Let me, be the one you come running to

I'll never be untrue

Oh baby

Let's, let's stay together (gether)

Lovin' you whether, whether

Times are good or bad, happy or sad

—Al Green

I'd be appalled if I saw you ever try to be a saint

I wouldn't fall for someone I thought couldn't misbehave

But I want you to know that I've had no love like your love

And on the other side, why should we deny the truth?

We could have less to worry about, honey, I won't lie to you

But everything I do I've had no love like your love

—Hozier

A/N: Thanks Douchevick for a line about about being dark and scary...

"Lord Revan?"

"Darth Revan?"

"Master Revan?"

"Sir?"

"Revan?"

They were looking at him, these nothing people, Humans, Selkath, and a Twilek Republic captain. A few were beings he had trusted and respected. Other here would love to cut out his liver and force feed it to him, or eat it themselves and relishing every bite, even now. And some refused to look towards his face. To look at him might draw his attention, and Revan's patience had grown short and downright ragged lately.

They were here for…for a moment, he struggled to recall. Kolto, yes, they all needed that. Rather much so. They were negotiating with the neutral Selkath. Weren't they? Then he gave up. It didn't matter. His silences were foreboding, and he let everyone draw their own conclusions as he sat there.

His newly stated Admiral Saul Karath, First Officer Mon Halan, and his General Derred all awaited his command. They had all followed him against the Republic, proved themselves to be competent, well-respected followers. He also knew that his admiral was a sober presence, though also owed some of his meteoric rise to Malak— aside from their past, the last Admiral had been strangled by the big man once he'd betrayed him and let Revan onto the ship. All those facts also neglected to mention as an aside that he was also a late addition to the team. Together, his apprentice and admiral had been the ones to recklessly bombard Telos—without consulting Revan. Thank the Force there hadn't been more damage to where a hidden base had been buried below.

He remembered another general whom he had trusted, and then dismissed that old dusty memory.

These humans here in gray and black had followed him to the dark places of the galaxy, rebelled against the Republic they had sworn to protect, had chosen his side against Malak and all other failed pretenders. But now they doubted. Perhaps it had begun earlier. After the first time he'd failed to stop her, either by capture or death, and instead had to suffer minor defeat and witness the Padawan slipping from his grasp. And then it had happened again. Revan, who had stopped the Mandalorians, but seemingly failed to stop this single young pathetic little Jedi.

Instead of crushing the Republic, he had settled a peace with them.

His followers (though they were not just the Revanchists, not anymore) no longer saw the gains they were making, but instead the attempts of recovery the Republic had begun. The cowed beast had suddenly stopped rolling over to expose its belly and the smell of blood dimmed. A few praised his decision, especially in the Republic, but even among a few of his advisers that recognized that he had long term plans. Yet some of his own beasts, uncowed themselves, were growing restless. And hungry.

Some doubted him now.

He was losing some part of himself, Revan sometimes believed. Sometimes, when he felt particularly maudlin, perhaps over a report or a lonely MRE eaten at his desk, Revan would think of that young child in the library, trying to reach a high shelf or badger a Master about the Jedi Code. Part of that youth had been lost with the Mandalorians, as the Outer Rim burned and the Order he'd respected and loved had done nothing and become Jedi in name only. And names were important. So were titles.

It still irked him to realize that he shared such a bond with a Jedi—and of course not just any Jedi.

She was named Bastila Shan and her title was Jedi Padawan, even now. More than that were also these things he'd discovered: she stood slightly shorter than him, she drank black caffe and black tea, she had fallen asleep on the couch, a month before she'd left, one arm outstretched, face so young and guileless and trusting, richly brown hair falling into her face, and Revan had needed to stand in the doorway, mesmerized, and confused by his reaction of delight. She might eat perched in her chair, eyes focusing on the holopad and ignoring him until his mind went frantic from the lack of attention. They had danced before, and she had laughed in his arms. Once she had punched him in the face, and once had clambered on top of him in passion—to attempt a chokehold. Those pigtails. Here is another title she possessed: wife.

Bondmate.

Partner.

He looked at footage of her and replayed moments of her training. She could be startlingly fast, but more than that, powerful. And, he would admit when seeing her rush someone, not exactly shy either. No, she was no bashful Jedi that retreated from the world. Even when uncertain, she was confident that she must do something; she had not even waited the full forty hours before agreeing to his proposal. Revan was surprised now she didn't join him in fighting the Mandalorians, but less so when he recalled it turned out she spent the time trying to persuade the other Jedi to not leave. Alek had not been amused by some untrained apprentice's efforts at undermining him even then.

When they finally heard her name, they'd both been flabbergasted.

His first sight of her had been through the propaganda holos and interviews with her face partially hidden. Revan had not thought them entirely truthful. Seeing a young woman with elaborate hair and a haughty tone, he had also not been overly impressed. The new Jedi was clearly a product of a flawed Order that still had not learned from their mistakes. If going by the interviews she'd given with increasing reluctance (as though by gunpoint by the end), they may have only gotten more dogmatic and appreciated introspection less than ever. Revan would not give her the satisfaction of being troubled by her paltry, lucky power. Instead, he only put out a bounty on her capture.

In retrospect however, that was also giving her too much respect. The emphasis on capturing her alive had also been too big a clue, but he'd been...intrigued by the headstrong woman.

Without her, the Republic would be weakened husk in a year. But more than that, with her, the Sith would be that much stronger. Her gift should be used to helped save the galaxy, not to prolong the Jedi and Republic's waste and suffering.

What a silly little child she was though. She would burn bright and then burn out. Still, there was something you could nearly respect; the girl was not easily forgotten. Nor was she meek or mild. There was strength to her that so many of the Order lacked now, even if it only made her vanity that much stronger. Any serenity she might claim to have was a sham; it was all self-righteousness. It had been hard to hide some of his disgust, and disapproval when he'd first heard her voice. Her powers were a simple fluke of the Force, and there was no reason they should not be at Revan's disposal.

Bastila, however, had apparently disagreed and apparently the Force had allowed her to do so, slipping out of Sith's hands at the last moment. She had escaped, or defeated any assassins sent after her, and he somehow reluctantly had grown to nearly respect Shan.

Still. Attracted to her? And sexually speaking? Did people really think he had fallen headfirst over some stripling Padawan? How dare they? Those people had no idea the first thing about him, or her. They had never jumped out at her in the darkness as she quietly tried to get a cup of a tea to get a rise out of her when she'd decided to take a vow of silence with only him.

...no, Revan hadn't been starry-eyed over her visage (and voice). How absurd.

Revan knew how it looked. He was not a fool, to the raised brows and knowing looks from the ignorant when he'd proposed his plan to wed the young, nubile Padawan. Oh, yes, he had noticed her appearance and heard others commenting and could dispassionately note that she was attractive by humanoid standards. But so were countless others, and those people might be less inclined to bodily attack him if he expressed such interest. Some might have more attractive features, like well, height and proper respect on a less thin face that so rarely looked at him with anything but disdain. Unfortunately, he knew what she would say to that, especially the comment about her size.

It was not that she was unpleasant to look at. He would admit that, to her scowling, unimpressed face even. Slimness and muscle, healthy, that attractive tinge when she blushed and the wrinkle over her nose was endearing. He would go so far as to say he liked those pale eyes that turned smoky when in thought, the purse of her mouth, dark-medium well-groomed brown hair that was pulled up except for what fell around her face, the shape and curve of her hips when he'd noticed them could fluster him and turn Revan glib. But sexuality was an unnecessary distraction that Revan had successfully avoided most of his life. But, well.

Well.

Bastila Shan had proved to be quite proficient at getting a rise from Revan.

The Revanchist would admit that, and curse and be glad she wasn't here to hear that one.

He'd developed an interest in her, the Sith could admit, even before their hands were being wrapped together. The occasion had been a fine one, for all her discomfort. It was rare to have a chance to shame such a proud Order. Revan had smiled with satisfaction of a perfectly executed plan as Bastila scowled at the closeness. The shock and way her brows furrowed after he'd teased this stubborn young Jedi with a goodnight kiss had been in particular diverting.

Then one day, he might have, say, a bad dream. A very bad dream, for everyone involved. When he awoke, he half-expected to see old Jedi Masters of old, his previous ones, and the great Sith Lords that had settled Korriban, all towering over him, with a disapproving frown, and in the middle of them all was Bastila Shan, with a lit blade.

He was Darth Revan, Revan the Butcher, the Revanchist, the most successful of Master Kae's pupils and the most talented Jedi to leave the Order in a lifetime. Yet he still noticed when she was near, his attentions would divert. He would measure the distance between them and try to read her mood just based off how hard she scowled around him. Or he would look at her speaking and feel the pressure of his mask against his face, his lips, and become conscious whenever she glanced back. When Bastila smiled, and tilted her head, softness entering her voice even as she challenged him, Revan would be caught in the pull of gray eyes with their funny blue shine and soft feather imprint of chromatic patterns towards the irises like an afterthought. Clouds above a deep sea, the gloom of icy mountains, gunmetal steel tempered with blasterbore and charred around the edges. He became a miserable poet. He went as far as to change his posture when she entered the room, shoulders straightening. His Master would have had a few words about that as well.

But Kae wasn't here, so he would admit now that when they had first met he had felt his heart rate increase to nearly painful levels, and again at the Jedi Temple when he'd come for her hand. Revan had choked that up to a natural excitement at finally meeting his newest foe. Even when she was no longer an enemy but an ally, a prisoner, his Bondmate.

When deep in meditation, Revan might see the Jedi there in his visions. She was older in some of them, others seemingly the same age. Sometimes she wore her customary leather training garb, others she was in form-fitting black robes. What he found most unsettling of all these scenarios were the ones where she actually smiled at him, no matter what garb she wore. A test from the Force, Revan would consider it. They were varied, these visions and dreams, and not even necessarily sexual. Sometimes, hellishly, he saw her only on the Star Forge, head bent in concentration, but her eyes had flickered open when he approached her.

Yet, some had begun to develop that edge of intimacy. He would be on Korriban, behind a locked door, and then she would be there with a bow, dressed in black and calling him 'Master' like a particularly sordid holo that one could only watch on datapad with high security protection behind a sealed door. Ridiculous. He was sane, despite everything that had happened, and knew damn well how impossible that fantasy was. Despite her current deference towards her teachers, Revan could imagine her developing a seething contempt for any 'Master' she might study under as a Sith. Besides, imagine Bastila bowing and calling him Master…except that he did.

Yet in other silly dreams, they were back here, and sparring, and she would gain the upper hand with a strong pull of the Force to keep his hands in place while her own did terrible things. Lately, there was that dream of their first kiss that would become more than a kiss. So far, Revan had successfully kept all that from her; Force knew how Bastila would react to such things.

Despite that, he would debate such wild, unsubstantiated claims that he was madly in love with Bastila Shan.

He wanted to laugh at them all for being so wrong, to laugh at the trapped Jedi Padawan who glared at him over her toast in the morning and was only too aware of this absurd connection they shared.

And then she had left.

You couldn't say she hadn't given fair warning, he supposed.

She had thought him pathetic, that last night. He'd been thrown off, and had to readjust to being Darth Revan rather than an amiable man smitten with his wife and kind to his mother-in-law. This was as new to him as it ever had been to another being. What did a Sith know of family? What could a Sith raised as a virtuous (relatively) Jedi know of such things? She was not wrong about it being pathetic, but of course could never be told that.

All the training he'd done at the hands of ancient Sith Lord had been to harness passions had proved detrimental. They told him to explore, to perhaps give in to such desires. Just as they told him to beware the weaknesses of trust and affection. His Jedi training had prepared him for restraint and self-control. They warned him of growing attached, and told him only to trust the Force—though, his Masters had differing things to say in regards to that. Last night, in a torrid fantasy, they had lost themselves against a wall in his (their) room, then rolled around on the woven carpet when the bed proved too far away, smashing light fixtures and overturning over small furniture. He woke up with one hand wrapped around a shattered lamp like he was clutching a throat. The other hand had been preoccupied with something that was also throwing sparks.

Those lessons mixed and churned, and he recoiled away from a test he not only thought he would fail but was unlearnable. Revan was not naive enough to believe all truths could be found in either group, but how could both be failing so completely? After all his lessons, his travels and nature that had purposely been trained to avoid unnecessary attachments, and he would spent hours trying to concoct a message that was both cold and funny and charming, that would shame her and make her miss him all at once.

He looked at holos of her. Vids of homages to her, helping orphans with their scraped knees and other rank propaganda. Unless not. She was not maternal, but it was hard to see her not helping children off the ground. Did she ever want children of her own? Bastila acted appalled whenever he mentioned such possibilities.

In profile, she looked older.

Revan was reduced to studying her from afar again. He had done this before. Even before he'd proposed to her by way of an announcement in front of untold billions, the Sith had looked and studied her. And he had then decided that yes, she would do. The Force had played its part as well, just as he'd known and Seen. Was that not why he'd felt her, long before they'd ever met, and long after they had?

The Sith Lord walked and paced in circle and wanted to cry out when he was forced to return to his original chambers, alone.

And this Sith Lord knew that was a weakness, but it hadn't been one he'd been able to turn to his advantage. Not yet. She had proven remarkable resilient. Even if it hadn't broken the treaty he'd signed and was amused to keep, Revan would not have tortured her. He didn't think that would have been an easy task, and wasn't sure how well such a tactic would have worked on her. Teaching her to hate and fear, specifically him, was the opposite of what he wanted, Revan knew now.

If she was unsettled by him playing the part of a lech, Revan would do that. He would weaken her resolve by playing harmless and confuse her. Roll over and expose his belly for his kinrath pup if need be. She needed it, he reasoned. He could turn the tables on her, later. Once she returned.

Her image was over the Holonet projector, truly her, and he was horrified by the tightening in his chest. "How long are you going to stay away?"

Her eyes couldn't flash. "I told you, I am on a mission." Forever.

He was pathetic. "I could help."

"I'd rather you didn't. You've helped enough." For someone that was not yet even a Knight, Shan had already perfected that disapproving sniff.

"Yes, I did, like with you and Helena. I am not to blame for...what happened to your father," Revan reminded her. Remember when I was kind to you, and your mother? He had not turned into that krayt dragon, after all. From his time on Tatooine, he knew they were large predators who did not appreciate anyone approaching them or their lairs.

Her jaw tightened, visibly. "That is not your fault." Only that.

"Yet you blame me. Should I create a cure for your mother myself?" Perhaps. "If not for me, you might have never even seen her again."

"I'm not talking to you about this."

Revan went back to work on his own empire. He had to secretly gather forces and assure the Republic that he was decommissioning stations. But truly: he puttered. Revan might spent hours in his cabin or in his office or sparring with every Sith warrior that dared challenge him. His heart wasn't in it, though no one seemed to notice. Sometimes, people whispered that he himself must be a droid from far away, and sometimes Revan felt the same. But now it felt more driftless, a machine that had finished its final command but hadn't been shut off yet.

Yet there was still so much to do.

There was no Malak or other annoying little assistant-apprentice here, to remind him of the Mandalorian war and to tell him which meeting he had to attend to next and insist he arrive there on time, as the attendant never dared. He would sit there and nod and take notes and make meaningless distinctions between demands and kept his looks out the starboard viewer to a minimum.

