Star Wars: The Dark Empire

Episode 2 - Jenesis

Part 11 - Abduction

Coruscant, Underground safe-house

"I thought that Jezebel would have been able to defeat that man."

"You're too naïve, Lignance. Korgul may not have her power, but he is immune to hers. She would be as defenceless against him as any Jedi or Sith."

"Its time for us to execute the final stage of the plan," said Feasance, "Marka will be going back in a few days to finish off the Suppression War, and finish it he will. The Hutts are terrified of him, they're already scrambling to work out a way to surrender without having all their assets seized. Once the threat of war is diminished in the Republic peoples minds, our plan will not be as effective."

"Does this affect our plans?"

"Not particularly."

Feasance sat at a desk, consulting his notes on their plan of action. Lignance was pacing around the room restlessly, kicking defenceless pebbles that happened to be in his way. They were they only ones in the room, but in the other rooms the rest of the hidden Sith had assembled. There were twenty-one, besides the two of them. It was the first time since the rebirth of the Jedi order that they had all assembled. Out of the twenty-three hidden Sith, eighteen held positions in the Jedi order, although the only one with a higher rank than knight was Lignance.

"I wouldn't like be on the receiving end of his lightsaber either," said Lignance.

"Afraid of him, are you?"

"Don't test me. I've been watching this man carefully for nearly a year now, I've seen the way he fights, the way he trains. Neither you nor I would stand a chance."

Feasance consulted his notes again, "Well, we won't be the ones who have to face him, fortunate for us. It is time, comrade. Contact Jezebel the Exile."

Lignance nodded, "So, we're going to go with my plan and have her abduct the children?"

They both knew that while Jezebel had been searching high and low for Revan's son, the galaxy was a big place when you didn't know where to start looking. But Lignance knew exactly where he was hidden, better, he also knew where Marka's daughter was as well. With both of them captured, the two most powerful Jedi in the history of the order would be like putty in their hands.

"Indeed. You were right, it is the best way of drawing both in," said Feasance, "Even if our allies lose to them; which is impossible -but would be nice- it will be too late. We will have completed our mission, and the Republic would not be able to mount even a semblance of resistance against the Sith Empire. The Dark Lord would surely reward us with a portion of the Republic, and we can build from there."

"Just like we planned from the beginning."

"Yes, like we planned. Soon, we will be able to take up the title of 'Darth' again. The endgame now approaches, don't make any mistakes. "

------------------------------------------------

Two days later

Coruscant, Marka's Apartment

When Marka had first mentioned the greys prophecies to her, Bastila had been intrigued. More than intrigued, she had been convinced that the prophecy could hold a key to their victory. Now finally she was learning about them properly, Laman and him were going through them with her in his study. Mical was there as well, listening intently and probing with sharp questions, but Brianna had excused herself for some reason. It was a pity, for if she had been there their entire inner circle would be gathered. Marka's housekeeper Danio had gone on a date with a young Jedi named Orrin, so it was just the four of them there.

Marka had written out the lullaby on the top of hardwood desk, and had the smaller fragments written up and placed next to the paragraphs that they were deemed to relate to. Most just reiterated what the lullaby said. Some were very obscure, and it was difficult to know what they meant.

Mical read the first two lines: Darkness approaches, do not dismay; Hold fast, stay your course.

"Those look like instructions to the entire Republic and Jedi order," he commented, looking up.

"Probably," said Laman, "But if we relate to the next to lines: Stand the light, turn and fight; Twin twin Hearts of the Force. Then those instructions relate primarily to the hearts, just as the prophecies were written for their reading."

"Remind me again what these 'hearts' are?" said Mical with a frown.

Laman shook his head in disbelief, "The hearts are the whole point of the prophecy, they are the only hope of victory against the Empire. Twin twin hearts, there are four of them, some of the greatest Force-users of their age. Marka is one, Revan is too, and it's probable that Bastila is as well."

"But how do we know that it's now that these 'hearts' are supposed to come? People have been calling every Jedi leader who beats the Sith the 'Chosen One' for millemia, and yet they keep coming back."

Laman's face set in a snarl as he opened his mouth; but before any words came out his mouth Marka put his hand on his shoulder, effectively stopping him before he began. "This is different, Mical," Marka explained, "There are two proofs for the fulfilment of this prophecy. First was the disbanding of the Greys, which happened when all my men joined the Jedi. The second is the invasion of the true Sith Empire into the Republic. And they are coming, I can guarantee you that."

Mical nodded, "That makes sense, but I'm still not saying I believe it."

"You don't have to," said Bastila, "But pay attention, if only because there a slight chance that the writer actually knew what was coming."

