Epilogue

The Disciple landed the speeder by a small shack perched on a gentle grassy hill sloping towards the gray cliffs and the sea. His heart pounded as he opened the door. Quinly was on her knees, apparently packing a chest with datapads. She was presently staring at one of them, frowning, biting her lip. She lifted her head and smiled up at him: "I can't tell heads from tails. I hope Chodo Habat could find someone who can."

He did not reply, just looked at her. Quinly shrugged and rose to her feet: "But you did not ride all the way here to help me pack Bao-Dur's things, Mical. Come, I will show you what the Order has just acquired."

She led him to the cliff and pointed out the extent of the lands around Bao-Dur's small dwelling, untouched under the shield the Zabrak held together by feeding his lifeforce to it. It was a beautiful strip of green, and the warm soft drizzle made his hair and skin feel pleasantly moist. He was getting used to living underground and expecting the outdoors to be nothing but endless snow. He told her about people answering the call they've placed. The drop-outs, the lost ones, the very young. He laughed at the ambitious parents that would not believe their children did not have the Force Sensitivity.

"Atris came back as well, Master. She's asking to help as an administrator."

"And?" Quinly asked.

"I think I should accept her," he said.

"Then do so," Quinly replied. "She will test you, and oppose you every step of the way, but you can manage her."

He stopped, swallowed. This conversation was trivial, but he did not have the guts to ask her the most important thing. "When…when are we to expect you at the Academy, Master?"

Quinly laughed and beaconed. She led him back to the shack, to a big stack of boxes with Habat's seal on it. A strange tool was leaning against it, really just a shaft with a wide, semi-circular metal blade. "Is that…" he raked his memory, "a shovel?"

Quinly nodded and took the ancient tool in her hands, then proceeded to dig a hole in the ground. He took the other shovel and joined her. She seemed to want a circular hole about a meter deep. When they were done, Quinly picked a handful of dirt. He followed her example again, and enjoyed the rich moist feel of freshly turned soil. Quinly opened one of the containers, and revealed a tiny tree, just a few sticks, no leaves yet, with a surprisingly large root bulb. Checking a datapad carefully, they mixed the dirt on the bottom of the hole with some supplement, planted the tree, and watered it. He wasn't sure the last one was needed with all the drizzle, but Quinly conferred with Habat's instructions. It took a surprisingly long time to plant this one tiny little tree by hand.

"I intend to plant a grove here," Quinly said at last.

He looked around. "It will be a place of power, Master, of course. But why now? The Order needs you desperately, when we are so few."

Quinly smiled sadly. "Mical, the Order has exiled me, and for a good reason. This is my place for now. My duty. I am afraid I will always be remembered as a menace of Malachor, the death-bringer."

"No!" he exclaimed, "no..."

"You are trying to white-wash me again. Do not. It will harm your efforts. Distance the Order from me. I have never seen anyone whose nature is more of the light than you. It is so apparent that even those who never touch the Force can see it. Do not confuse them, Mical."

He sighed. "There is one more thing. Mira wants—"

Quinly nodded: "I know what Mira wants, and my answer is the same as before. I shall not take another student."

"Is that all I should tell her?" he asked sadly.

"No," Quinly replied, and hope woke in him for a moment. "No, there is more you can tell her. But not until you accept that you are ready to take on your first padawan."

The chill of foreboding ran through him. "Once the grove is planted, what's then?"

Her face turned thoughtful. "I have Revan's ship, but Revan is lost somewhere beyond the Rim. And Admiral Onasi had asked me to tell her that he's waiting."

"Admiral Onasi has no jurisdiction to order you around!" Mical argued.

"That was no order, Mical," Quinly corrected him quietly, "That aside, Kreia prophesized that Revan must be found for our sacrifices to have any meaning."

"I will come with you," Mical offered quickly.

"You, Mical, will shine brighter once you step out of my shadow," Quinly told him with finality, turned away and started digging another hole.

There was nothing else to say, and Mical walked slowly to his speeder. So that's how a man feels after he'd lived his dream.

It seemed like a thousand years had passed since he was a boy sheltering among the white columns, looking down at the sparing grounds. Down there, a young Knight and a senior padawan sparred endlessly, until the Knight threw her hands up in frustration: "Quinly, if that was a lightsaber, you'd be long dead. Yield."

The younger woman cut the legs from under the Knight: "This is a training sword, Master Revan."

The Knight did not get up from the ground after her fall. She crossed her legs, looked up and asked intently: "And do you want to keep fighting with the training blades, Quinly, when the Mandalorians burn and pillage a world after world?"

Quinly stood to attention. "Master?"

"I have seen your battle simulations, Quinly. I found them impressive."

Quinly sounded surprised: "Then you are the only one. The Masters have barely let me pass."

Revan chuckled: "They would. You have sacrificed more than they could stomach. But you've come out victorious every single time. As I said, impressive." The Knight looked up, right at Mical's hiding place, and finally got up, dusting off her soft trousers. "Let us go chat about it somewhere… quieter."

Mical knew that Revan was everyone's talk, with her swift rise and unorthodox ways. Yet it was the younger padawan that captivated his imagination. Over the next few weeks he shadowed Quinly, watching her fight, meditate, argue. Everything she did had energy and purpose to it. She'd laughed back then, too, easily and happily. On the night they had given her the lightsaber, Mical trailed her, eager to ask if she would consider him as a padawan, but she was so lost in her thoughts, she'd never heard him call after her.

Tomorrow, he'd thought, tomorrow.

The next morning Quinly's abrupt departure and betrayal was the scandal everyone whispered about. But he did not stop dreaming of adventuring far and wide with Master Quinly.

Now he did. There was another part to those old dreams. That she'd notice him for a grown man. She did that too, and treated him as such. It is a hard thing to live longer than your dreams. He sped away for the pole and the many obligations of a Jedi Master.

Comforted that Mical finally went on his Way, Quinly straightened from patting the dirt around another tree. The saplings were falling into a pattern she'd dreamed about. She knew he was guiding her. Or she had hoped.
"Are you here?" she asked the dusk.

Slowly, the air darkened even more right by her side, thickened into a figure kneeling on the grass. "Have I done well?" she'd asked him quietly. He straightened and gave the rows of sticks a good long look, then took the shovel away from her. She started. From what she knew of the Force apparitions they were never substantial.
"You," she stumbled, "you could always make anything work."

"It's far from perfect," he said and shook his head self-depreciatively. The shovel dropped through his hand. "And I have never hoped for you to come here. Or to remember what I have told you about the trees and the shovels and making amends."

"That's because you are a fool," Quinly retorted. "Or maybe you are the wise one. It is me who still walks among the living, and plants in hopes to find forgiveness for all those who had died. There has been so much death, but it keeps skipping me over."

"Come here," he said simply. "Just don't lean in too much, or you might end up with dirt all over your face."

"Won't be the first time," Quinly replied, "I need a shoulder to cry on. Don't tell anyone." She pressed her forehead against his chest tentatively. He wrapped his arms around her with the same care. "Very strange," she muttered.

"Yes," he replied, "strange." A moment passed in silence, and then suddenly, her outward serenity gave way. Quinly's strong shoulders drooped and shook. Ever so slightly he touched the top of her head, her hair with his lips. It should have been imperceptible, but she lifted her wet face off his chest at once to look up at him.

"You?"

"Always, General," he replied.