HK-47 cheered him up by recalling old stories, and made offers to seek out the 'female Jedi meatbag' and bring her back. Ah, but Bastila would never forgive him. No, dragging her back by her obi would not improve matters, in the long term. She even refused to have him send his best droid to watch out over her.

What was he to do?

For the first time, since perhaps ever, Revan found himself recalling a specific conversation between him and his first apprentice. Alek had commiserated about some love interest, towering and blue-eyed and bald. His despair had bemused the confident Jedi Knight. He was not sure whether or not to chide his tall friend, though he may not necessarily agree with the Jedi about attachments, he had no interest in such romantic entanglements. What could he tell his best friend? 'Maybe try a wig?' And then his fellow Jedi Knight had stopped his pacing to stare at him, dumbfounded, and then burst into laughter.

Ah. He had forgotten all about that.

Malak would have mocked him for this. He had once taunted Revan about him being unable to swat the Jedi pest, and her being only a Padawan. There were not many things that amused his apprentice by this point, but he did relish rubbing his master's face in any failures or missteps, as he saw them. Revan could still see those eyes that had grown bloodshot and yellowed, now crinkled with delight; there wasn't much face to make out expressions any other way. And the way those same eyes had flashed in anger when the Sith Lord instead praised Bastila Shan on her resilience for surviving this long, such a powerful young figure and one so instrumental to the Republic's success. What a fine student, and what a shame she had not joined their cause, perhaps back when they were recruiting to fight the Mandalorians.

Somewhere, perhaps in whatever afterlife there was, or simply somewhere far away in this big galaxy, the woman he had betrayed, his first and last Master, must be laughing.

A week later, a week, she was back in a flush of blue light that failed to capture her enough. A slight cut on her forehead was dismissed by her before he could offer any concern.

"Why did they not give you kolto?" he demanded.

"There is a shortage," she scolded.

"Even now?" Of course there was. But there was no excuse why Bastila Shan shouldn't have special medical attention. And...who dared lay a hand on her?

"Yes. It's fine, Revan." Bastila dismissed his concern. "Your precious hostage is doing just fine."

Did she want reassurance? Is that what this all was about? "You are not only that." If Bastila was here, he would have touched her and lost a hand, or kissed her and lost a head. "How can you believe that even now?"

She grimaced, muscles in her face working. "You are not making this any better, for either of us."

"Well, neither are you."

So stubborn.

Tell me of everything, I want to hear your voice. What, no comments on my accent, Revan? No, no, not tonight. Mm, very well then. Why comment on her accent, when he might tease her about so much else, like her hair or attitude.

She had an astromech droid, she told him eventually. It was not hers. It belonged to the ship. But they had spoken, and it had become assigned to her, and she was glad of its company. She had been replacing the family she'd created here in the Sith, obviously. Starting first with their child.

"Of course not! Why would you say that?"

"Are you not missing HK?"

"Force no."

Revan grinned, glad she could see his face this evening. "I'll make sure he gets your love."

"This one is actually helpful," she insisted.

"But can it murder anyone?"

"Yes it can," Bastila refuted. "And it talks less."

"Well that certainly can't be any fun."

They smiled at each other. He liked her smile. He missed her smile.

His gut clenched and nearly made him wince. What a fool you are Revan.

I miss you.

No, he couldn't say that.

He was pathetic.

'I order you to return.'

She would stomp up her booted foot. 'Make me!'

And he would leave at the Holo. 'Oh I will.' And then the bombing would commence immediately.

Or, perhaps he would send his ship towards his location and race after her physically. He would demand to see her in some docking bay, and then leap from his ship onto her. She would catch him. Just as she had when his oldest and only friend left had tried to murder him, she would be there to catch and cradle him. Only this time it would be completely physical, and even more undignified to be scooped up in her arms. And yet she would not drop him—not immediately.

He was the Revanchist. He made demands that were followed and not dismissed by Jedi Padawans that had better things like talk about the scarcely diminishing crime rate on Taris, and how much work had to be done on this place after what had happened so many years ago. He was Revan the Butcher and he dreamed and fantasized about having his way with her in the training room to the point of having his back to other Sith that might linger. He was Darth Revan and he moped and missed his Jedi.

In the sparring chambers, he left a bloody terror. He fought bare-handed at some point and when his left hand gave a terrible twinge and no longer operated properly, he managed to bare his teeth in some smile that scared the remaining competition that were still capable of understanding. He reached into his heated anger, and crushed whatever resistance remained. He only stopped after they stopped twitching. Then he went to his chambers to change and talk to his face, bare-faced. If there were any marks, perhaps she might notice.

She hung up on him when he mentioned that he might only be practicing for when she returned, and tried to seduce him again in front of so many others.

Revan would trust and believe that she would return. He must put faith that the Padawan would choose the right thing. Bastila could be exasperating righteous and stubborn, a most dangerous mix. Would she really leave now? She could be loyal, this Jedi, to things besides the Jedi Order and Republic. Why should she give up on ever lecturing him on the dangers of the dark side and arguing about the Mandalorian war with the person that had stopped the war.

Even as rage twisted and frustration kept him up at night.

He wanted to recoil and find something violent to wage his attentions on (revenge). He wished he could see a Republic ship slowly burst into bright laser fire, coming apart and flying apart, all magnificently silent, in front of him right now. He wanted to walk another frightened Jedi into the place and see them break and be reformed, reborn. He wanted his enemy, Mandalore or ancient vanguard of those hidden monsters, a famed Echani senator, a Jedi Masters, or his best friend, any and all facing him to end with them writhing on his blade. He wanted to say goodnight to her and then sit there on the couch until morning, looking up on occasion from his datapad towards the doorway to the bedroom. What he wanted was to bring his lightsaber down atop her own blade and draw near to the face turned gilded from her gold blade.

She had no right to leave.

Bastila did not know that he had not initially wanted to marry her. No, it had not been any easy decision for a man that wanted no undo attachment. When she had—thoughtlessly, bravely, brashly—saved him, Revan had wanted only one thing: revenge. Against his oldest friend and apprentice Malak, and then to pay Bastila back for her part in the betrayal and for seeing him so weakened. The Bond, so unexpected, so bright, had hindered him. It had been the Force that had guided him to making his decision. Bastila was necessary, it told him, you need her. Do what you must to get her.

Marriage had been humorous and oddly tidy. Old-fashioned. Revan assumed he would be rejected, by Shan if no one else. The Jedi Padawan was, by all reports and observations, headstrong, strident in her morality, and must have scoffed at lesser offers from helpless mortals that called her the Last Hope during her time serving the Republic. It would be another pretense, an excuse, an explanation for his inevitable capture of her. Why should she even consent? But no—not unlike in their battles, the Jedi had met his bluff; she had agreed.

How could he not follow through with such insanity?

He had thought he would turn Bastila Shan, this strange outspoken daring little Jedi. Only she had agreed with her own list of demands, and had proven to not break so easily. No, it wasn't that; Revan had decided not to try breaking her. She was fascinating the way she was, trying so hard, doing her best to stay in the light side and protect the Council even as she nursed doubts. Bastila had looked so unafraid their wedding day, blazing and stubborn.

Even if she had only married him for a promotion.

Had that been the moment, when their hands had been bonded and his heartbeat had quickened before her, solely because of her? His smile, aimed at her, hadn't been entirely mocking. Or at least less so.

She was indeed brave, he would come to recognize. Intelligent but not tedious, except when it came to lecturing. The Padawan had spent more time performing her Battle Meditation and being chastened by the failed Masters of the Order than studying for the sake of it. How fetching she could be as well when she was embarrassed. At their wedding, she had politely turned her head away to hold back a sneeze when standing by the flowers and her unexpected, off-handed 'excuse me' had even then been intriguing, endearing. She was trying her best, and for some reason, Revan felt a pang when he acknowledged that fact. He wanted to smile and comfort her, this impatient young bride of his who had never stolen away from the Enclave to do something as tawdry as sneak kisses with some wayward rebel, and had done all she could for everyone, and found that this was her reward.

Could the Bond be blamed on this?

Revan decided it was, and that it might not matter. After all, it was Bastila's fault they'd even developed a Bond.

He had work to do. Bastila had kept him from that, sometimes unintentional. The Foundation was continuing on. HK-47 grew restless and made Revan wistful. He followed his wife from a distance, through rumors and the Holonet. When the Sith saw her with some famous Republic pilot, smiling at him, he decided to not be angry.

She had no interest in them or in any romantic entanglement. Bastila would not choose some random pilot over a husband she'd reluctantly married and was connected to in such a way. Yet he saw the pale bare shoulder exposed and eyes so dark and wide and then the anger was hard to control. One crashing blast would be enough to send him away from her. Why would she prefer a Republic soldier, it wasn't like that person was some handsome chap like that had been there for the wedding, too, son of a schutta. Revan recalled that square face and perfect hair. He opened a bottle of wine with a hand that still ached, and toasted and hoped that the Jedi had indeed taught Bastila restraint in sexual temptations.

He was alone, and fine, Revan decided.

Then he got drunk and angry and wrote an angry message he did not believe he would not send—until Bastila sent him back a strongly worded reply in turn. She was just fine without him, never better. She did not owe him loyalty, and how dare he question her integrity—to the Republic. I will never betray them, or the Order. He was the unfaithful one, not that she cared. He was unfaithful in his actions and had broken a thousand vows, and furthermore they had never swore such faithfulness when it came to monogamy, how could he even think about that, not that she cared in the least if Revan chose to take a lover. Stop acting like a child, Revan, and be a grown man. She also did not care that he thought she looked 'gorgeous' in her latest news story. The hangover did not improve reading that message.

She had called him a liar, but Revan had mostly told her the truth. There were things she simply couldn't know about, not yet; it was too early in their relationship. But he did not purposely keep things that she asked about from him, aside from those things. Oh, yes, perhaps he had felt something on Talravin when she'd asked if he'd felt the dark side, but did that count? Perhaps he'd been confused by the familiarity of it.

And perhaps there was something to the fact of hiding things from her—not only those military secrets, but he had not been upfront about his feelings. Or rather, not been sincere about that.

She still did not know where he got his armada that had made all the difference against the Republic. And she did not understand why so many followed him. No, she turned away from the Sith, these scorned and brave soldiers that risked everything to fight for their existence against the Mandalorians and then to turn on those that had their backs turned themselves by careless passivity. After all, why should they bother to care for those on the Outer Rim anymore? With the Mandos were defeated, why did any of them matter? The Sith fought against the Republic, and for life itself. She still did not understand. Many didn't, puzzled that soldiers could turn against the Republic and Jedi that had done nothing while worlds had burned. Aside from base survival, Revan had yet to find anything else so powerful a motivator as resentment, and hate.

He could have anything, and had her, but only in certain terms and only with her say so. He had his bed back, but found the width upsetting.

It was in that too-large, unmade bed that everything shifted. He woke in the middle of the night, clammy, cold, knowing something had gone wrong. He'd waited for the klaxon sirens, the screeching of metal and clash of blades, that wonderful snap-hmmmm of a lightsaber, to see that figure, always red and grotesquely tall, to finally make his move. The last year dropped away, leaving him completely alone. Yet nothing struck him, and slowly, he would lower his own blade and peer more closely at his surroundings. In the amethyst glow, Revan reached out—

Their Bond had been a source of concern, confusion, delight, necessity. He'd taken moments of enjoyment at feeling someone there, to reach for in an entirely new way that transcended anything he'd ever shared with any other being. He'd hated it when realizing it had been developed after the destruction of Malak's ship, the last words of his apprentice still in his ears. He'd feared it when he began to feel something of a revulsion of his own Academies, and felt something shift through his memories during vulnerable moments of sleep. Bastila seemed not completely aware of the extent of their Bond, and that was most certain for the best. He'd been glad of it, for that brief second when he'd been harmed by Alek's betrayal and reached out for support and found it.

But it had never been so hopeless before.

He was the strongest Force user in the known galaxy, a human that could stop and start entire galaxy spanning wars, and win them, emperor of a civilization that had been built on the backs of the greatest regimes, and completely useless.

He might as well not have had the Force. It might have better. Then he couldn't have to feel her emotions of anger and resentment and fear, see the crudest possible situation laid out by his overactive imagination, feel the sudden sharp blaze of pain. And then for a time, a very very very long time, he'd felt hardly anything at all. He could only look up into the viewer to see the stars that stretched on forever.

Yet of course he could never turn away or reject their Bond even if he couldn't reach out to help her. If anything happened to Bastila Shan, Revan must know. He needed it as well to find her.

And then – like a snap, Revan felt their Bond being clamped shut, muffling all his senses with excruciating slowness. Blind and deaf, hopeless, Revan pushed feeling into an unfeeling void, scratching and feeling for her consciousness, and was returned nothing for his efforts. No matter how hard he pushed and searched, bleeding fury and rage that filled his room with energy and threatened to cause integral damage that made the machinery shriek its warnings.

At some point, he must have stopped.

His eyes were useless and heavy, half-lidded as he stared into some imaginary space between himself and the charred wall with its loose, hurt panels.

She could not be dead. It was a grotesque possibility, one that could never come to fruition. The galaxy might be stripped to nothing and die an untold cold deaths, but her life could not be extinguished. Not his headstrong, powerful Jedi Padawan who had to be dragged down and pinned and even then would not admit defeat. Revan focused on her, her voice with its Core world accent and braided dark brown hair and confidence in the Force.

Then the Force brought her back into his consciousness with outpouring of pain. His relief was immeasurable. Alive, and still kicking, bright and annoyed. When he opened his eyes, Revan didn't understand why his vision was so watery until he wiped them.

"Bastila." The Sith Lord did not recognize his own voice. He wondered who was this broken human that plead to the Force like a superstitious peasant rather than the man that had seize and commanded it so. No one would assume it came from the Butcher.

He also did not understand why no one came rushing to inform him of his Bondmate's state but apparently the galaxy had continue to tick onward despite what she might be enduring. He had to get his communicator and call his team of spies and commandos in such a tone that none would have dared to even think of stalling despite the late hour. Only when they agreed to meet him at the bridge immediately did he think to cover his face and wear armor. Think, Revan, this could be a sign of a strike at him now, and if he were to be attacked at this moment, he wasn't sure if he could fight with his full strength. Her pain burned like a hot stone he'd choked down to blaze in his stomach.

Yet pain would give him strength. It would allow him to concentrate and focus, embrace it until it became meaningless and could be discarded. A Jedi denied their feelings, a Sith reveled in them. What was he?

Then.

She was gone.

The galaxy folded in on itself. The Sith Lord staggered.

"My Lord?"

"Revan?"

She was gone, and there was a finality to it, like she'd stepped logged off and stepped away from the Holonet communicator. Only, he knew she would not have given up, no, never, Bastila would have been dragged away, kicking and fighting. It was a punch to his solar plexus, as though someone had blinded him, as though he'd woken up suddenly missing a limb, as sudden and chilling as the possibility of losing the Force itself like they had done to Jedi of old.

He felt so cold.

But his words were hot and he saw blood and lightning, felt it threaten to be unleashed unto any poor soul that dared to look at him. He was Darth Revan, a Butcher of entire planetary systems, a master of the light and dark side, and a husband, and a Sith Lord, and vowed that whomever got in his way in any way, from the Jedi to the Republic to the dark beings that lingered around the edges, to the very fusion of the suns would face his undying vengeance. "Find my wife."