Marka looked back at the written out lullaby, "I've just noticed," he said, bringing their attention back to the actual prophecy, "Turn and fight. By that do they mean turn from the dark side, like my men and I did?"

"Possibly," said Laman, "But there is a stronger emphasis there on an armed struggle."

"What's the use of saying twin twin instead of four?" said Mical.

"Sounds more poetic," said Bastila with a smile.

"I could be wrong," said Marka, "But I think it is meant to symbolise a deep connection between two pairs that mirror each other, especially when we take the later references that we find later into account."

"If so, it seems likely that Kaya was the fourth heart. But if she was, since she's dead, sorry Marka, then won't that mean that 'Evil shall reign, forevermore'?" said Mical, quoting the final line.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Mical had spoken a truth that the other three were afraid to voice, and now that it was in the air they didn't know how to respond. After a minute of shuffling feet, Bastila got up to make them all some caffa, and Marka read out the next paragraph:

"Protector, battle winner; Prodigal, renamed thrice. Swordsman, feet of iron; Prophet, of great sacrifice."

"Just general descriptions," Laman explained, "Of course, we all know that Marka here has Mandalorian Iron replacement feet, but I don't know if you know; Mical; that Revan has changed his name three times to date."

"That's interesting," said the blond man, "and Bastila does sound like the Protector. And didn't Ka…" he trailed off with a guilty look at Marka.

Marka sighed. He himself was convinced that Kaya was, or had been, the prophet foretold. He preferred frank speech, and couldn't stand Mical soft-footing around them just because their deductions meant that they would certainly lose; and he told him as much.

"Be kind, he was only being sensitive," said Bastila. She came from the kitchen carrying a tray of caffa-filled mugs and set them down on another table, passing two to Laman and Mical before giving one to Marka and taking her own. He took a sip and said, "You remembered."

"Yes," she simply said, meeting his eyes and smiling. He was smiling too, he just couldn't help it. A part of his mind was screaming out to him that this was wrong, and he shouldn't be doing it, they would get found out; but unlike all previous occasions this time that little voice was muted to a murmur. Force, did she have any idea how beautiful she was, how much her smile lit up his world?

Laman cleared his throat uncomfortably, "Erhm, the next few lines."

"Yes of course," said Bastila quickly, breaking his gaze and looking at the table, "Brothers, Sisters, stand; Love to bind you together. Four, three, then two; One path to change fate forever."

"That seems to support your deep connection theory," Mical said to Marka, "And the whole brother-sister-thing makes the four unmistakable, unless you have any other siblings we don't know about. But what's this four, three, two business?"

Laman spread his hands wide.

"It could be referring to the paths of fate in the next line, but it doesn't quite seem to fit," said Bastila, "I don't like the alternative though."

"Which is?"

"There are four hearts," said Bastila softly, "That section is a count-down."

Again there was silence. All knew what that meant - if it were true, even if there were four of them to start with, there would only be two surviving to the end; and that was in the best case scenario of them winning.

"But then it's fine," Mical burst out, "If only two have to survive to the end, perhaps the prophets death was meant to happen."

"I though you didn't believe in the prophecies," said Laman mildly. Mical's jaw tightened in what was probably anger. Marka took note, if there was a mutual dislike building between the two men he would have to take steps to resolve it before it set in stone, he couldn't have his closest confidants at odds.

"That's enough," he said sharply, before Mical could come back with a retort that would spark an argument, "Both of you. The reason it is a problem is that we have two fragments relating to an important event, when the prophet will save all three of the other hearts; two directly and one indirectly, and create a magnificent victory for the Republic shortly before the imperial invasion. If Kaya was the prophet, then we have to assume that the same event will result in the rest of our deaths."

"And then we're back to Evil shall reign, forevermore." Laman told Mical, "As you so aptly put it."

"The last line of that section," said Bastila quickly, like Marka she seemed to be afraid the two men would start sniping at each other again. "One path - what could that refer to?"

"Maybe that we're walking a very tight line, there is no room for errors, or something along those lines," said Laman, "Other than that I have no clue."

"The last paragraph relates back to the first," said Marka, moving things along, "Stand brave, stay strong; More than they bargained for. Give all, for if you fall; Evil shall reign, forevermore. It's just the last two lines that are important here, I think. It means that if we fail, the Dark Lord will never be defeated, or if he is he will only be replaced by another Sith Lord."

"So this is it," said Bastila softly, "Our galaxy's one and only chance. And we are the ones who will be deciding the outcome of this, the doom of our time and all time after."

"No pressure," said Mical with a forced grin, but it was lost on the grim faces of his fellows.

"I need a drink," said Marka, getting up.

