she knows that it makes her sloppy, but she gives in to it.

Her strength is undeniable. She knows this as well. Kreia, Sion, Nihilus...she took all of them down. Her life was on the line then, and if she didn't hold her own, it would've been the end. She supposes this is different, as she ducks under his sweeping blade, because she can't call upon the Force to attack him. She can't use her real power against him, as much as she wants to in this moment. All she has are her hands and the blade that sings through the air and meets his over and over again.

She has this truth: all these years later, and she still can't beat him.

The realization comes not with resignation, but with a rising fire. Her movements lose traction, and she lashes out one last time before his blade hits her squarely in the stomach and she stumbles back.

"Why did you do it!" she yells. The sudden presence of her voice, and the volume of it, fill the entire cargo hold, taking them both by surprise. It doesn't matter, though, as the words continue to spill out: "Why did you fall? You gave in so easily, but you had a choice!"

Malak lowers his blade, his chest heaving with effort, and his eyes blink long and slow and sad. "I couldn't betray her."

"You did betray her!" she yells again. Her grip tightens around the practice saber but she keeps it by her side. "You were the only one who could have stopped it from happening, and you didn't! You were weak, and selfish, and stupid."

His voice is still quiet. "I know."

"You chose her, and how many people died for it? How much has been ruined because of it?"

"I know," he says again, louder this time. "You don't have to remind me, I live with that guilt every day."

"Then why do you still choose her? How can you, after you gave up on so much the first time?" Meetra asks, and the intensity hasn't left her voice but it's quieter now.

The question hangs in the silence of the cargo hold as Malak turns his head away. His shoulders drop. "Because I've known her since we were children, before anything bad ever happened to her. Because—because we've failed each other too many times, and I can't give up on her now. Not after everything."

"Not even the ways she's hurt you?" she asks, glancing down at his jaw.

"Even then," he says, and there's something fragile about his voice in this moment. It still isn't what she's used to, still something mechanical and strange. "So much changed after you left, Mee, but we both suffered for our choices, and we both deserved it. But I also believe we can come back from it, and I hope you can understand that."

She frowns as her hold on her anger loosens. She doesn't know what emotion to put in its stead. "What do you mean?"

"Do you love Atton?" he asks, and Meetra bites down the shock that rushes through her. She'll never admit it to him before she tells Atton, so she turns her head away, which is just as good as an admission. "And you know what he's done."

Murderer, a voice says in her mind, sounding a lot like Kreia.

Still, she turns her glare on Malak. "That's hardly fair, you—"

"No, I know you can't compare them," he interrupts before she can finish. He sighs. "None of our actions can be compared, but we're all trying. I was so angry with Revan when she left, but I think I understand now that it's something she needed to do. Nothing will make up for the past, but I get it...needing to make it right. If she found a way to get there, then...then that's good. I just can't let her pay for it with her life, not if there's something I can do to help."

Meetra doesn't have words to say to that and if she did, she isn't sure she'd even be able to say them.

"I love her," he continues, his voice unsteady. "I have always, always loved her—and it has ruined me, and it has saved me."

Meetra's chest tightens. Her heart is such a soft, soft thing. She has always had too much love for others, always let them get too close and let the bonds of the Force connect her with the world. She tries so hard to ignore it with him, but it gets harder and harder—

"Did you tell her that?" she asks. The words are weak, barely above a whisper.

He nods. "I did."

She breathes out. None of her training has prepared her for this. Nothing could have prepared her for this, but it's Revan's fault that they are here, and she can't let herself forget that. She can't let herself break for them.

Not even if some part of her wants to.

"We should be close to our next planet," she says, and hesitates only a second before she moves around him, depositing her training saber in the cabinet near the door.

It's when she's about to step out of the room that she hears him say, "Meetra—"

She looks back.

"I know I can't ask you to forgive either of us," he says, "but it might help you feel better."

She doesn't say anything as she walks out.

Atton takes one look at her as she enters the cockpit, and lets out a long sigh.

"I know," she says, because he must be tired of this, must be tired of her. Frankly, she is too. At this point she wouldn't blame him for taking a step back, for taking a time out, and it's with endless gratitude that she knows he won't. That despite all her righteous anger and scars of wounds that never healed right, he will remain by her side.

So she goes to him instead of taking her usual seat, cupping his face in her hands as she presses her lips to his. It takes a breath of a moment for him to yield, and he tilts his head back as his hands reach out for her.

Push and pull, light and dark, forgiveness. Where this life gets too complicated, she finds comfort in the simplicity of what this is between them. That despite what it took to get here, she thinks that the feeling of his lips against hers is the closest she'll ever get to that home she longs for.

That whatever storm brews within them individually, calms when they're together.

"I—" she starts as she pulls away, trying not to feel too proud as she takes in the slightly bewildered grin on his face.

(She should just tell him, shouldn't she? Despite her nerves, she thinks that maybe it wouldn't be as big a deal as she's making it out to be in her mind. They've been through too much together to let simple words trip them up or break them apart.

I love you, she could say, and just like that it would be out there. He would know.

The only question is—would he say it back?)

"How close are we?" she asks instead, swallowing down the words she tucks away in her heart for now. She will get there some day, and she trusts that when she does, he will meet her there.

"Shouldn't be much longer," he says, and clears his throat. "Not a bad way to pass the time, though."

She winks at him before she take her seat, pulling out her datapad that she had T3 upload the latest images to. She takes her time with each one, feeling ever presently on the precipice of understanding but never quite getting there. Something about the painting on the back wall reminds her of the vision she had on top of the temple, but it still doesn't make sense.

Is she seeing the past or the present? Is it the remnant of Revan or what Revan's searching for? She wants the answer but some part of her hesitates, and the knowledge that Revan fears what she's heading for doesn't put Meetra at ease.

"Dropping from hyperspace in three, two..."

Meetra glances up as the change in momentum jolts the ship in place, leaving them a fair distance away from a new planet. Her eyes roam over the giant before her, revolving in this dark place so far from its sun. The planet itself is mostly white and blue, dragging up memories of Telos' polar region, save for one thing—

"Well, we know she's been here," Atton says, and his gaze must be on that black mark stretched across the surface as well. It looks just the same as the others, and the disappointment that blooms in Meetra's chest has her wondering if she was hoping it would be different.

And perhaps it's that disappointment that has her settle into the idea that this planet won't have any answers, that it'll be just another piece of this unfinished puzzle. It's not until they reach the coordinates Revan left for them, only to find another ship already there, that she allows herself to consider the possibility that that they might've caught up to her after all.