Someone handed him a datapad and then quickly dissipated to a safe distance.

"Taris." He looked up from the panic-smeared screen and into the stars. "Why the kriff would she be there?"

He saw her, facing him, knocking down one of his fighters, the man's surprise visible through the coverings on his face. Was it confusion at seeing the famed Jedi Bastila Shan here of all places, or finding out the girl Padawan had proven to be a worthy opponent? Her face was still and strong, resolved. Unafraid. Revan knew it well enough, or should, but it still sometimes caught him off guard. And then she was turning her weapon onto him. He saw her eyes clench as she waited for him to bring his weapon down upon her. He fought with one blade in his hands and the other on his belt, and her with her single lonely one, but she did her dogged best. He wanted suddenly to smile at her, to reassure her. The Republic had sent her on a suicide mission but he would save her.

He just needed the perfect plan.

Meanwhile. Revan was forced to continue on, conscious, making decisions and having to perform day-to-day acts, sometimes even in front of others. Though his every instinct was to send a score of trusted assassins and mercenaries to retrieve her. Or, better, to take thousands to swarm and storm and like the prelude for when he finally took Coruscant and the Jedi Academy. They would come with fire in their hands, and their bloodied weapons would light the way to their conquest of the Core worlds. Revan could make whoever dared to take her regret ever hearing her name. They would leave no rock overturned. But it was a big planet, with many shadows to hide someone, and he was not willing to risk her safety.

Yet he went to Taris, regardless of it showing his futile hand.

The Republic had not been pleased when he'd arrived outside this wretched planet, armed with his warship and an armada that had several stealth bombers tucked away. His assassins and spies awaited his command to search for Bastila. If she was discovered, Revan would grateful, and all knew that. He would even award the grasping minor politician of Taris that sweated before him when dragged forth to describe the planet below, and claimed to be Force Sensitive. Perhaps someone even like that might be gifted the governorship of this world. What did he care for Taris' fate? It was only one world, and a minor one at that, lacking even any Jedi to protect it.

Except for a single one, and she seemed to be in no position to defend this planet. In fact, from the rush of emotions he'd briefly felt before she'd disappeared, Bastila felt quite willing to join in on the pillaging. Or at least not defend it from a tiny onslaught.

People said things. People worried. About him, and about Bastila. Why shouldn't they worry? Possibly MIA, possibly kidnapped, and possibly kidnapped by anyone, and she was the lynchpin in the uneasy peace and all the Republic had left to even slow him down. The Sith were the main suspects, as always. Revan was careful not to tip his hand too much. Still, he could not bring himself to talk face-to-face to the Jedi Masters. Some ancient, childish fear kept him from doing facing them, even as he reminded himself that he would have killed them if given the chance. But their disdain and disappointment was another thing. 'You lost the Padawan?' Why should he still wince from Master Vrook's glare as a Sith Lord? Perhaps Bastila was to blame for that as well.

She was so eager to please the masters. And Bonds could go both ways, Revan knew.

He had his visions. Or dreams. They came all the more, in her absence as though to taunt him.

Sometimes they were of their first true meeting, when she'd faced him with a handful of other Jedi, their emotion tempered by Jedi-restraint. Bastila had blazed by comparison. Her fear and confidence had been knotted together until you couldn't tell them apart. Still her voice had been assured and her blade firm. Revan had only seen her, only felt her presence, only appreciated that finally, she had fallen into his trap and all would be right.

Then Malak had struck.

Jedi would preach mercy and compassion, and most were capable of that under most circumstances. But Bastila helping spare his life was not something Revan thought many Jedi would have been capable of doing. But she, this stubborn woman that only received such out-sized attention and favor because of one powerful technique she just happened to possess, had helped Revan the Butcher despite all risks and all the fear and lessons the Jedi had heaped on her.

She was remarkable for her rare talent, but wasn't she also extraordinary for that as well?

He couldn't just leave his empire here. Sith were notorious for finding weakness, and this 'peace' had made them restless. There was muttering in the ranks. We had them, they would say, so why didn't we finish them off? The Republic does not deserve the chance to heal. Perhaps Revan was wrong, they might whisper. And Malak would never have agreed to this.

Not that many mentioned his previous apprentice in his presence, even now.

Still, despite all he'd done and the necessity of it, sometimes, he thought he saw amusement on their faces. Amusement, and contempt. When they sparred, and Bastila might momentarily have the upper hand, the Sith had watched, and judged. Their great Sith Lord, showing such favoritism to some Jedi, and a Padawan, and a pretty female one at that. Sith had no room for sentiment. They could also be so short-sighted and petty. Many all but snarled at his wide-eyed Padawan, this usurper who had come to replace Malak and didn't even deign to train with them. Then she would go around smugly by his side, clad in browns and oranges that were vivid compared to the blacks and grays of the Sith uniforms, and questioning his judgment openly. She was determined to make sure everyone knew she was not Sith.

If the situations were reversed...but they had been, and she—his wonderful, self-righteous, ridiculous Padawan had tried to help him and if the damage had been more severe, she would have dragged his hurt body all the way to an escape pod to save him. Had someone tried to stop her from returning him to the Order, she would have fought to protect him. All while knowing that Darth Revan would have stolen her away from her precious Jedi, and would have personally tortured or sent her to the dark places of the galaxy until she was broken in so many different ways like the others.

And what was Revan's response, when her life was being threatened? To sit here, and brood. He all but wrung his hands.

His previous student left a gap, he realized. A rather large one. And not just because of his literal size either.

Revan needed an apprentice. A true one, that could handle the reigns on his empire. There were others, his General, the Admiral, could all be relatively trusted. There were political considerations to take into account, however, and each with their own history. Each could be trusted, but Revan considered such a thing relative now. It was always relative. He had no competition, with Malak gone. Who would dare claim his empire?

Yet he could not simply rush off. Not even for Bastila.

Not even if she was in mortal peril—

If he left, it could be catastrophic. Who could even say his presence was even necessary to save the Padawan? Perhaps the best place was to be behind the biggest gun? The Jedi might be a hostage, and that could be its own difficulty. Imagine if he could find out exactly where she was, and pointed all his firepower at whatever fool dared hold her, and they simply killed her out of spite. She was vulnerable, exposed, and he dreaded what she might be facing right now. Revan was but a mortal, he was discovering.

She right now, could be in terrible danger, fighting for her life, by all accounts disconnected from the Force and all the more vulnerable for it.

What could he even do? They surrounded Taris, demanding Bastila's return, and had yet to begin killing Republic soldiers for their folly, although that was still a possibility. What, was he suppose to sneak to Taris and find her somewhere on that slag heap of a planet? She could be anywhere, and the Bond might not even be enough. It had become...sketchy, since she'd left his side. When his connection with his Master had broken for the last side, after Malachor, he'd felt something similar. He had chalked some of that also losing so many others below on that horror of a planet, and the General's unique response to all the deaths.

Only, now, his connection to the Padawan was one of the strongest he'd felt. The very nature of their Bond might have made them all the more interdependent, Revan assumed. But perhaps it was the hope that they could be reunited that only made it that much worse.

Yet, could he trust their connection to lead him to her on that entire damned planet?

The Sith here, ones he had thought he could trust to an extent, might take the opportunity to overthrow him. Or attack Taris. After all, if one wanted to replace his apprentice, why not do the very thing that had given Malak such notoriety. It was the inherent problem with having so much of your power-base consisting of the power-hungry. Bastila had criticized it more than once. Though she was doing a disservice to all the good and brave people that served and supported things like his own flagship and therefore by extension herself. But those people might not be enough to stand up to a particularly vigorous traitor, not without him there.

Those funny gray-blue eyes with their funny little glints of blue and yellow in the sun. Her nose, puckered with distaste, and the stare when he stretched in anything casual that may ride up to show skin. He could still hear her voice, soft with grief as she spoke of her father, her wild drunk laughter, and the confusion on her solemn face when he'd draped her in a flag to keep her dry. Those dreams did not help.

Revan could not just rush out there to save her. Like some fool. He knew what the right thing to do was. No one knew better than him about duty, and sacrifice and what the Greater Good required. You cannot do anything to help her besides what you are doing now. If it took one lost Jedi to save the galaxy, then it must be so. He had traded away everything for that doctrine. His honor and beliefs, his companions and friends and master, everything he could care for because in the very core of his being, there had been no choice otherwise.

Bastila herself would have argued against it, and not just in principle of him getting to save her like a damsel. A million things could go wrong. She would have called it madness. But then, she had also confronted him face to face and demanded his forfeit, and then thoughtfully cradled him after Malak had tried and very succeeded in killing him, the man who was his best friend and brother.

All these ships and firepower, battle-hardened veterans, superior technology, and he was as useless as an assassination droid would be at a poetry recital, well, depending on the poets anyway. Equally as armed, the Republic hovered near, puffing about betrayal. Revan was willing to believe there were many, many people with the Republic that wanted to finally turn their guns onto their enemy. And there were even more that wanted that on his side. All that power that could destroy a planet a dozen times over, and what, futile? How could that be? That's what he'd wanted, for so long, even if now they weren't under his complete control.

(nothing was under his control, not anymore)

Her very existence was a thorn to his side, from the beginning. He'd relished the thought of bringing her to Malachor or Korriban and see fear replace the boldness. Not long ago, Revan had planned to capture and break her and see her gifts turned to his benefit. And now she could die.

How could the empire not be a solution? Those must be the two pieces, it was just a matter of applying them correctly like when he was a child being handed a puzzle. But for the first time, he was not studiously applying his memory and intellect and will to whatever test, but the baffled fool staring horror struck at the figures of the screen, and then at the chromometer.

But she could die.

Even now, she could be bleeding out or growing cold in some fallen building. The images crashed his thoughts as sharp as a vibroblade, choking him, and turned every moment into a parody of his previous life. She could be caught by some predator, humanoid or otherwise. Taris was not a welcoming planet under the best of circumstances. She might be hidden away, masking herself from all that searched including those who used the Force. She might have lost her powers, for a hundred reasons. Or she had died when her freighter had been attacked, her skull had been splintered, her back snapped, and her broken form was lying in some ditch for the scavengers. Revan had been quite skilled at torture, and that was a skill that he could apply to himself quite readily.

Once again, he had to search for her. And now he could not send assassins and soldiers and Dark Jedi to retrieve her for a grotesquely high sum provided she was returned alive, and a handful of credits for her death. At least back then he had not cared so much if she'd lived or died and that flexibility had been helpful.

Nor could he wait on the bridge for word of the Republic's success at retrieving one of their Jedi Commanders. Since when were they good at that, after all?

Revan was not known for settling and waiting. The Jedi Council had waited, dickering about the proper response and if Jedi were prepared to face another war when after all, the last one had happened only an entire generation before. He was a military tactician, an excellent dejarik player, and a commander that had stopped an entire invasion. Despite his desperation, he could figure out a plan. It just appalled him. The sheer insanity and recklessness. It felt like a bad idea, and Revan did not have those. Let alone attempt such a bad plan. Let alone proceed with such a terrible plan.

On the face of it, it seemed, he could not save Bastila Shan by turning the might of the Sith onto the planet of Taris. But what else was there? Should he broadcast a message demanding her return immediately? He could not leave himself so exposed. Could he? How? It went against all his teachings, Jedi and Sith. His training should have prepared him for this, instead of leaving him glaring at hairline fractures in the view port as droids scurried around him.

The Sith Lord should let her rot, wherever she was. Let their Bond be severed, finally, and let him continue with his plans. He hadn't wanted the Jedi to leave. The Republic had failed to protect her. It was not his fault. Bastila Shan might have possessed a rare gift, but he might find another, in time, even if they might not rival her power and skills, youth, that passion that was so at odds with her Jedi restraint and propriety, and would lack her sense of duty. They wouldn't harass him and drink all his tea in neat sips and try to teach HK to be politer. None, of course, would wrinkle their nose at him the same way.

It would be for the best, for him. Personally speaking. Because then he would be freed from her. Her terrible nagging lectures and sniping comments, her foolish fears and resentment.

But.

Alone, he tore off his mask, and saw fear in his eyes. The man in the reflection did not look like a leader of a proud, terrible empire that would rule this galaxy. Instead it said another tale, another truth, one that even Revan might prove to be too powerless to oppose.

The only salve was the knowledge that he was not the first fool to fall into this trap. But even that did not help.

Malak had gone to try and woo his Arkanian woman, throwing everything to the wind in a desperate gamble. What of the famed, honorable Echani Senator Yusanis, who had broken oaths, and what had he done once hearing that the Jedi Master Arren Kae had gone to war? Had not Nomi Sunrider gone to Qel-Droma on Rhen Var, despite the betrayal that laid between them. How could Revan the Butcher do any less now, for Bastila Shan?

He would also try to not recall exactly how it had ended up for those others. But why should he fail, when he never had before?

Revan gathered his blades and Mandalorian mask, prepared his followers, and suited for next battle. Revan had gone to war for the Republic and countless innocent civilians, risking everything for faceless masses that he was not particularly fond of. He would do what the Council hadn't, and choose and act rather than wait and pretend inaction was a proper response. He would do what was needed, even if it meant risking anything. He would, once again, go to war.

It might not just be about their Bond, Revan could admit.

Trask, his name was.

He had very blonde hair and very dark green eyes. You got the impression of him being a scrubbed doctor that would appear in some Holonet drama. His voice was permanently raised as though he couldn't not shout, but it was a very mild-mannered sort of yelling. You liked him, a little. Besides, this might have been the perfect time for it. And who could even blame him? It wasn't good when your view was still bouncing around as theirs was, pushed and shoved forward by all sorts of unexpected artillery. No one knew that better than this man sitting right here.

Next time to him, a small astromech twilled about the ship's condition.

He would play dumb. "Who's Bastila?"

Trask Ulgo must have thought he'd finally met the dumbest person in this fleet, and that was really saying something. "Did you hit your head on the way down?"

He had, repeatedly. It was hard to stay still in a crowded pod that was racing down towards a major metropolis with only minimal directions. Nothing that could obscure his memories however. And sometimes, that was unfortunate. The soldier rubbed the back of his head, feeling the newly trimmed hair.

"You're Kal Torel."

He glanced down at his name tag, casually. "I suppose I am."

He decided to keep his lies to a minimum. It would not do to over-complicate things. He had to find where Bastila was, retrieve her, and then call down a secret strike team to collect them both. Hopefully, this would happen before a war broke out overhead. Though Revan had no doubt who would win that encounter, there was no need to disrupt their peace.

On the other hand...this would be an intriguing experiment to see who decided to step over the line, and for Bastila Shan. And, to a lesser extent, this planet.

Taris might be useful.

"Well, we've got to get out of here and find Bastila."

Easier said that done. They were currently in if-not-enemy-than-unfriendly territory. And their shuttle was being attacked by either marauders or Sith soldiers or perhaps both in some terrible synergy to find the Jedi Padawan Bastila Shan. He wished he wasn't dressed like a Republic pilot, and that he hadn't left his weapons behind on his flagship. Their loss still gave him a pang, but he could not assume that he could simply pack it away and hope his Force powers could mask it from inspection. It had been hard enough to sneak onboard and with relatively innocuous things. Still, what kind of Sith lost their lightsaber?