"I'll come with you," said Bastila, "Laman, Mical, would you like to join us?"

Marka fought to maintain his expression. He didn't want them intruding. Fortunately both declined, Mical citing that he wanted to check on Brianna who had been acting strangely lately, and Laman that he didn't drink. Marka knew that to be a lie, but was grateful for it.

They were already in civilian clothing, so there was no need for them to get changed. Marka though sealed up his scars quickly with some facial putty, and covered it with make-up. It wasn't for vanities sake, he just didn't want to be recognised while he was relaxing. Bastila supervised him, she was far more experienced than he in that area.

"I wonder," she said as the exited together, "What part will Morningstar play in this?"

------------------------------------------------

Onderon, Outskirts of Izus

"Again," Morningstar demanded sharply.

Dustil was sweating so hard he didn't know if there was a single drop of moisture left in his body. His arms burned with the dull ache of fatigue. He had previously thought himself as fit and strong, but the weight of the swords was far greater than that of the lighsabers he was used to. Extensive training with these new weapons had drained him far more than he had thought was possible.

"I… can't," he said between gasps.

Morningstar's partner; or lackey or whatever she was to him; stood before him, spinning her twin lightsabers in lazy arcs. Morningstar called her 'Bee', whatever that meant. She was the one that Dustil had been training against the entire time, while Morningstar had been giving him instructions on how to use the swords. The strange thing was that Dustil was sure that he knew them both from somewhere, he just couldn't put his finger on it.

Bee came at him in 'Makashi' form, in almost a lazy slowness. Conversely, Dustil was moving as fast as he could manage, 'Juyo' form. But she simply flowed between blocking and attacking, and with him as tired as he was within eight moves she had a glowing blade centimetres away from his midsection. She was good, very good, but Dustil knew he was better. He would have bested her ages before if it hadn't been for these useless swords.

Both blades were single-edged and coloured, the lighter blade contrasting with the darker hilt and cross guard. The first was red as ruby, and had a serrated section about a third of the way down, as well as a sword-catching hook halfway down the back. According to Morningstar, it was known as the Sword of Vengeance. The other was a lapis lazuli blue, a copy of the other sword except that it lacked the serrations, and its back was also sharpened from the point to about a fifth of the way down. It was the Sword of Mercy. Together, they were the Swords of Justice.

It all sounded highly pompous to Dustil. Why use a pair of ancient swords instead of state-of-the-art lightsabers? Sure, they were made better than any swords he had ever seen, his training proved that they could resist lightsaber damage nearly indefinitely. But they were invariably heavier than weightless blades, and so slowed him down and tired him. What possible advantage could they give him against a man who beat the two greatest swordsmen the Jedi order had ever produced at the same time?

"These things are useless," he spat, catching his wind again, "Are you trying to butter me up for Korgul, make things a little easier for him?"

"No offence," said Bee, "But at your current level of skill, you wouldn't last half a minute against him even with your lightsabers."

"None taken," he said, but it still stung. The worst part was that he suspected she was being kind in her time estimate.

"Again," ordered Morningstar. Dustil couldn't stop the groan that escaped his lips.

Once again, the twin golden blades sliced at his body, he swung the blue blade in his left, managing to stop both at once. Anger coursed through his veins, surely he should have got a break ages ago? He countered with the sword of vengeance in his right. There simply wasn't any point in forcing him to fight in such a weakened state. A double stab forced him to jump back. He forced down his fury, calming his temper and stilling his thoughts. What he needed…was more energy.

Suddenly the Sword of Mercy began to vibrate. Dustil gasped and backed off from his opponent, staring at it openly. It was heating up now, so was his entire body. He tried to drop it, but his fingers refused to move. His entire body felt like it was on fire now, the sensation was…exquisite?! It was ecstasy comparable to a sexual climax. Then as quickly as it had come, it was gone, Dustil fell to his knees.

"How do you feel?" said Morningstar.

"Different," said Dustil, coming to his feet again and taking stock of himself, "I feel great!"

It was true, he felt completely invigorated. But how could he be feeling like this when only moments before he had been about to collapse?

"You've just uncovered the Sword of Mercy's ability," said Morningstar when he voiced his concerns, "Complete revitalisation. You will need it in your battle against Korgul, but be warned, it has limited power and cannot easily be recharged. There is only enough left for three more renewals, you will need to use all against Korgul."

"Why couldn't you have just told me about it?" he demanded.

"I have seen all the possible paths. Believe me when I say that this was the best, and fastest way for you to learn. Now we can start with the next phase of your training, unlocking the ability of the Sword of Vengeance."