Trask was politely but firmly insisting he put on civilian clothes over there.

Smoke was beginning to creep into their small contained space. Yet he still bothered to change, under Trask's watchful eyes. The astromech chirped in soft distress. His nondescript belt went unnoticed, acceptable to Republic standards, and it was easy to miss any trifling thing he might have had pinned to the inside of it. Everything else had to go. Free from robes and armor, he felt a vulnerable fraud.

Revan repeated his shifting plans to himself, silent, just as fervent as a Jedi would their Code. The rough outline of it had gone well so far. Not only had he sneaked away from his flagship and onto the Endar Spire dressed a simple guard, but he'd even managed to talk his way onto the rescue mission. Never mind that he wasn't alone as he'd hoped, and had a babysitter with him, and he feared with every passing second something would happen to Padawan Shan while he made small talk. The important thing was, he was here, on Taris. That alone was a sign that the Force was on his side again. Everything was going according to his design.

He could have no more returned to the Jedi and the Republic any more than Arren Kae could return to the Echani and the child she'd abandoned. But perhaps he could pretend, just a little. Maybe Revan could not do those things, but what if he wasn't Revan? Or any Sith. Or any Jedi. There were too few of those thanks to the latter. It wouldn't have worked as a disguise anyway, because there would be questions about Masters and he wondered if he could possibly keep himself from tweaking a nose and claiming to be trained by Vrook.

The Sith would be of only so much help down here. The Republic had had a longer time to collect evidence and find her. That settled it. It wasn't as though he was going to help his enemy, after all. Everything after had just been the placement of the pieces.

Now. All he needed was to find Shan, and then a way off this planet.

A good pilot. And no more damn Jedi. He needed a good Sith pilot, one that could be trusted and trusted him in turn. A Sith. Someone that could follow orders and be competent, and ask no questions of any kind. Unfortunately, that was not something easily found on this decaying pit of a planet. Anyone that was familiar with Sith tactics could not be trusted, not on Taris, and especially not one willing to talk to someone like Kal Torel. Perhaps a mercenary...

Someone spoke up, voice dry and slightly heightened with tension. It asked for confirmation about landing, and the familiarity of it. So, it would seem that Onasi fellow was here as well. Of course. Trask pulled out his comm.

"That's Carth Onasi," the blonde medic explained.

Kal struggled to hide his expression as he removed the last of his Republic soldier garb.

He owed nothing to this man. It had been Malak that had fired upon Telos. Yet. Yet, Bastila was friendly with him and yes, Revan did trust him to some extent. Thus far, he was not a liar, or a fraud. He was a good man, and one that had been married to a woman that had not left him of her free will, according to his reports. Unfortunate, the history between them; he would never understand.

Trask was shoving him onward, like he was a particularly dull, loitering schoolboy. At Kal's questioning, the medic was quick to remind him how important Bastila was, they must find the informal commander to the Endar Spire, and reminded him that Kal had sworn to protect her like the rest of the soldiers in the Republic had. Revan gave him a weary stare.

She needed all these troops at her side. All of them to witness and praise her majesty. Those lucky souls could be her puppets or her victims or both. He was surprised even now she hadn't formed her own army on this depressing pit of a planet. But perhaps (and his heart froze) something was preventing her from using her powers.

Revan refused to entertain the idea that she had died.

Surely he would have felt it, and it would not have been a quick separation like a cut chord to send something floating loose. He'd seen Jedi and Sith lose their minds when a Bond had been severed by death, and though Revan may be stronger than they had been, he could not imagine losing as something as his Bond and Bondmate and still being able to function so quickly after. No, she still lived out there, and he had to find her and right all this.

His powers had been reduced, without her, Revan knew grimly. As she'd been harmed and taken, he'd felt a rift forming between his willpower and the Force. The Force felt more distance from him than he felt comfortable with. It was as though Revan been wounded in some way, and despite himself, he thought of the exiled general.

Still, he had enough strength to sense the Sith soldiers swarming ahead, looking for them.

If he balked momentarily at the concern over what the hell was going on where he would need to kill and sneak his way around his own soldiers, well, it wasn't like he hadn't done far worse. These soldiers to be sacrificed were too small a number to do more than tug just a little at him even as he told himself they would have wanted their lives to be given up for Revan and the galaxy as a whole. Really, what was one soldier in the face of this entire war?

Bastila would have hated it. Jedi do not kill, unless necessary. She would argue about the wasted life, about the light side, and her voice would be raised and heated. Force, but he missed her lectures. Would it be necessary? Here he was, in plain garb, planning on how to just sneak past guards that might await just like any good Republic spy.

Despite his instinct to ask Ulgo who this 'Bastila' was again anyway just to upset him, Revan decided to focus more on the escaping part. He let the older man lead them towards the entrance of the fallen ship, and was glad he had heavy gloves. Though he regretted not having his T-visor on to help with the air. Together, they watched the astromech using magnetic clamps to scale the wall.

Even the outside atmosphere was not an improvement.

Especially since someone was waiting for them. The ruby-red blade blazed in the darkness of this underworld. Even as their boots hid dirt, it stalked closer and closer. In his Corellian-style, cracked red leather jacket and thin gray pants, Revan nearly shivered and could not tell if it was in cold or anticipation.

"That's a dark Jedi," Trask exclaimed.

Revan stayed silent. He was glad but not surprised that no recognition flashed on that pale face, partially revealed through the folds of the cowl. Though, he did wish he had his blades on him still. Or at least no witnesses. The astromech droid whistled in alarm.

The medic tensed next to him. "You need to find the Jedi Bastila Shan. Take that droid with you, and don't let the Sith get a hold of it. You have to bring it to Carth Onasi!"

"Wait!"

And then the soldier was rushing off, to face the dark Jedi by himself.

Revan should stay, and fight, even if it meant having to tinker with the Republic soldier's mind and have him forget it. He might strike them both down, for wasting his time, and to make sure no one knew a powerful Force-user was on the planet. What did he care about these two insignificant lives? Or perhaps he might have stayed his ground, just to see a failed Sith on the ground, holding what was left of his face until he had no hands left to hold anything. Besides, Trask was brave, loyal, and patience, all rare things in this galaxy. Revan would have helped.

But Kal Torel ran away with the astromech.

Taris was disgusting.

An open sewer, quite literally, going by the odor. This was some underworld that had not seen light in a century, and so of course he'd landed here of all places. The only thing more loathsome than the smell was the idea of being hunted. You could live at the top of those towers seen off in the distance, but this was still here, and you knew this dripped and scurried under here. No wonder those Jedi Masters, paranoid already, had lost their minds and killed the very students they were sworn to protect. Still, he was prepared to deal with this grimness. It would be worth it, to find his own Padawan.

When Revan saw her again, he promised to assure her that they would never be separated. He would destroy whichever fools stood in his way and maybe a few more just for good measure. There would be some kind of physical restraint between them, to make sure they would forever be close. She would be glad to see him, if only to harangue him. Then he would hug her. Then slip cuffs on them both.

Revan decided he would be plucky. The kind of scrubby underdog, a little rattled and shy, humble. He was but a common soldier, when compared to such fame and fortune as Carth Onasi and Bastila Shan. In fact, he would be so bowed over he would let them lead the way, especially the Jedi. A sidekick, the support, to the real hero. It would be a change of pace. He was but a simple man. And one without a map, or clear view ahead of him. Or behind him.

Sometimes, he heard growls, and knew they did not come from any human. He could only hope they might be attracted to a red lit blade rather than a red jacket. He dared not stop. At a point, he stopped to pick up the astromech and carried it through the rough terrain. It tweeted its thanks.

Together, they stumbled into a truly festering cavity of a village. Or the gate, at least. It took some moderate convincing to get them to open the barrier for a more thorough inspection and promise of credits.

These people, simple folks that could hardly raise their gaze to look him in his face, reminded him of countless other worlds. But at least those worlds had tended to have better views, or more impressive rags and fewer groveling fools accosting you for credits. Revan bit his lip and hid his anger. He could turn this pitiful heap into a smoking heap. Still, the beggars ran, and the woman that came over to chase them away froze when she first saw him, as though she could sense they had brought a monster in their midst as surely as if they had allowed one of the howling beasts inside.

But that would not help him from his Jedi.

A headache throbbed behind his eyes.

He begged politeness and support. And water. She graciously accepted the credits he handed her in exchange for the canteen. Then he coughed out questions about the previous ships that had landed on this planet. And what about escape pods? And Sith soldiers? And Republic ones? She didn't know much, and neither did their chieftan. But they did know the way towards the elevators.

But not if they worked. Or were filled by guards.

Apparently, if you were in the lower levels, you were not supposed to leave. Even if you were clearly a finer specimen than what was usually found there and you were armed and unafraid. Revan smiled at his most charming, the face of a man that only wanted the best for everyone. It could talk down treacherous Sith that towered above with rage, and remind Jedi Masters that forgiveness was an important lesson for all, and made a stubborn Padawan doubt herself. T3 beeped a warning, then pulled out its own pistol.

The Sith Lord was glad of all his hand-to-hand combat experience had prepared him for close encounters. Though the Echani he knew would not have approved of his trickery with holding his pistol aloof with the Force and clicking it's trigger as he distracted the guards with his vibroblade. Or perhaps some would. His hand still hurt, slightly.

He huddled in the cantina. People gave him looks, over his dirtiness, and his droid, but he ignored them. At the pushy waitresses' demand, he ordered a beer after she told him that if he ordered water she would call in a bouncer. In the hopes of not starting a scene (and the waitress seemed prepared to rearrange his face all on her own), he sat and looked at the lukewarm, foamy substance in a dirty glass.

Now he was virtually alone, and with orders.

The droid, T3, was reminding him of those commands right now.

"I know. But I have to find him first," he explained. Though, truly, he had no intention of finding Carth Onasi of course. "He's not just going to show up."

Not until word got out that the Republic was sneaking their soldiers here to look for Bastila. Then the man would crawl out from his safe hole in this awful crumbling world that should have been crushed under Sith heels long ago. Perhaps he might have been helpful. Or useless, and then may suffer some kind of accident. Who could say?

"You know, you should probably tell me what you have," Revan told T3. "I'm with the Republic, just like those two are."

"Beeee eeee eeeeel."

"Now, you don't even know you can't trust me," he scolded. "I haven't even done anything. Except save you."

"Weeeeee."

"I got lucky with the guards. And I only left Trask because he told me too. Because you're too important." He sipped at his Talosian ale and gagged briefly. Was it supposed to taste like that? It was not helping his nausea especially since he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. "So when you think about it, who's really at fault?"

The astromech made another noise.

An unusual sight caught his eyes: a blue-skinned Twilek girl was leaning back in her chair, talking to a young Wookie who growled mournfully and infrequently in between bites of his greasy dishes. Unusually, she spoke Basic, and relatively well. She appeared to be continuing an earlier diatribe. "You'd have to be dumb to mess with all the Republic."

She tipped back, precariously enough to make him wince. "And an idiot to mess with the Sith. But you've have to be nuts to mess with the Vulkars on Taris."

Who?

Together, they watched a short man, a very short man, enter the room. Everyone made a wide berth from him, especially one he began to count down – except for a cluster of aliens that apparently had a bounty on them. The waitresses merely stepped over the bodies to fetch orders.

Only when she noticed T3 did the Twilek's seat shudder and send her tipping forward. "Nice droid." There was a greedy little glint in her eyes. She was already mentally searching its security system out. Revan made a personal note not to leave the droid ever unattended, or it would be sold to the highest bidder in under a Standard hour.

Then Twilek girl noticed him. Reluctantly, she realized she'd made eye contact and now had to fully initiate the conversation. "You a merc? Were you looking for work? Or did you get hired by Davik?"

Revan was taken about. "Who is Davik?"

She gave him a sympathetic look. The man was taken aback, and unsure to be amused or insulted. No one had looked at him like that. Well, barring the woman in that horrid village when he'd stumbled inside, sweat chilling on his brow, and Helena Shan when he lamely asked for more details about her daughter. His disguise must be very good. "So I guess that means you need work?"

"I'm not actually. I already have a job."

"I get it, times are tough You're what, a delivery driver?"

Fair, as Revan was here to pick something up. "I'm with the Republic." He paused. Was he? When Gamorreans fly. When Master Vrook apologized for his untoward attitude and then bought you a drink. When Master Kae admitted failure and returned to the Jedi. When Bastila accepted his affection and returned to the Sith as his apprentice.

Still.

The Sith Lord amused himself picturing his old master gravely introducing herself to a small child. He remembered the Echani training during the Mandalorian war, and seeing the girls that followed the Echani General, and the youngest one there, with a face so familiar, but for those curious eyes. Perhaps she could have found it in her, one day, to have faced her daughter that Revan wondered himself had turned out. If things had only turned out differently. Perhaps, he was wrong, and she was not only still alive, but had gone to witness what had happened to her child, and they had met. Perhaps they had even both been at his wedding, and they'd passed and not noticed one another. How amusing. He saw her in those gray and white robes. "Yeah, with them."

Her nose crinkled. "You sure don't look like it. Are Republic soldiers supposed to be drinking right now?"

Should he ask his questions? Have you heard anything about any crash pods? From the Republic? Have you seen an arrogant human woman with perfect brown hair walking around? Oh, you would know if you saw her.

"I'm not on duty." Kal smiled and took a deep draw of his drink. Then he had to cover his face when the burning cough came. "S-strong stuff."

"You know there's tach glands in there right?" The Twilek girl looked at him with a contempt only a teenager managed as he stared back, his reaction obvious.

He managed to cough out a furious demand for an explanation: "Excuse me?"

She rolled her eyes. "Tourists."

Something big overhead went cruuuunch

They all looked up. The street urchin knew better to just sit there, and she told the Wookie to duck, before she did so herself. Kal, however, had never known to fear his environment to that extent; things ran from him. Why should he ever dart under a table, when the galaxy should be the one trembling before his power? Why shouldn't he at least run out in a fury as the world shook and rumbled under his feet like a badly wounded ship. Even if it meant being crowded by a hoard of people in a panic, and him so vulnerable without his customary mask and weapons, and clad instead with thin, cheap fabric and leather and a droid as his only armor.

Belatedly, he ran away towards the lower city entrance, and exit unto the outside. T3 squealed his displeasure as Kal dragged it along, and then tweaked in alarm when it was pulled away from Revan's hands somehow and they were separated by the crowd. Revan could not afford to stop, and if he attacked these fools, it would only compound the chaos. He couldn't even use the Force to pull the droid and risk the attention and fear. The rush of humanoids pushed him towards the elevators. Whatever guards from whichever side that had been in the alleys had taken off, out of fear or to threatening something more important.

Now he had to find Bastila, and that droid that had collected enough information and had orders that made him naturally cautious.

When people bustled out of it, Revan finally found sun, and Taris law enforcement yelling contradictory commands and panicked civilians just yelling. Another blow overhead seemed to rock the entire planet. Those high rise skyscrapers were surely not meant to handle heavy artillery or an earthquake or multiple explosions or a light gust of wind. And this world was full of those structures.

Taris might be a deathtrap.

'Controlled fire,' he'd stressed. 'If only necessary. Just provide the occasional distraction.' He'd told his General that, along with a list of commands and codes. Surround the planet but do not fire on the Republic, unless absolutely necessary. The First Officer and Admiral promised, separately, to watch one another. They all claimed sympathy for his lost wife. It would be understandable if he left; Revan was known for being 'hands-on.' He listened with gritted teeth and barely contained fury at the pity, and told himself to trust none of these beings. The only things he could trust depended on programming that could not be rewritten or overwritten.

And, he supposed, his Padawan.

No, Bastila hadn't betrayed him so far, and frankly didn't seem capable of it. She was honest to a fault, and too egotistical for such a thing. She would confront you and lecture you before she struck. She would stand over your body and list all your flaws even as you expired; you would know who killed you. When had that become admirable? Still, Revan could hear her also listing all the many problems with his insane plan, and point out that he'd even somehow lost the droid and drunk something with tach glands in it and he'd been planetside less than a standard day.

It appeared things had escalated between the Sith and Republic forces, between the gangs as well, here on planet as well. Kriff, right on the street—near him. One, clothed in dark clothes but with the steely resolve of a Republic martyr, had a grenade. But the person they were facing, Republic, Sith, a mercenary, had a pistol but not quite fast enough aim.

Kal turned as quickly as he could, fast enough to escape the worst of the blast radius he had reflexively believed. Still, he was tossed into the air and then dropped just as unceremoniously. Blind from the blast and the pain, he heard people screaming around him, and he could hear alarms sounded off, drawing both Sith and Republic forces. He tried to steady his breathing, old reflexes kicking in even as another part of him screamed at a memory he had thought well contained and moved past like all those others.

A cold awareness tried to take hold to calm his stuttering heart. Malak was dead and could no longer hurt him, if he ever could. You were a Jedi Knight and are now a Sith Master, and defeated a thousand enemies, it reminded him. You won. Remember that. He was at your feet, defeated, like all the many others. Still he cringed and felt his lungs burn from this smoke and the old one of his flagship burning around him, lost and confused. When he looked up, he didn't understand why he saw an atmosphere rather than the pitch black void of space stretched out before him, the little blooms of light coming as his flagship was fired upon.

Someone stumbled near, and was picking him up beneath his arms, dragging him away like he was a broken doll again. A limp dead puppet, tugged about and pulled about. "Come on." Was it the Jedi again, had Bastila somehow escaped and come to rescue him once more? She would drag him back to the Council this time, and they would see him, they would pull out his secrets and inspect the bloody things with their dull fingers and eyes, and somewhere Malak would laugh.

The universe, once a thing to twist around his gloved fingers, seemed dismissive, an uncaring void that would twinkle on after you just like it had all those others before. But someone still stooped for him. Despite the blood in his mouth and the free-floating memories, he also managed to mutter, a resentful remark to the people he'd betrayed, towards the idea of the karmic Force, to those that would hurt him here, Sith or Republic, "I'm here to rescue the Jedi."

The Sith was lost to almost all senses at any capacity, with blood and fire smearing his vision, but he still recognized those boots. Oh what kriffing hell was this, what awaited him now—

"It was the Sith that broke the peace!" Carth slammed his fist too hard onto the clearly stolen cantina table. People glanced over their shoulders at them since this place wasn't empty even at night, and he winced. But damn it, he and Kal had stolen a prototype from a giant gang of street thugs, and it had gone amazingly well. Well, well enough so far. Tomorrow, it could all fall apart of get them all killed.

But sometimes you got lucky. And sometimes you weren't lucky and lost everything, and sometimes you did both.

Especially with someone that seemed like they might be unlucky, or have the best damn luck in the galaxy. Or, that's what it seemed like. Even here, on the ground to a street gang, lying on borrowed bedding, he exuded some weird charm. Though the guy could also be as seriously single-minded and focused as anyone else, sometimes it was hard to believe he'd gotten this far in life. He was a couple of years younger than Carth himself, he found out. Once he'd finally revealed a little about himself, after hounding Carth so much, it seemed he had been some translator, meaning small time crook with a good grasp of languages. He also had a posture that could snap to military straightness and never flinched from a kill. But then, he also grimaced a lot, had a terrible pazaak face that didn't stop him from playing in the least. And had the craziest grins too, as though that were reassuring in any way.

Still, they were a little ingratiating. And he was a nice guy. Damn it, he was. Carth knew he was. He'd seen the man giving money to urchins, enough that he'd nervously tapped the guy on the shoulder and reminded him uncomfortably that they might need some of those credits themselves. Those weird eyes of his had widened, I guess you're right. But then he would see some poor widow with a sob story and empty his pockets right there.

It was a little annoying. You wondered how he managed to get along by himself before joining the military where hopefully someone stayed close to the guy and kept an eye on him. Not that Carth knew if this guy had any family or relationships; he'd never mentioned anything about that, and Carth wasn't sure if he wanted to pry into this guy's life like he did him—

But still, a good guy. Or so it seemed.

"Oh, who can tell?" Kal said causally. "I wouldn't just say the Republic is blameless."

"Whatever the Republic does." He responded flatly. "Is because of those murderous Sith."

"But both sides are going to blame each other regardless." The shorter man sighed.

"I just hope Taris doesn't turn into another...you know, a mess."

The dark-haired man looked at him. His eyes were still bloodshot, like he hadn't slept in quite some time. And Carth knew he didn't sometimes, not really at all. Sometimes, you thought he was just sitting there, zoned out but awake, aware in some creepy way and could reach up and grab you at any second. Sometimes you had to remind yourself that you had just met this man.

So what did you know, besides that he was a hell of shot with that pistol. Good with both hands too. And he had runny sore eyes that never hindered his vision. Had a fair amount of scars. A cheerful face that made you want to please, and that made maybe some women reluctantly might give him a second glance (not that Kal ever looked back, and that was definitely not something Carth wanted to get into, because he had once seen the guy slavering over a holo of a certain Jedi Commander that would not have appreciated any of that, so he appeared to like the ladies but like he'd said none of his business) and he was kindly to every little old woman they saw with all courtesy even if they spat and told him off, and was kindly enough to a Republic soldier that had then turned into a rakghoul and attacked.

Because how could a guy who did that be bad?

Maybe he did have some dark past, Carth decided looking at the man with his only-faint wrinkles in his forehead. He had been a smuggler and was clearly a past scavenger, krif, he was like a rodent or Jawa with his rummaging. But he'd joined the Republic and so far had been rather kind and respectable to others, relatively, and what more could you judge a man by how he acted now. At least, with minor crimes anyway.

But Kal had just currently inhaled bubbles of his hyperactive carbonated beer (he'd refused Tarisian ale) for the second time like he'd never touched the stuff, and it was impossible to imagine him as anything as this nice guy, coughing into his elbow.

Nice...but.

Oh, hell, Carth couldn't help it. He was (fairly) sure, really, (mostly) that Kal wasn't this monster, deep (deep) down. It was just so damn hard to trust anyone, and he was fine with that fact. Because it was just a fact. Just like how even talking to Mission reminded him of his boy and his heart went still at the sight of certain tint of red hair. Taris wasn't much like Telos, but you could see the marks from the war, and that reminded you of how things looked out there, still.

It's just. Sitting here, getting loaded and stuck with a bunch of strangers on a guerrilla/rescue mission, Carth could try again to figure out what bothered him so much.

Things make sense with Mission, and Zalbaar. The story goes together and they are honest, you can see it in their eyes. At least they have alibis, if only for each other. People will vouch for them too. But who will vouch for this guy over here? Anyone that could say they'd seen him hanging around the Republic fleet had all died. Or may be injured and floating in a kolto tank by a kindly man that had gotten his offer of a discounted merchandise refused by Kal. Carth couldn't remember seeing him on the Endar Spire before, but who could say he'd never been with the Republic and was just a recent transfer like he said. But did that all mean something, or anything? Maybe. Maybe not.

He'd wondered too what he would find about this man on the Holonet—only to discover that it was virtually nothing, practically absolute zero beyond a single birth record from the Outer Rim. And considering his accent, it might not even belong to him. What did you do with that fact, when in all honesty Kal seemed like the kind of guy that should have gotten caught on the news for something at this point.

It smelled bad. Rank. As bad as a Tarisian sewer. Or nearly so.

Would it be so hard to create a false record just in case anyone cared enough to ever look him up? For what purpose?

So a fake name then. A false identity. Okay. Plenty of people did it. It was a big galaxy, but not so big that you could just disappear into it without making any changes. So was he running from something, hiding his past and redeeming himself.

Well, that just went back to the heart of this issue.

What else is a man, if not how he acts—and his past, Carth reminded himself. But that history could be anything, for all you know, and you could assume the guy who tried to help so much was doing it to be helpful. Even when he picked for details of your life, hassling you when you'd rather just walk quietly around Taris for Force's sake. Can you just take a man at his word and know by his acts, vows and deeds that he is a good one? How did you not trust someone acting like...well. Maybe a friend. An annoying friend, one you sometimes couldn't handle dealing with when you saw their ID pop up on your communicator as they tried to call you. But a friend nonetheless.

Serving in the Republic, you sometimes made the oddest friends, men you might despise under a different circumstance or fear, but then you were both at least part of something bigger. Why should this be any different?

Because it was.

Kal had a sense of humor too. Fluttering his eyelashes like he was flirting. "I know I look divine Carth, but please don't stare."

Carth recoiled, slightly ashamed. "I didn't mean to make you conscious."

Kal had touched his face then, gingerly, like he was feeling for a breakout. Just a young man getting into his full adulthood, still a little like a kid because he hadn't any real responsibility yet. He could, just barely, cook eggs but would leave a mess like he was some bachelor slob. No family, Carth thought now. Nah, this guy doesn't have a kid waiting for him or even a girl I don't think but more so, I don't think he has a father or any parents or distant far-away cousins. But maybe he had a mom at some point.

"Well, I am. It's not my fault I have unhealthy eyes." Then he'd dabbed at them with his sleeve.

Unusual. Unusual, Carth would think, not unhealthy. The man had perfect vision, even as he squinted through the scope. And those eyes were downright ugly sometimes, when a harsh light would hit them and show the inflamed whites and watery corneas that smeared the pale hazel to something more resembling amber-gold like a sickened ancient reptile. You did not want them to look at you.

Other times, in the dark of an abandoned apartment, he was just Kal Torel.

And Kal was...

A stranger with and a smile with lots of dimples. He would try to do upside down pushups and topple over at three to make everyone laugh. He was kind to Mission, and listened to her stories and calmed her down and saved Zaalbar's entire life and try to careful talk the Wookie out of its life debt. He'd give you the jacket off his back and the last of his nutribars. A really talented guy with no resume and ranked just a private. Sometimes he talked like an average man with an average life and other times he seemed to have stepped out of a pretentious poetry holo. Had a familiarity with a dozen languages but unfamiliar with public transportation and thus made them all walk everywhere because counting the exact credits out and sitting there with coughing and sneezing strangers upset him. What the deal had been with those cuffs he'd had on him when he'd been dragged from the wreckage of a fallen building, Carth didn't even want to know.

And when he'd heard Bastila Shan was held captive by a swoop gang, his eyes had flashed and something close to terror and rage filled them. Something personal, and that could mean a lot of innocuous or not. Carth swore he'd heard the man whisper her name as he slept, slept for real, and it didn't sound exactly sexual, but it had been full of longing.

Do you want to know?

And—and oh hell, in the dark with these strangers, he thought about the smile that was sometimes a sneer that never lit up his yellowed eyes. Sometimes he thought too that Kal held himself back in fights, and while he was polite, he held himself apart and his sympathy was only skin-deep, perfunctory, as he focused on whatever task was at hand.

Carth finished his beer and opened another one. He might be sick tomorrow, but by the time they got ready to send Kal to the swoop track, he would be alright. In fact, despite him trying to put the stuff away when he'd rejoined up with the military, Carth was feeling like it might take a few more to really start affecting him. Besides he wouldn't be driving that swoop tomorrow.

"You might want to start getting ready for sleep, Kal. You're going to need it for tomorrow."

"Our ace pilot," a voice teased. "Gotta have his beauty sleep."

"And you too, young lady."

Mission huffed but settled down. Either because she didn't want to argue (which was very unlike her) or was in fact falling asleep on her own. He waited for it to decrease, hard to do over the Wookie's snoring, and then stop. It was late, real late, he thought with a wonderment. It felt almost like drunkenness, but it could not be that. Or how else could he had known that Kal was conscious over there and would be all night, just as he'd known he had stayed awake all night after hearing of Bastila's capture.

"Kal?"

"Hm?" You could hear him turning beneath his blankets.

Who are you? No, I mean really. You're a real oddity wearing this normal skin. But it's not such a great one. Not completely. Because I can see through it a little, at certain points, and hell I'll give you credit, it's only when you're real stressed but you still can't hide it all. And because I knew Malak and you know what, he looked a little like you, around the eyes at least.

Sometimes, Kal seemed dreadfully familiar. Maybe it was the mocking lilt in his voice or those eyes or obnoxiously dimpled chin that went with his wild grins.

When he'd made the deal with the Hidden Beks, when he'd destroyed the last of the Vulkars in that base and gotten a hold of that prototype and handed it over, you could see that hungry little gleam. One that made Gadon Thek's lieutenant's give him a hard stare. Because you did not want to get on this guy's bad side for all his helpfulness. In fact, you had better reward him for that helpfulness or you would live just long enough to regret it. Kal really had considered the Black Vulkar's offer to betray the Bek's in exchange to get Commander Shan. It had only been their obstinate refusal to hand over Bastila Shan right then that led to their downfall.

Could he be misreading the whole thing? Maybe Kal was a spy for the Sith. Or Republic. Or he was a merc who wanted his chance to sell Bastila himself. Or harm her.

Or.

Or.

He knew better than to take Kal at his word, not completely. Carth had and would never forget the lesson from Karath. But then there had been Kal's face when he heard about Bastila. About her capture. About her being auctioned off. And when they had fought their way into the Vulkar's base, searching through the halls like some hound with the scent and searching through the empty cages they'd found, until they found the garage and the unfortunate lieutenants who didn't know where she was anymore.

There was nothing to be done but to go along with whatever plan they had cobbled and hope for the best, and see it through to rescue her like they had planned. Only, Kal hadn't liked that. You could sense his angry, his hate, and that only a thin sliver of restraint held him back from unleashing his full fury in that swoop garage. To be around him then was pure dread, and Carth tried to not remember looking down at his home world for the first time, in the aftermath of the bombing. Hell, at that moment he'd felt nothing but those bad memories of Telos and his family. There was nothing to be done about Kal Torel either.

And that only made him more confused, especially drunk at one in the morning when he should have been sober as hell on a place like Taris, surrounded by a swoop gang and currently being shot at by mercenaries, Sith and Republic with a stranger he didn't know on a mission as important as any other he'd been on.

Kal had been so upset. Stricken. We need to find her.

Carth gathered his thoughts and before he realized it, was speaking aloud. "It never really added up to me, you being here. The Endar Spire just sent down a couple of guys to rescue us? And no way of contacting the fleet?"

"Yes. I'm not lying to you Carth." Kal did indeed look deep into his eyes, slightly angry. For once, the pilot wanted to believe him. Nearly as much as he didn't want to be betrayed again. "We were a strike team, to avoid causing a war to break out."

"And you just a simple translator."