------------------------------------------------

Coruscant, The Twisted Rancor

Orrin hadn't dated in a while, he'd simply been too busy with his training. He was a Jedi padawan now, and well on the way to becoming a knight. It was harder for him than for most of the others, simply because his Force-potential was so much lower than most of theirs. He had been a borderline entrant, that much was plainly obvious now, looking back on when he had been recruited. But he didn't let it get him down, instead he just worked twice as hard as anybody else, capitalising heavily on the points where he didn't have an innate weakness.

As a result of his fanatical exercising over the past few months, he was now one of the strongest and fittest of all the Jedi. His body was well toned and sculpted with corded hard-muscle, they rippled as he moved with a confidence he had never before possessed. His role-model was of course Marka, not that he had ever met the man, but there were a few well-circulated pictures of what he looked like without a shirt on, taken of course without his consent. As far as he knew, the Jedi Master had refused point-blank to pose for any photo shoots, but that hadn't stopped every single magazine declaring him the galaxy's sexiest male and snapping up every single illegal shot of him. Orrin grinned, perhaps he would one day hold the prestigious title.

Certainly his stock with woman had improved since he had joined the order (when he'd found the time to meet them) but that could've just been the whole confidence-thing. He'd met Danio through a mutual acquaintance a few days before, and been instantly enchanted by her. Why he should always like shy girls he did not know, but he had kept meeting up with her, and just yesterday asked her out.

Orrin had been terribly nervous preparing for the date, he'd only ever taken two other women out. One had called it quits right after the second date, the other had stayed with him for three years, but they had never been serious; more friends than partners, and had barely ever kissed. About the only serious thing that happened between them was the fight they'd had after she'd told him, right out of the blue, that she actually liked Orrin's (at the time) best friend. This girl, no, this woman was different he knew. Or more accurately, he hoped.

They had started at a trendy night club called the Duo-mercillion, it was a place that catered for those who didn't go out just to get boozed, drugged up and laid in that order. They had drank a little there, and danced a lot more. Danio had obviously taken a few lessons at some stage, she knew some good moves even if she wasn't anywhere near the level of the professionals that danced on raised platforms. From there they had moved on to taking a tour of the city at night, finally settling in an exclusive social club called the Twisted Rancor (after the famous trio). Orrin would never have been able to get in, but apparently Danio had the right connections to secure her easy entry for them both.

As soon as they had walked in though, she had stopped dead, shock written all over her face. His heart sank as he followed her gaze to a man who even he could tell was very handsome. He was sitting talking to a beautiful woman. Inwardly Orrin sighed, probably an ex who she hadn't gotten over yet, which meant he was her rebound. Perhaps this relationship had been doomed before it had even began.

The man was in a white loose-fitting long sleeve that was open at the neck, exposing the top of his chest, and tight-fitting pair of black pants. He looked like a dancer, except that his boots looked too cumbersome for delicate manoeuvres and his build was far too muscular. The woman with him was dressed almost identically, except that her shirt was closed at the top with a collar, and had a tear shaped opening showing the skin just above her breasts. All in all, their clothing was about the least flamboyant of the guests at the Twisted Rancor. That in itself made them almost stand out, but they held themselves differently too. Most probably wouldn't notice, but Orrin could tell trained martial artists when he saw them.

He didn't immediately recognise the man, although there seemed something oddly familiar about his face, but when he took a second glance at the woman he gasped. It was Jedi Grandmaster Bastila! She was the one married to Revan, although her and the entire Republic had quickly been abandoned by the one-time Dark Lord. Besides her infamous husband, she was also one of the most famous Jedi in her own right. Her Battle-Meditation had been the only thing stopping total Sith domination half a decade ago. What was she doing dating other men?

The man Bastila was with half turned, and noticed them staring. "Danio," he acknowledged, and took a half glance at him. Orrin felt his stomach sink, he definitely knew her. But he still couldn't shake the feeling that he'd seen the man somewhere before.

"Master Marka," she gasped, "What have you done to your f…" She was cut off as he pulled her close.

"Don't say my name so loudly," he hissed, "I'm trying to keep a low profile here."

Orrin meanwhile stood blankly, mouthing her words silently. His face felt hot and his head spun, all worry of his date failing slipping his mind like water off a Selkath's back. Right in front of him was his idol, in the flesh, and grinding out quietly how he hated mass adoration. Snapping slightly out of his hero-worship mould, he started to wonder where Danio, a refugee, would know a famous Jedi Master like Marka Cabanic. When he voiced his concern, it was Marka who answered.

"She's my housekeeper," he said, and Orrin felt a thrill at being addressed by his hero.

"I'm sorry, you are?" said Bastila, and he had to fight a swoon at being spoken to by her as well.

"Orrin…Orrin Ithker, ma'am," he managed.

"I remember that name, you're the one who killed a phantom on Telos after only a week of training, truly a remarkable feat. You were given a high commendation in the council by Master Brianna, she also recommended you for the Cross of Valour."

"I was lucky," he mumbled, blushing at the compliment.

"I agree, but you were also brave. Not many Jedi, even experienced ones, would stand up to a phantom unaided."

"Didn't you get four in the same battle, Master Marka?" said Orrin, trying to deflect the attention off him. He felt so inadequate in their presence.

"I did," he said shortly, his tone brooking no further discussion.

"Marka," Bastila said in a chiding way.

He turned around to face him, Orrin was surprised to see that the scars on his face that he was well known for were gone. That was the reason he hadn't immediately recognised him. Marka's face was set, his eyes glinting like pieces of blue ice. "Yes, I killed four of the Empire's elite Force-dead phantoms, and yes we orchestrated an attack that resulted in an overall triumph. But in the process thousands of soldiers were killed, we lost around a score of experienced Jedi, they can't be replaced, and about fifty younglings who we had invested time and resources in. I was defeated in combat, and I lost someone… precious… to me. Now we are still at war with the Hutts, total war with the Empire is looming, Korgul is still at large, Jezebel is causing no end of problems; and on top of that we have…"

"Marka!" interjected Bastila warningly.

"…not got nearly enough resources to deal with these threats," he finished, somewhat lamely. His last line didn't seem to fit with his build-up, Orrin wondered what he'd really been about to say.

"Don't mind him," said Bastila, "He gets depressed when he drinks."

"I do not!" Marka denied in a tone that Orrin would never have expected to come from the Jedi Master. Somehow, it made him feel better. Even the mighty Marka Cabanic was still human, got depressed when things went badly, and sulky when his date told him off. He had been surprised to realise that Bastila was dating him, but then she had been abandoned years ago, and he was recently widowed. They both deserved a bit of happiness, they would probably need it in the dark days to come.

"Forgive me, but what happened to your scars?" Orrin asked the Jedi Battlemaster.

"I covered them up, since everybody expects me to have them, they don't recognise me without them."

"It makes him look better too," said Bastila, giving a short laugh, "He's hopeless at putting on make-up, I had to help him." Marka was shifting in his seat uncomfortably.

"So what does it feel like to be the galaxy's sexist male?" said Orrin. He was feeling cheeky all of a sudden, and not nearly as overawed after hearing Bastila take him down a notch.

Marka scowled, then sighed, "I wish people would stop reminding me," he muttered, then spoke up, "There are many men in this galaxy better looking than me, Orrin Ithker, it was the fame of my people's escape from the Empire; and my popularity as a leading Jedi Master that won it for me, not my looks."

"That makes sense," said Orrin slowly, "I've heard it happening with politicians before, but never with a Jedi!"

"There's a first time for everything," Marka said softly, "In a few years the Republic could be defeated and the Jedi order disbanded, this time for good."

There was a short; uncomfortable silence, then Danio spoke up, "Um, Orrin, perhaps we should go somewhere else."

He was about to agree when Bastila said, "Nonsense, that is no talk for new friends. Knight Orrin, why don't you and Danio join us?"

"I'm only a padawan," Orrin protested, but Bastila had been pulled back by Marka, who was whispering to her furiously. Plainly he didn't think much of the idea. She waved off his objections though.

"Pardon my suspicious friend," she said, "Please join us. Marka will go and get us all drinks, won't you, Marka?" The look she gave him would have made a Krayt dragon pause.

"I'll go and get us all some drinks," said Marka, as though it had been his idea.

Orrin and Danio exchanged a glance, then she smiled. Orrin took that to mean that she'd accepted the invitation, and they sat down next to each other opposite Bastila; while Marka got up and left for the bar. Orrin noticed the Jedi Grandmaster's eyes following him as he walked off, his eyes widened as he followed her gaze and realised exactly what part she had been looking at.

"So how long have you two been dating?" said Danio, and Bastila snapped her eyes back to them.

"This is our first official date, but we've liked each other for a while. Don't mention it to Marka though, he still won't admit that he likes me to anybody else."

"It's also our first date," said Orrin, and friendly conversation and light banter continued from there.

Marka returned soon with drinks, the like of which Orrin had never seen. They consisted of many different layers of coloured liquid, each layer not blending in in the slightest with the one above or below it, and each layer had about half a dozen marble-sized baubles inside. According to Bastila, these were known as 'multicultural melanges', each layer had a different flavour, and as one sipped them the baubles would burst on contact with the air; adding to the complexity of the taste. According to Marka, the four combined cost more than a month's worth of Orrin's salary. Almost before he had finished speaking, Bastila whacked the back of his head, and demanding an apology. Orrin and Danio started to laugh, watching the two of them was priceless.