He had a thin smile, oh, he was thin all over and the gold was in his eyes. "I'm a very good shot. And the Republic only has so many of those anymore."

The blood left his lips. Why had he drunk so much? "So you were an assassin?"

"No, no, never." He looked at Carth again. "I'm just someone that has seen some combat."

On whose side? "Any how did that happen?"

He winked. "I never said I was a good translator."

The pilot looked away.

"Carth, do you think I would ever harm you, intentionally? After all we've been through so far? I've had plenty of chances to hurt you, or Mission and Zalbaar if that's what I wanted."

True enough. Kal was a hell of a fighter. And quite kind to the orphaned Twilek and her giant bodyguard. He listened, and said he was apologetic. He was like a big kid sometimes, eating candy and junk like he'd never had the stuff before. He would jump up on and down on the bed (and there was a haunting sound that was about to get all the more so in the coming week as someone else joined the party, though Carth had no way of knowing) until he would hit his already bruised head on the wall, and then went down. When he wasn't brooding in silence, he seemed like a good guy. 'Do you what, love puzzles?' Mission had teased him about his datapad usage as they waited in the garage for the swoop to be finished, and been deflated by his earnest 'yes.'

"Believe this, if nothing else, I would never mess up this mission."

Carth believed him, about that.

"I've had enough of Republic service, after this. Maybe after I deliver them a Jedi they will let me off the hook."

He did want to leave Taris, desperately. He listened to every tale about freighter trying to sneak away.

"We are all here to find Bastila Shan."

He was curious about her, and her gifts.

"So let's just try and get through this," Kal stated, sounding nearly kindly.

You have helped so many people, including me. But I still get this idea you're on a different side. Not even the Sith, and maybe you're not evil, but you're just kind of off to the side in ways I haven't even seen in mercenaries. Maybe it was even from you hitting your head in that explosion. You were out of it for a long time, days, thrashing about, blathering about Bastila and woke the next morning, hardly knowing his left from his right when it came to the world. And sometimes that wasn't feigned.

Kal seemed to not know things, like about what things cost, or about the Sith, and that you couldn't talk everyone into whatever you wanted. Or maybe he had his own views of things. Just like maybe he had a crush on Commander Shan. Plenty of the younger recruits admired her clean if delicate looks and were starry-eyed about the Jedi. There was an explanation for all things, and Carth wasn't a goddamn fool for helping him.

Kal could be anyone, really. Maybe good or maybe bad. The pilot had a bad feeling about that. They did need each other, to find the young Jedi, and get off Taris before full-out war broke out above them. That was what mattered, wasn't it. Tomorrow was the first day the swoop season opened, and Kal would go by himself to win and rescue Bastila and hopefully their luck would hold.

"It just seems suspicious," the pilot concluded.

Kal just smiled at Carth. "Maybe its that Force business?" he suggested.

He had been here before, in his grand ship that he would not argue had been stolen at all but rightfully repossessed and strategically redesigned. Though, secretly, he'd relished having taken it away and so many others from those ships from the Republic to be changed and altered in one of the secret places of the galaxy he alone knew about it.

It had been one of his favorite places, standing here and looking out over the galaxy that he was to save and transform just as he had this fleet. He'd seen the downfall of many an enemy, standing there, pleased that another maneuver had worked out successfully. His plans were coming to fruition, as wholly expected.

Except.

It had been different this time.

He looked at the datapad, ignoring Malak's stare. The casualty numbers were unusually low. What's worse was the wasted ammo and energy. No. That wasn't what was concerning. What was worse was that he did not understand what had happened. He'd had them, in his grip, and it was just a matter of squeezing to finish it all. But his soldiers had turned away from their kills, missing shots, and the Republic had pulled off a rescue maneuver they had no business succeeding at whatsoever.

He was mildly appalled. Perhaps even confused.

Then the rumors his spies found explained what had happened. The Order had scrounged around their ranks, and found someone that still possessed the old gift to control groups of fighters. One of their Masters, no doubt withering away and this fight had hopefully blown their heart out from the exhaustion. Force Users could not be expected to hold such concentration for very long or very often. It was a rare gift that could hardly be expected, given how few of the Jedi remained and how few of them had such power. The strong ones had joined him, or perished, or hid in their Academies. For all his (minor) frustration, that had been one fight. Revan was not alarmed, and told himself a minor setback was to be expected in any war.

But then—

Rodia...had not gone as he'd expected it. Someone had spoken to the wrong person and they were warned of the attack as they hadn't been with all those other worlds before. There was no one to blame, and Revan would not cede such a thing. He was the leader of this empire, and had commanded those ships and made the orders, and every victory or loss rested solely on the Sith in the end, truly. Even as Commanders tried to take or push responsibility onto others, but it was all his. He had dismissed his General and commanders and apprentice that looked with curiosity as well as anger. The old Alek would have reassured him, and he was mildly glad that no such things came now. Revan hadn't lost before. He did not lose.

Still, the Jedi had found a successor of sorts to Sunrider, it seemed.

They called this new Jedi the 'Last Hope of the Republic.'

Let's hope so.

But then on an insignificant, red dusty Mon Gazza, Revan watched his own ships burn. His. The Republic had at last begun to fight back it seemed. How could it have been so effective? How…?

If she was worth it at all, Revan might have been getting quite annoyed.

If he had still been capable of it, Malak would have smiled.

As the Sith pushed and were pushed back in the Mid Rim, finally, he would pry loose the name, the only name that mattered to him right now as his fighters lost their nerve and he himself had felt that forceful glimmer of fright suddenly enter his heart. It came through stammering, ripped from bloody loosened teeth, from a person that had heard it from a soldier who heard it from the Admiral herself, senseless even as he relished that the beast had a name now: Bastila Shan.

Revan looked blankly at the bleeding spy, who managed to cringe what was left of their face. "Who?"

Even in that, Bastila managed to frustrate him. Revan could not even appreciate learning her name for very long. The very next day she appeared in some new story, finally named to the galaxy as a whole.

Worst still, she was not some hidden Master that had come from a distant world, hidden away until a blathering prophecy was fulfilled, but some Padawan. The Jedi Order had been known to make odd bedfellows on rare occasion, but to entrust their precious Order to such an unworthy, this was a new low. Revan would have had more respect if they'd recruited the Mandalorians to their cause. How amusing, though, that the Order was relying on this, after so many millennia of being guardians of the light. What was the proud Republic Navy now, reduced to pining their hopes on such a thing? A half-trained youth with a little luck and gift at Battle Meditation would not save them.

As though overhearing his dismissal, the next time she had burned through the Force, so unexpected in a fight that began above Rodia, as bright and hot as a meteor as it hurdled into the atmosphere. His men had suddenly...lost their nerve. They missed shots, sometimes hitting each other, veering off course suddenly as droids who'd been overwritten. Meanwhile, as chrome sleek ships so cleverly designed cringed away, the Republic got the second wind they desperately needed. Even he'd been left uneasy at this unexpected challenger. The Sith had countless advantages, better tacticians, better ships and hardened fighters, when compared to the Republic. Yet the enemy had managed to limp away.

He waited until alone before unleashing his wrath on the unsuspecting conference table and Holonet projector and intercom system in an unexpected but mildly satisfying bout of violence.

Revan had never even heard of her before and after he'd left the Order, until now. She didn't seem to be any great fighter, scholar, or leader. Though, he considered with some fairness, she'd been too young to be any of those things. Perhaps, in a different time and a different temperament, she could have been one of those, but instead she'd been gifted her one unique ability, this almost freakish throwback to old Jedi a generation before who'd fought Sith spirits and turned against their masters because of Sith alchemy and magic artifacts.

It was not a simple thing, Battle Meditation. The studies made it even sound old fashioned, as they spoke of oneness and being open to all life—though, and this was something the Masters were fond of, it needed maintaining an alarmingly steely control. He, and many other Knights, could invoke such a power in close quarters. But it was not the steely net that went around the Republic and Sith soldiers of an entire fleet, in combat over the span of a planet. It required not only strength, an intensity, but a vulnerability that he was surprised Bastila allowed. One had to be deep in meditation to enter such a state. You were attached to some extent to those you controlled, and you felt their emotions and actions. Their deaths.

In time, as the Republic marched into the Lannick system successfully, Revan came to understand that she maybe be meant for something greater. This Bastila Shan would not solely another enemy, no, she was a useful tool like any blade. It was childish to hate her, this lucky child. With such a power, could change Fate with it, and decide who would be the victor. No wonder she had such an ego.

All the interviews he saw of her did not help that impression of all. She held herself well enough, a little too well, her head was held high under the cowl and her voice was even. Even when the fawning hosts wanted to hear all about her past, where had she come from, oh, and if she had any words of encouragement for the viewers? If she was the last hope, then the Republic was truly doomed. All the better to crush and twist her and let them know the Jedi could no longer help them. Imagine though, too, that power turned to the Sith and his cause.

He had made such plans for her.

If Revan got to see her again, he would fall to his knees and beg for contrition. He would kiss the soles of her plain dark boots with their heels that gave her precious centimeters more of height. He would repent, and be nice, and say she didn't look or sound like kinraths at all, and definitely not like her mother ever, not once. And if she had any failings, Revan would still cherish and adore her all the more.

Revan had never seen her perform her Battle Meditation but for that one time. But oh, he'd felt it numerous times. And numerous times at a close proximity, and had felt the push of her will that could send lesser beings running. He'd been unsettled by the strength and effectiveness, even from that first time when he'd had never even heard Bastila Shan's name before; where had the Jedi been hiding this creature? Then, the Sith had learned to be appalled by this sudden new obstacle that was both tempting a foe and a fantastic accessory that somehow the Jedi had found at their last hour. His Master Kae would have grudgingly blamed and praised the Force at such luck. And she had not used it, since the one time he had seen her performing that feat in front of him. There was no need.

Until now apparently.

Revan was still not clear on all the details, but he could piece together a basic picture. He could also curse her protective, responsible streak that made her waste her energy and possibly expose herself to save some Republic soldiers. How ridiculously noble and heroic; had she learned nothing from her time with the Revanchist? Apparently not, because she was currently stranded on a hostile planet for the sake of meaningless beings that may have perished anyway. If anyone tried to blame her issues on him, well, how deeply could he have brainwashed her if she was doing that bantha crap?

Speaking of which—

He remembered sitting up, very sore, and announcing his name and rank and the true fact to the man that had brought him inside just because he'd looked so pathetic: "I'm here to rescue the Jedi."

Carth stuttered, and then barked a laugh. "You are, huh?"

Revan had felt the bandage around his forehead tighten when he raised his brows. Then lowered them and decided to smile. Carth hadn't recognized him, Revan concluded. Good. I think we shall need each other, Onasi.

Despite his concern, Revan was not ungrateful to the Republic soldier. He'd heard stories about tourists waking up in places like Taris missing kidneys and various lengths of bowels, though he'd always considered those urban myths until he'd woken up in a strange apartment with a man armed with a medkit.

The ace Republic pilot was not a fool. For all his kindness, he was also a professional soldier. The man knew there was something not right about him and his story, after Kal would do or say something that was inappropriate for the situation. But he didn't quite know what to do with that fact, and instead tossed ideas about it around in his well-structured, thoughtful mind. Mission was amused, and despaired of making a proper street thug and Carth fretted about him being a perfect soldier boy or perhaps a too perfect soldier boy. Zalbaar accepted him with a polite warble.

His smile was flat but there nonetheless, and he mostly said the right things, but all the while his mind heaved and rocked.

These companions had followed him inside, but even if they hadn't Revan would have broken into the Vulkar's base, weapon flashing. It hadn't even mattered that he didn't bring his lightsaber. If they had stymied him, he would have killed all the Hidden Beks as well, and damn the consequences. He would have torn their throats out with his bare hands until he could no longer move his fingers, and then he would have used his teeth. Even those that traveled with him, should they have obstruct him, would have faced the Sith Lord's wrath.

Revan would have decimated everyone he faced until he left a trail and a stack of bodies – if only he knew exactly where she was now. Without the Bond he'd once hated, he was left to stumble blindly. His previous Master had once criticized Jedi's reliance on the Force in one of her lectures, but what was a Sith without his powers?

He was not a sentimental man, not after his time with the Jedi and then the Sith. When he acted as he did, it was with a clear-level mindfulness that even his most hated enemies acknowledged. He wanted life to continue on, because it was the entire galaxy and to not save it was a chaotic madness and flagrant disregard for history that his sensible mind abhorred but there was no one—no one person in particular he wanted to see live, per say. Who was there left? His followers were just many strangers by this time, Malak had proven what their own Bond meant to him, and his military were nothing but pawns. Not even himself mattered in the grand scheme of fate, why should he live and survive past so galaxy-spanning wars.

But he had backups, to everything that allowed his rational mind live with the knowledge of what was coming. From an apprentice, rightfully trained, to replace their master and continue the cycle. Never one Academy, always a clear distance between bases and fleets, and a factory that never stopped producing what they needed. Even his favorite droid could be replicated, an HK-48 and so on.

Except for her.

Even when she'd come into his life, he'd begun making less copies of the important things that could not be lost. She was not quite his apprentice, and he had not sought a replacement for Malak. He was not decimating the Republic and taking over the remains. It had been some time since he'd even been to any of the Academies, and he could not care less for those dead ancient worlds. And what's more, he would throw it all away, and possibly was right now, for her.

There were things in the dark that were waiting and hungry, and this is what he did instead of preparing for it. And even with this knowledge, he continued, damning himself all the while with every further step, and this is how those others had felt, driven by bathetic emotions. He had left his empire behind. He had gone into the Tarisian sewers. He put up with companions that annoyed or mistrusted him, and killed his own men and trundled through Taris and waves of enemies for rumor of her name. No wonder the Jedi forbade relationships.

"You must have been having one hell of a nightmare," Carth had marveled once, when he'd first woke up. Yes, it had been at that. Only now it could end.

He had done all this, all this, to finally see the captive.

She was...

Whole, alive, Revan reminded himself. She was pale, half dead. Her eyes were wide and face too thin. The Jedi would have been appalled to see herself looking so different, pale and dirty when she was normally so fastidious. Now she was even vulnerable with her collarbone exposed under the neural disruptor. But alive, and there. Bruises marked her face, and he had no doubt she'd gotten that from fighting. Her cracked, swollen lips made him wonder with a fury who had dared harm her. Then Revan glanced down at her outfit. Momentarily, he was distracted. Well. Then he could remember his rage. How dare they put her in that?

She looked absurd, this veiled sexualized outfit with her desperation, all of it so opposite of the Jedi woman that it bit. The only thing familiar was those boots, looking study as their owner even paired up into indignity. There was no dignity here, not on this world that had bucked its Jedi after turning them insane as it did its other inhabitants. It even reminded him that he was bereft of robes and lightsabers and followers that did his bidding and the safety of all those things. What were Sith and Jedi without their materialistic dogma of their Orders.

When he hovered near, one of the guards barked a warning. She was wearing a neural collar, turned up all the way, and it left her finally complacent. It showed signs of damage and he could almost smile despite the situation. She couldn't hear him, and didn't appear to notice the attention. Their Bond had been affected by the collar, and Revan was all but certain she could not hear. Still, he told her the only truth that mattered: I'm going to rescue you. He had promised to protect her, twice. He'd failed her. Bastila herself had accused him of only caring for her because of their Bond, but if that were true, he should be doing a much better job.