"Well, here's to us!" Bastila proposed the toast, raising her tall glass. "This is our night."

------------------------------------------------

Bastila's Apartment

Marka drove them both back to Bastila's place, which was four blocks from his own. Of course, a single block in this part of Coruscant was a massive skyscraper with more of an economy than most backwater planets, so four was a notable distance. He had intended to drop her off there, it was hours past midnight, and both were to return to the frontlines that day; so they should probably get some sleep. Marka knew this, but somehow he didn't want the night to be over.

Without a doubt, it had been one of the happiest nights of his life. Just spending time with Bastila lifted his heart in a way that only Kaya had been able to do before her. Their relationship was very different to his previous one, Bastila seemed determined to take him down a couple of notches whenever she saw him. Strange as it sounded, Marka actually liked it. Everybody else seemed to either be worshiping him (like young Orrin) or trying to kill him. She gave him a sense normality, she made him feel human, very human.

And very much in love with her.

There was no denying it, not any more. He couldn't keep holding onto his love for his dead wife, his heart had moved on, and settled on a woman who (besides being his late wife's half-sister) was nothing like her. It filled him to the bursting, saturating his blood. When he saw her, everything else around would cloud up, he could see only her. Her scent was a drug to him, setting his pulse racing. Marka had always prised his absolute level of control, Bastila had cut through it effortlessly, exposing the very core of him.

"Marka?"

"Yes," he said, jerking back to the present.

"I asked if you would like to come inside."

"For some caffa?"

Bastila turned away, her face was hidden from him as she muttered something. Marka looked down, and saw that her hands were shaking slightly.

"Could you repeat that?" he said.

She turned back to face him, her face was flushed and she wouldn't meet his gaze. "No, I want you to make love to me." She raised her eyes, capturing his.

Marka gulped dryly, his face heating, his brain working overtime. His thought process became immediately analytical. The alcohol could possibly be influencing her decision, as could the fact that they were both going off to war the next day; and all their interactions there would be monitored strictly. Perhaps it was just hormones, or had somebody dared her to do this? No, that couldn't be it, Bastila never accepted dares. Even as he was thinking, she leaned over (her expression nearly as terrified as his) and kissed him lightly on the lips. He responded instinctively, like a starving man, his arms moving on their own accord to wrap around her firm feminine body.

He broke the kiss for a moment, "What about…" he began, trying desperately to hold onto rational thought; she put her finger on his lips.

"No words," she whispered, her voice soft and sultry, "Not tonight." She pulled him in a close embrace, her neck felt so soft and inviting that he couldn't resist nibbling on it. Bastila's entire body shook with pleasure, and a groan escaped her lips. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this."

They stumbled through the partially lit passage towards her door, between blind gropes, caresses and tongue fencing; all sense of control long gone. The small part of Marka that was still rational felt guilty, he was betraying Never, he was betraying Kaya. But Kaya was dead, she would have wanted him to be happy; and Never had abandoned his wife. Marka left his rational part arguing as they tried to open the door, not an easy job when two people are fully entwined.

They locked the door behind, after they had finally managed to get in. It was blindly bright inside, and they spent a good minute fumbling for the dim switch. Bastila began to laugh when they found it, and the tension broke. Marka stared at her from across the room, his smile threatening to split his face in half, drinking in the sight of her. The scent of her was everywhere in this room, every pore on his skin seemed to be straining to absorb it. A silent game had developed between them, they were each waiting for the other to break. Bastila's eyes were bright with promise, her chest rising and falling as if she had just run a race.

As though they had read each others minds, they both conceded at the same time. In two steps they had crossed the space between them, and were kissing and touching each other like hormonal teenagers. There were no more doubts now, they were both committed. Bastila stepped back after a few moments, and raised her arms with an inviting smile. Marka slid her shirt and bra off in one movement, leaving her topless. Her body was just as he had imagined, lithe and shapely. He stared at her breasts as he ran his hands over them, the only word he could think of to describe them was: perfect.

Bastila was obviously not content to be the only topless one, she grabbed the front of Marka's shirt and ripped it open. He dropped his arms, and it fell loosely to the floor. After taking a moment to admire his defined muscles and run her fingers over his contours, she hugged him tightly. The sensation of the skin of their upper bodies coming into contact for the first time was exquisite, her skin was soft as satin, the feeling of closeness and acceptance smothering desire for a few moments. Then the fire returned, with a vengeance as though to make up for its short absence tenfold, she let him go and started to lead him towards the bedroom.