One of the lieutenants smiled. "You're interested in the prize then?" The smirk would have been wonderful to cut off. Or rip it off bloodily with two bare fingers pinching down and pulling the skin far, far away.

"Is that what she is?" No, not anymore. She didn't have to be some pawn for the Jedi and the Republic. She was Bastila Shan, powerful and young and gifted, and impossible to knock down, not completely. Revan had made any number of comments and remarks on her ego, but none of these pathetic beings had any right to criticize her when they had no idea what she'd done even when it threatened all of herself, and what she was capable of.

"If you or anyone else want the Republic officer, you'll have to beat the best race time."

He could get in that swoop, risk his life with some and be the pawn between two Tarisian street gangs? For Bastila who sat right there, waiting for him as he had had her, when they'd been sworn enemies and her name had been a bane to his ears? "I don't think so."

"You'll never get her then."

For first time since he'd landed on this planet, Revan could smile with sincerity. I'm afraid she's already been spoken for. To hell with that prototype—it probably wasn't safe anyway. "Save it, Brejik — just hand over Bastila."

He did not bother saying any promises about mercy. The lies would sting in his mouth. And Revan didn't want Bastila to hear and think for a minute he would let any of these people who had dared cause her pain could walk away.

The swoop gang leader saw something on his face. Revan wasn't sure, but he thought it might have been the same thing that Malak had seen right before he'd lost his jaw. He did not imagine it to be a nice thing. "You think to cross me?! I am the wave of the future!"

Maybe he should have gotten on that bike, and then ran down the Vulkars. But they might have harmed the vulnerable hostage.

A magical kiss usually woke the princess up from her slumber. That was the romantic thing. Alas, he wasn't sure he could reach her through the cage's bars. Still Revan even had the steed, didn't he, and with a merry band of companions that had helped him so far. Now he would slay the bad dragons, runts compared to the one that had killed her father he was sure, but something would be avenged. He could only hope she would take this offering instead.

A twist, a flicker of familiar, tipped him off to where the only other weapon he needed had been secured. The Force had not come easily to him these last few days. His emotions, either peace or anger, were both distant tiresome things. Often, he was forced to accept that rage might not be enough. Yet right now, between his will and that of the Force now, there was no more struggle, and he pulled it towards him, away from the thief.

The Sith turned, spinning the blade comfortably. The small crowd retreated, unnerved at the sight of such an odd weapon and how he'd retrieved it. And why shouldn't they? This lightsaber in particular had been rather well known, and once upon a time he'd offered a pretty fortune for this unusual instrument, all the more so if its pretty owner came equally attached.

It was not his, yet Revan suspected Bastila might actually be grateful if he borrowed it now. At least temporarily. A lightsaber was an extension of its user, crafted and tuned to that unique person, and this one was no doubt as temperamental as its owner. He was only brushingly familiar with such a blade, but had spent months studying a woman who had abruptly decided this dangerous, peculiar weapon was what she would choose to protect her life.

In his hands, it was longer than he expected. Absurdly dangerous; it took one decades to master a lightsaber and that was with one blade. Exar Kun, a talented and martial Sith Lord of recent past, had used a similar weapon to kill many an enemy. A Padawan had no business wielding such a brutal thing. The delicate balance of her weapon was not a comfortable thing to hold. He was surprised again that she had chosen a blade of that design. When she had faced him, it had been smaller, a single bladed one. A surprise that the Masters hadn't taken it away from her but perhaps they had tried, only to be thwarted. It bore some resemblance to his own weapon, he saw now with a sudden pang, though it missed the sheen and the bands of bronzed metal around the emitters and his had a proper pommel.

Handling the weapon as would any devout sentient before the sacred, he presented it to her on bended knee and bent neck. Would that she would give him strength for this battle as she had the Republic soldiers who relished her either as a useful token or a war goddess. It was her blessing that determined who survived the war, and the mighty and powerless prayed for such a boon. Beg for it.

The sound of the yellow beams flashing to life could warm or freeze the heart of any Force User. Revan rather liked the spread of twin gold lights, especially when it brought a glow to her no-longer motionless face. It had been too long since he'd looked at her. He had missed her smile. Woe to the unbelievers.

You.

From that other petty meaningless world, threats were spat out. "You'd be a fool to face me and all my men!" Brejik exclaimed.

But Revan could smell his fear upon his petty life and foolish wasted emotions and small meaningless plans. His cruelties and betrayals like the buzzing of a wasp on a rotting corpse. They would all end here, and the knowledge warmed him almost as much as it did his Jedi. "If I want to keep the prize and sell this woman on the slave market myself, nobody can stop me!"

You came for me?

He smiled back at her.

Something shiny clattered to the bottom of her cage. "I might have something to say about that, Brejik!"

Everyone else turned to the voice. With a special wonder but no surprise, he watched the captive Jedi reach out to pull a guard towards her cage. The force of their head hitting the cage was enough to break the lock. With the same unseen power, she ripped open the cage doors. Then she reached down for her weapon held by an unworthy subject.

"What? Impossible! You were restrained by a neural disrupter collar! How could you possibly have summoned the will to free yourself?"

The Sith might have wondered the same thing, if he wasn't very familiar with this Jedi Sentinel's ridiculous willpower and capacity for dramatic.

"You underestimate the strength of a Jedi's mind, Brejik— a mistake you won't live to regret!" Revan had faced Bastila in battle before, but he'd never seen her so angry. Not when he ate the last of the fruit she liked or forced her into their nuptials or he set her up to perform Battle Meditation for him. She had not even been this angry at their wedding night or his goodnight kiss. She had not even been this furious in front of Helena Shan, even when her mother brought out the baby holos. And she wasn't even looking at him.

"Vulkars - to me! Kill this woman! Kill the swoop rider! Kill them all!"

Bastila could not be expected to face all of these enemies, even if she looked like she was ready to do exactly that. As much as he regretted leaving her side, Revan had to defend her, finally. He didn't even mind that he was still using a vibrosword, and was instead pleased there would be spilled blood. He cut down one of the Vulkar's before he could finally get a grip on his blade and follow orders, and then a Twilek that was aiming his pistol at the Jedi. Some of the smarter ones, like the actual swoop racers, began to run. He heard Brejik yelling curses, and then going silent in mid-scream before he turned around to assist someone that did not look in need of it, not compared to the person lying at her feet. Though, to be fair, the man was also too far for anyone's help.

Beneath the smell of burned electronics and oil, he smelled blood and fear. Oh, the Force roiled with it and he felt an animal urge to bask in it like a hound in the sun. It had been so long since he'd felt that, and never with another like her, not even Malak, who had wallowed or feared such things. She burned through the Force, unafraid, bright with the fury she'd always tried to keep contained and would have denied even having. It was bright and sharp, focused, but still untested, and he could tell she was still holding back to the full extend of her ragged control. But how interesting, that she would use that thermal fire if pushed enough. That hypothesis had been correct then.

Bastila looked up from her wary yet solid defensive pose. Despite the enemy dead, she gathered her strength, eyes wide and pale in her thin face. She could see past the dust, the marks and stubble and his unfamiliar clothes. How could they both still stand upright? All the strength he'd drawn on before seemed to be gone, the Jedi serenity and Sith anger. There might be something stronger than those things, Revan was learning, stronger even than fear and hate even as his Bondmate radiated displeasure.

It's you.

He dropped his vibroblade that had cost far too many gods damn credits at his feet. He ran to her.

She dropped her lightsaber, as all Jedi had been forbidden and trained to never do on threats of many lectures. Even with her injuries, she met him halfway there. Of course, she would not let him have all the glory, and would move even closer until their lines were blurred.

For once, Bastila did not complain, not about anything, no, now she pulled him down and kept him there, at her level. She was chilly around her limbs and overheated around the face, and her breathing filled the world. Skin to skin contact felt shocking as a bolt of lightning. What part of his face that wasn't in her bare neck she covered with her hands, as though she couldn't bear to see his expression. His arms went around her in return, and Revan could not recall anything both so intimate, desperate. It exposed the previous attempts at comfort to be nothing more than mockery for them both.

The Jedi forbade this. And, for that matter, so did the Sith when it came to this. With good sense too. She or anyone else could have struck him from behind by now. Yet he had no intention of moving away.

You.

And how lucky, how good everything suddenly was. Revan was pitifully glad, relieved, grateful. He wanted to thank someone, everyone, even the corpses at their feet. It sounded awkward in his mouth when he tried to even phrase it correct, he wasn't sure who to convey his gratefulness unto or why. Thank you, was not part of their shared language. Bastila would have felt the same, her pride struggling with being appreciative of another who had saved her. But that was alright, especially when he wanted to thank her right back.

Thank you, for surviving, for being here, for living and breathing and having been created in the first place and for saving me when you did. I didn't deserve it. We both know that. But I would like to make you glad, glad that you did save me. But of course, neither spoke a word of any of that.

Then she did say something: Revan.

His secret name.

They broke apart, these two awkward bumbling beings that were suddenly clumsy, not at all trained and fully grown and powerful adults. She forced it, and kept her distance to push against the hair fallen against her face. One hand lingered on his chest to push him away, and then recoiled to fall back at her side. "It's good to see you again."

His smile was faintly sore but nothing could hurt right now. Even the push. The feeling of her fingertips still lingered in his skin, his muscles. Bastila had never bothered to physically touch him to get away from his company. "Did you miss me?"

"More than I would like to admit," she admitted. "But I have survived."

Just barely.

But she was looking at their bodies, her eyes revealing no guilt. "Well, maybe those bloody Vulkars will think twice next time before trying to keep a Jedi prisoner!"

"You showed them." He said, slow and thick with disdain. Between the two of them, they had nearly wiped out this entire gang.

"And what have you been doing?" Bastila frowned, and he could see the strain, her exhaustion.

"Oh, you know, playing pazaak and watching the swoop races. What do you think?" He was distracted by the bruises that he recognized from his time in war, but in particular the swoop gangs weapons here. They had distinct weapons they would use on their victims, and they left circular burns. Their deaths had come far too quickly. He should have made the leader in particular suffer.

Bastila winced. "Yes, but how did you get here? What's been going on? Were you hurt? I thought I felt you in pain through our Bond...and I heard something about the Sith being here."

"And the Republic," Revan agreed. "The important thing is that I found you. Now we can leave."

He grabbed her hand, but she protested. "Wait. How did you get here?"

"I walked."

His dry remark got a scoff from her. "You got that swoop with the help of that other gang, did you not?"

"Yes, after having to trounce around in the sewers and collect vagrants and trash up." He seethed. She was not in the least bit grateful now. Look, she was even fixing her hair and straightening the braids. How pathetic. How exasperating. Force, how glad he was to have her by his side again. What an incredible weakness to have acquired.

"Are you okay?" He finally asked. Medically speaking. Physically speaking.

She rubbed a bare arm. "Yes. They thought I was a Republic officer. Most of them. For a while."

Revan did not understand. "They were going to sell you." And for a swoop race? He'd used up so many more resources just to finds spies to follow her. Let alone all the assassination attempts, different traps on two different occasions, and then the offer her a marriage contract.

"Yes." She grimaced. "They underestimated the power of a Jedi."

"You might have died, Bastila." He was sickening and she was fine, fine. He was mad and she was angry. "I had to save you."

"I did not need your help," she corrected. "But I will thank you. I'll admit, I might not have been able to escape if not for your distraction."

He slipped off his jacket, and tried to handed it to her. Her smile was thin and dismissive, but better than nothing. "Keep it." Then she bent down to inspect the bodies, looking for something.

Revan had learned some lesson, somehow. He stood in front of her, taking her shoulder in hand to draw her inward. Just so there was no confusion, or doubt. "If they had hurt you, I would have glassed this planet."

"Revan."

"I would have left nothing." Because they would have left me with nothing. Their Bond was open, hideously wide and full and—she was here. Safe. Alive. With him, again. It would have been worse than Telos.

"Revan. Shut up."

He didn't know what expression was on his face, and was almost frightened by the wideness of her eyes and smooth bruised face. She reached up, faster than he would have thought, and cupped his cheeks and things had never been so intimate. It hurt her to do so but she could not seem to stop herself. Her damaged and blistered thumb traced stubble, gingerly, and Revan swallowed loudly. He saw something in that thoughtful gaze, something confused and kind. Under the pain and resentment, Bastila had missed him. "Please calm yourself."

"I would have been left bereft," he explained, softer. But that was not all of it. There was so much else, and he wanted to try to tell her everything.

Bastila looked afraid.

He would break down here and now and admit everything, admit her mother had a point, admit that he was a liar: she had won, he was hers and hers alone. He should have won that swoop match too, and made it all the more prominent. Even if it took a dozen tries. He should have fallen to his knees and proposed to her, all over again in some silly attempt to let her know how glad he was, how grateful. Bastila had missed him.

Well, that was hope right there. That made this whole thing almost worth it, he told himself. Almost.

She was inspecting his face, no doubt seeing its own dirt and bruises. Her hand was less kind but he appreciated concern that he wipe away dust. "You're not wearing your mask."

"Too dangerous," he reasoned. "I'm surprised you're not in one. Or any disguise. How could they not have realized who you were?"

She raised an eyebrow in that annoyingly knowing way of hers. "I didn't tell everyone exactly who I was, Revan."

"If they had known who you were, they might have never dared approach you."

She snorted. Force but he had missed that sound and that scrunched nose and her disdain and pale eyes. "If they had known, they might have killed me then and there. Brejik figured it out, and that did not help me in the slightest."

He all but huffed. "If they had, I would have razed this world as it deserves."

"Revan?" Bastila was horrified. "You would not have." Then she noticed that he had reached out to hold her hand. What are you doing?

"You are returning with me. I have spent enough time apart from you," he declared.

"What does that mean? Am I your pet?" She sounded peevish, and pulled her hand away. "If you think you could come here and collect me, as if I were a prize..."

"Oh, it's too late, Bastila." You still don't understand. "You're already mine."

She scoffed.

"No, Padawan," Revan repudiated. "You have been mine since we first met across the battlefield. Since you developed your gift, and were presented to me by your Masters."

Bastila shivered slightly, uncomfortable.

"I knew I would have you. Either by my side, or on my blade." He grinned, purposely. "Or both."

She stuttered, picking up on some unwanted double-entredre.

"Look at all this damage you did." The Sith pointed out. "A good Jedi knows to appreciate peace rather than a battle. And you enjoyed this battle."

And good Jedi don't rush off to fight whatever danger suddenly appears. Bastila tried to be such a little do-gooder, even as she headed straight into a new mess. Too bad Carth had taken the cuffs from him, claiming they had been damaged in the explosion. Though, knowing the Padawan, she would have used her blade to cut herself free or gnawed such things off once he pulled that weapon away.

"You don't know anything about being a good Jedi!"

Revan turned, voice harsh, crackling with rage. "You could have died."

Bastila stood tall, superior despite the scuffs and wounds. "At least I would have died fighting to save people."

"Defending who?" Revan demanded. "Some ending for such a famous Jedi. You look absurd, you realize."

The Jedi flinched, her pale, lightly muscled arms pulling inward. "Oh, shut up."

"That is no way to talk to me." Not after what you put me through. "Not after this."