There was no doubt in Marka's mind that they were sealing a commitment to each other. Whether they married or not, from now on they were partners to the death. He wouldn't have it any other way.

At the foot of her bed she grabbed him by the buckle of his thin black belt; and pulled him in for a soft, tender kiss. Then she smiled, and started to unbuckle his belt. His lightsaber fell with a clatter as his pants dropped. Marka slid his fingers under her pants, caressing her smooth thighs and firm bottom. Their eyes were locked now, it was a moment he knew he would remember for the rest of his life. Her beautiful eyes, swimming with emotion, the unspoken love flowing between them; the hunger, the passion.

Bang CRASH! The front door burst off its hinges and smashed into the wall a few meters from them.

Bastila screamed.

------------------------------------------------

Never leapt from his speeder onto the top of the building, he didn't have any time to lose. According to Morningstar, Bastila was going to be attacked by assassins in less than a minute. The only chance she had was if he came to her rescue. Why that should be, he did not know, but he was convinced that Morningstar was the prophet that the grey's prophecy spoke of. If the prophet said that Bastila would die unless he came, then he had to save her. It didn't matter if Jezebel was able to get hot on his trail as a result, he couldn't live without her.

He shot a gripping hook with an attached line from each of his highly modified gauntlets into the back of the raised concrete that encircled the edge of the building, then he jumped on top of it. He then looped the strong cords through attachments in his belt, and lowered himself so that he was vertical to the wall and facing the ground. Then he started running down, feeding the cord through his gloved hands. The friction between them was enough that he could smell burning.

Over the past few years his bond with Bastila had grown so weak that was almost non-existent. But now, as close as he was to her, if he concentrated he could tell where she was, so he knew when to stop. He halted his decent, and kicked off the glass. Then he sent a concentrated Force-blast that shattered a single panel, and he swung through.

Landing, he immediately cut his cords and drew his double-bladed lightsaber. Wasting no time, he leapt forward and ran towards his wife's apartment. He was close enough now that he could sense a hint of her emotions, she was in a state of either fear or excitement, most likely the former. The attack had already begun! He had no time to lose.

He reached the door, and focused all his power before blasting it in. Bang CRASH! He heard her scream, and leapt through the shattered entrance with both ends of his weapon ignited and ready, his eyes scanning the room for assassins. There were none, the only people in the room where him, Bastila, and the man she was with. Never's lightsaber dropped from nerveless fingers as he took in the pair. Both of them were topless, and his pants where around his ankles. There could be no doubt what they had been about to do. Even worse, the male figure she was embracing was none other than Marka, his half-brother!

"What are you doing?" Bastila screamed, trying to cover her breasts with one arm.

Her words pulled him out of his shock and drew his anger to the surface. "I was told there was going to be an attack here," he snarled, "But what the frack are you doing, wife?" He strode forward, his weapon forgotten, murder in his eyes.

Marka stepped in front of him silently, buckling his belt up, his expression unreadable. Never didn't even slow, he smashed his fist into the other mans cheek. Remarkably, it didn't floor him, he swayed and then pushed Never back; spitting out a mouthful of blood. Whatever he had used to cover his scars had come loose with the blow, and was now hanging down in ribbons.

Never was quivered with rage, how dare the bastard touch him, how dare he touch his wife. He charged forward, and unearthly cry on his lips, his fists seeking the bastards flesh. This time he simply raised his arms to defend his head and neck, allowing Never to smash blow after sledgehammer blow into his midsection. The Force came to him, as if to assist in his revenge, lending terrible power to his strikes. The bastard shook each time he struck his rock-solid abdomen, but still didn't retaliate. Never felt desperation come to him, how could he take all this abuse and keep standing? Any ordinary man have been killed instantly.

A blur came at him, instinctively he countered. His fist connected with much softer flesh, and knocked it immediately out of the way. Only when it was on the floor did he realise what had happened. Bastila had run between them, and he had hit her; oh gods; he'd hit her hard. Before he could move; the air in front of his eyes seemed to solidify and explode at once; he was floating, flying backwards, his face a sea of blinding pain. He landed hard and lay stunned, warm blood pouring down both sides of his mouth.

Dazed, he slowly came to, and pulled up to a sitting position painfully. The first thing he saw were Marka and Bastila, hugging each other tightly. Bastila was sobbing on the other man's shoulder, the bruising on her neck painfully obvious. He could not believe that he'd hurt her, he couldn't believe it. Marka's stomach was a mass of purple and blue discolouring, he'd probably taken a great deal of internal damage as well, the embrace seemed to be as much to support him as to give comfort. Even still, the tender scene broke his heart.

Nausea came suddenly and overpoweringly, Never barely had time lean forward before he was spewing his stomach's entire contents onto the floor. Blood from his nose streamed out with renewed force to add to the vile mixture. He forced himself up, and gingerly touched his nose, before pulling his hand back and wincing. It was shattered to powder. He was lucky to be alive, he knew well that a strong strike to the nasal region could kill very easily when done at the right angle. But had Marka intended to kill him?

The worst part was that he couldn't blame the other man for reacting the way he had, in fact he had behaved far better considering the situation. He had refused to fight back, even though Never had been set on killing him with his fists, and only struck when Bastila had been injured. Force, if somebody had harmed Bastila in his sight he wouldn't have settled for merely incapacitating them, if that had been the other man's intention.

"Why did you come here?" said Marka softly, his eyes unreadable. The side of his mouth was also discoloured, his old scars weeping. His teeth were bloody, although none seemed to be missing.

It took Never a short while before he could think enough to state his reasoning. "Morningstar told me that there would be assassins coming to kill Bastila, and I was the only one who could possibly save her." That was what he tried to say, what came out was nearly unintelligible and so thick that he could barely understand himself.

"There's no one here besides us!" Bastila cried angrily, her eyes red from tears, "Just get out already, or haven't you torn the place up enough, haven't you hurt us enough to be content with your revenge." She spoke the last word like a curse, making it sound a lot like his old name.

Her insult stung. "Why, Bastila," he said, his voice cracking with emotion and nearly making him choke on his own blood. He vomited again, and continued. "I loved you. Why?" Despite the pain, he forced a finger up the one nostril and blew out the clotted blood, then copied the procedure on the other side. At least he'd be able to speak reasonably clearly now.

"I loved, and you left me," she shouted, "Not a word of warning, no contact for years, no knowledge of where you were; except that you could only be putting yourself in harms way. I tried to wait, I did, for six long years I sustained myself with your memory; I raised our child by myself. But in the end I had to come to terms with the fact that I didn't love you any more, that I was just holding onto shades of the past. I was moving on with my life, taking a second chance for love. Now you show up," she gave a short laugh that was entirely devoid of mirth, "As always, with impeccable timing, and absolutely breathtaking restraint."

Never was about to respond, when there was a loud BEEP, followed almost immediately by another. He recognised the tone, it was one generally used to indicate emergencies. Both Marka and Bastila looked at each other; then she moved off to answer their comm.-links while he supported himself against the wall. Never felt a rush of guilt, he tried to quell it with righteous anger, but failed. He had truly intended to kill the man, they all knew it -even if nothing had been said.

Bastila was speaking into the apparatus quietly, he couldn't make out anything of what she had said. The room was a mess, with blood, vomit and rubble all over the floor. His lightsaber was there too, but Never made no move to recover it. His eyes came to rest on Marka again, and the guilt returned. There was still a fair measure of anger, after all, the man had cuckolded him; but most had burned out already. The other man was obviously in a great deal of pain, even if was trying not to show it. Never walked up to him.

"Does it hurt?" he said, saying the first thing that came into his mind, and immediately cursed himself for a fool. Of course it hurt, anyone could see that.

"I've had worse," Marka replied steadily, his face a tight mask but his eyes betrayed his pain, controlled anger and … disappointment? "But not often."

Never sighed, "For what its worth, I won't get in your way. If she wants a divorce, I won't fight it." He had already lost there, and destroyed all his chances of reconciling with Bastila from his actions earlier. The best he could hope for now was to at least be on speaking terms with them.

"I would appreciate that."

There was an uncomfortable silence, punctuated only by Bastila's whispered conversation over the comm.-link. Marka seemed to be performing some sort of healing trance. It was fortunate that he had such powers, normally the internal haemorrhaging that came from such injuries required extensive surgery. As it was, he'd be lucky to be able to avoid it. Never offered to help, but was politely declined, and told to sort out his nose.

"I shouldn't have come," said Never softly, at a loss for things to say. What could he say to make it right, to make this whole ugly situation go away. Words seemed like little more than noise on the wind. But, at the same time, why had Morningstar sent him here? There were no assassins anywhere in sight.

"No you shouldn't have," Marka agreed, just as Bastila returned. She was as white as a sheet, and trembling so badly she seemed about to fall.

"That was Master Bindoe," she said when they asked, "There's been a raid on Alderaan, a very precise raid. There were only seven deaths, the foster families of my son Lehon, and Marka's daughter Belaya."

"And the children?" Never and Marka exclaimed at the same time.

Tears were leaking down Bastila's face. "They've been taken! The kidnappers left instructions, and if we don't follow them, we'll never see them again!"