She looked up, anger making her eyes pale in the underground lights. "I'll say whatever I want! I didn't need you to come save me, Revan."

"You didn't seem to be getting very far until I came along."

"You have no idea what my plan was." Bastila refuted.

She was terribly stubborn and fine. Then she found the clothes they'd taken from her with a firm, 'ah.' While she did so, he ducked into her cage and found the old neural disruptor collar. It had all been clawed at, he admired. Picked and prodded. Given a few more days, she would have worked her way out and led some rebellion and killed a dozen swoop gang members. Then claimed the leader's place.

It was easy to sneak it away and tuck it into a pocket. One never knew, after all. Then Revan turned back to his 'prize.'

He was unnerved and delighted by the sight of so much bare skin on her neck. More curiously, he felt the sudden urge to lean forward and kiss that clear spot below her ear where her pulse might throb. His voice was gentle. "May I heal you?"

"Oh, yes, if you would."

She stood still for him. He kept one hand on her jaw to keep it tilted straight. Her throat bobbed. Bastila looked him clear in the eyes, and he'd rarely seen her so close and actually peering up at him, serious. Usually such closeness meant movement, either a battle or at least an argument.

He gingerly prodded at one bruise around her jaw, his thumb brushing against her swollen lip. They were the only color in her face, especially when he reached out to her through the Force. His healing techniques had always been sound enough, but vivid and forceful, and sometimes excruciating. He tried to be gentle now, to sooth. If she would have accepted it, Revan would have stroked her hair. She winced, but otherwise seemed to withstand the encouragement from the Force to quicken the healing process. A medpac helped as well, though he was loathe to separate from her to apply it.

He wanted to check even her teeth, but restrained himself. The Jedi did not approve of cavity searches in the best of times. She also had her lightsaber, and full command of the Force, and he was still getting his bearings after the temporary loss and the explosion he'd suffered. He mentioned that to her, and she still had no sympathy. Instead her eyes remained rather flat, if not hostile. Adrenaline still lingered in her bloodstream, ready to make another appearance if necessary. "If Malak couldn't crack your skull, why should that?"

Bastila cleared her throat. "Shouldn't we be off now?"

It was always the same. She pushed and shoved into him, until he was contorting and pained and giving in. Why was the Jedi the demanding one? Why must he learn patience and restraint? No, no, Bastila should be the one weakened, the one on her knees, fallen and confused by his presence. Yet here she was, leading the way. And distracting.

Bastila was vaguely renowned around the galaxy, and Revan was often treated to an attempts at her visage when he least wanted or expected it. Revan could not have prepared himself. For this. He had supported his Master Kae and followed her and trusted her to some degree, but had always sneered at her dalliance; she had not even the courage to see her own child. What had her doomed romance brought but shame and a daughter she would never meet? He had not understood it. Perhaps allowing her eyes to continue their atrophy when any day she could have reversed the damage had been some Jedi penance, even as she derided such actions for their self-pity. But then, not having working eyes had never stopped her from being able to see into you.

How disgusting, that this had happened to him.

She was frustrated and distracted herself by insisting on hearing about the state of things. When he inhaled too deeply, unthinkingly, he inhaled her scent, blood and dirt, plain soap, leather, and sweat, and went a little bit more insane. He was indeed a mortal being, and what a shame. Revan wondered if he could have won that swoop race while thinking about her so close and waiting for him. Bastila had too much control over the Sith, even if she was not fully aware of that fact. Oh, the brunette might talk about their Bond, and that was some truth but of course it fell short as so many facts might. There was something between them, a shared connection, aside from their link in the Force.

When? When?

Onboard his flagship, as fires bloomed, and he felt blood running down his face and was held in her grip, strong, reassuring. When he got a clear look into her eyes and nodded as she retreated and he let her go. As she pulled out harmless toys from childhood she had not forgotten, her breathy laugh suddenly shy? On that ship? With her mother Helena Shan, whom he had wanted to congratulate for creating this wonderful creature, they had done a wonderful job, from her accent to the brown of her hair and gray of her eyes to the curl in her toes when she noticed him staring at her in her sleeping attire. Seeing her there, vulnerable, not the suspicious Jedi that fretted of the dark side and their Bond, had been fascinating.

She was nothing like his past dalliances that slipped from Revan's memories, bloodless and pale, taken more out of curiosity than true passion. Sith, they broke rules, especially when they just gotten their first taste of the dark side. This felt all the more like sacrilege, as both the Jedi and Sith would have opposed such a union.

Revan decided to not kiss her boots, but would lead the Jedi around Taris, chiding her over keeping her lightsaber revealed. She got a lot of looks. For a long list of reasons. Revan did not blame people for staring. He could hardly keep his eyes from her, and tried to not get lost in the long streets that had once gleamed before the wars and despair had come. He was amused by what those strangers must think of them both.

He had grown attached to her, Revan could admit. Why else be here, on Taris, outside a cluster of squalid rundown apartments that was currently his new base of operations. Why else could he still smile at her frowning scowl up at the sky and sight of ships. In that mind of her, she was figuring out ways of deserving another present: him sending the Sith away and contacting the Republic to come pick her up.

Inside 'their' apartment building, she wanted a moment and a private room to change and become presentable. Revan wanted to laugh. A private room? Oh, she was not prepared for this little vacation. Wait until she saw the food and tried the ale. He sliced into an abandoned apartment, despite her scolding.

"We can leave if you want. Then you can strip in front of the half dozen aliens wandering the halls. Maybe I can charge enough to buy a ship." No, these people were too poor for that. Look at this apartment. Still, the rest of the threat held. And perhaps he could have set up a bartering system instead. He could always use more droid parts.

His stare remained focused on her, until she realized that fact. "Would you mind, Revan?"

"No." He would not.

She scoffed, anger on her thin face. "Very well."

Embarrassed but resolute, she pulled off the flimsy, mocking garments the Vulkars gave her and began to replace them with her leather training garb. Revan didn't even try to not stare, even when she glared. She must have truly hated that thing, and the Black Vulkars, to a depth he could just imagine but only just. "I beg your pardon."

"I think I should be the one begging."

"Oh, hush." She pulled her tunic down, suddenly looking like Bastila Shan again.

Revan stood there, staring, unabashed in a way that should have made him ashamed. "Is this my reward then?"

Finally, she grew shy and angry. "Revan! Would you stop?"

Not staring took too much willpower that neither the Jedi or the Sith could have ever taught. Even for one such as himself, a man that had harnessed both light and dark sides of the Force, was helpless before her power. He wanted to trace around the marks left on her back, with his fingers, and apologize that it took so long. She finally threw a belt at him.

But he was polite, and returned it to her even while some part of him wanted to wear it to mark himself as being hers. What a curious emotion.

Her training leathers hid the full damage. In them, she was Bastila Shan again, the Last Hope of the Republic, and a powerful Force User, a Jedi Commander who had been serving with the Republic since a teenager, if not a full Jedi Knight. She was also a young woman, and married to a Sith Lord. And she had three moles on her back. Two between her shoulder blades, one raised above the other like the twin suns of Tatooine with one nearly hidden by the strap, and another one above her right hip. Secret knowledge that he was once again blessed and cursed to have received.

Dressed, presentable, she could afford to be affable. "For what it's worth, I concede the point to you: you rescued me from Brejik. And yet we're still stuck on here on Taris, while your followers attack the Republic."

"Mostly just the planet," he assured her. "Don't worry, I created a pretext. Something to keep them preoccupied while I find you."

"Can't you call them off?" Bastila demanded.

He spread his hands. "No way of calling."

He especially no intention of calling his soldiers off. He'd already lost an entrusted code cylinder shortly before their first encounter and had no wish to have that happen again. Better to go armed with his wits rather than a comm—even if those wits had been lost momentarily in a panic after having been separated by the wayward Padawan and nearly getting blown up or crushed. Now he would collect them again and find a way off this planet.

"I have a ship as well," he offered. "Well, not yet. But I think I know where I can get one."

"Where?" Bastila was attempting to take charge already, and his grin was a rictus.

He reached into his pocket. She stared, as though expecting him to pull a ship out from there. Unfortunately, even the Sith wasn't that talented. "Padawan, I have something for you."

It was the ribbons, still bright as when she'd had them in her hair during that party. A stupid, sentimental thing to have brought. The Jedi was embarrassed, but not displeased. She appeared nervous again, like that first day they had spent in each other's company and had both been sure the other would attempt a murder. Those same darting stares, at his face, and hands. "Thank you."

"I also have companions now," he told her. "Loyal servants." Force but he was glad they hadn't walked into any of them, that might have been awkward. Especially if she called him Revan.

She perked up. "You made friends?" Like that was so impossible for a man that had led multiple armies.

"Of course."

Bastila frowned, taken mildly aback. "There were people who were willing to help a Sith Lord?"

"Oh, they have no idea who I am."

"What?"

He whispered very slowly into her ear, letting his mouth just barely brush her skin. "We can continue our story. They will never know. I'm Kal now, a loyal Republic soldier, by the way."

She froze. "Do you mind?"

"I don't, at all." He breathed out in a hiss three flat syllables. "Kal. Torel."

She shuddered. Then Bastila pulled away. "Thank you for letting me know. Private."

He was slightly annoyed that she was right when assuming his rank; for all she knew, he could have been a lieutenant.

Her color remained high. "Though, I am not sure how could you keep it hidden and why they think you are with the Republic—the disguise." The Jedi was outraged. On behalf of the Republic that had left her here, and companions she'd never even met. "You can't continue to deceive them. I understand why you did so, but it's not fair to them."

"I haven't truly lied to them. Not very much anyway."

"Oh, I'm sure you haven't been suspicious at all this whole time," Bastila derided loudly.

"I don't think it will be a very big surprise to them at all," Revan lied. Fleet did after all know something was up. Mission didn't seem to be afraid of something as ridiculous as Sith Lords, and Zalbaar seemed inclined to follow him even if he did turn out to be evil.

The blue-gray eyes were narrowed. In her training leathers, armed, she was resilient that way. The Jedi Padawan that had instinctively and then forcefully saved a Sith Lord despite all the risks, and then went to back the Order and the Republic. Then she was ordered to marry that Sith, and she'd held up her end of the deal so far. "We will explain the situation and hopefully your companions will understand and continue to assist us with getting off Taris."

Even now, she was taking charge and adjusting. Revan was entirely too glad and grateful she was back, but saying that was impossible. "I guess I'm just your faithful bodyguard. I'll have to make sure to never leave your side."

"No, we should tell them the truth. We must. Then we can contact the Republic and all of us can part ways."

Carth was delighted to see her again. He sprang up, pleased, little like the man that had been so uncertain last night. "Bastila—you're alive! Finally, things are looking up. Now we just need to figure out a way to get off this planet."

"Carth Onasi! I hadn't realized you'd be here as well." Despite her brightened cheer, Bastila shot Kal an annoyed look.

Did she still expect to tell this man the truth? That perhaps proved that she and the pilot hadn't gotten too intimate, because clearly she did not know him well at all. Well, that was some relief. If you do, I doubt Onasi will continue to help. In fact, I'm sure he will try to shoot me immediately. 'Kal' kept an eye on her lightsaber, in case he needed it to deflect blaster fire. It was good at that.

"Yes, when our ship went done, a few of us survived." He ran his fingers through his brown hair. "I was the only one that was able to move. And now we're all stuck here since even if we contact the Republic again, they might not be able to easily extract us. Not with the Sith here as well."

Bastila's slightly-larger-than-professional smile disappeared. "You mean you truly don't have a plan to get off Taris yet? What have you been doing all this time?"

"We were trying to find you, remember?" A little anger crept into Revan's voice. He was still rattled by her, her return, her grace and presence through their Bond and Force so restored. He was remembering how strong she was, his partner. The Sith wished she didn't have such a strong personality that seemed to make him lose his own restraint in ways he could not have prepared for.

"I see." Her glance at him was brief. "Now that I'm back in charge of this mission, perhaps we can start doing things properly. Hopefully our escape from Taris will go more smoothly than when you rescued me from Brejik."

Carth looked pained. "I know you're new at this, Bastila, but a leader doesn't berate her troops just because things aren't going as planned. Don't let your ego get in the way of the real issues here."

"That hardly strikes me as an appropriate way of addressing your commander, Carth. I am a member of the Jedi Order and this is was my mission. Don't forget that!" She stood there, so sure of herself. Revan wondered privately if she hadn't been slowly working her way out of that collar and had just used his presence as the cue to attack. "My Battle Meditation ability has helped the Republic many times in this war, and it will serve us well here I am sure."

"Your talents might win us a few battles, but that doesn't make you a good leader! A good leader would at least listen to the advice of those who have seen more combat than she ever will!" The pilot was exasperated. "You know, I had my doubts about this mission but I figured the Jedi Council wouldn't put you in charge if you weren't prepared. But here you are, acting like a spoiled child!"

His own nerves felt sore. There she was, and hardly looking at him. Neither was Carth. "Both of you settle down! This isn't helping."

Bastila regained some of that Jedi calm. He was both relieved and disappointed to see its return. "I see. It's true that I don't have as much military experience as you do; perhaps I should not be so quick to judge."

Revan tried to not goggle as Carth was mollified. An apology? Actual rue? She sniffed, but more politely. "Very well, I apologize, Carth. This has been a difficult time for me. Of course I'm happy to listen to your advice. What do you suggest we do?"

…had she had already forgotten about announcing who he was? Well, he wasn't going to draw attention to himself now, even annoyed as he was.

"First off we can't get hung up on who's in charge; we all need to work together if we want to get off this rock. The answer's out there, we just have to find it." It was hard to not be caught up in all this nonsense. Though, Revan drew the line as marching around with a Republic flag.

Bastila was nodding. "Well said, Carth. And the sooner we start looking the better; I've already been a prisoner of the Vulkars and I don't plan on being captured and returned to the Sith."

Captured? She was hardly a true captive! Just because she was at the Sith's side on threats didn't mean she was a prisoner—that was being tortured, like what the Sith did to real captives. Had he not let her leave? Did she not have his room, given to her completely? Was eating the occasional meal in his presence so bad? Sometimes, she did smile and laugh at him. And he had saved her, just hours ago!

But Revan knew now she definitely had been working on her escape for as long as she'd been captive—from the Black Vulkars. Even with the collar, she was too strong-willed. She would have gnawed off the bars of her cage or tricked some poor fool into letting her out. Force, and he'd been planning on kidnapping and breaking her to the dark side, as he and Malak had done to countless others. What a task that would have been. She would have argued back during the torture, driving him mad with her insistent rebukes. And, he allowed, perhaps a waste, to turn her with such barbaric methods. When she came into her full power, it would have to be under her own desire.

"Don't worry," Revan assured her. "I won't let that happen."

Bastila gave him a side-glance. Oh, there were a million things she would like to say, and yet she bit her tongue.

"I think we'll need some help getting off Taris. Maybe if we ask around one of the locals can help us out," Shan suggested. "We should probably start by asking around in the cantinas? There may be more Republic soldiers there for us to try contacting as well."

"Oh, just face it, you want to relax and toss a few back."

At least Onasi thought he was funny. Or at least he laughed at that. She gave them both withering looks. "And how did you and Kal meet anyway?"

"I saved him, after there was an explosion out there. He said he came from a strike team to save you." Carth shot her a loaded stare. "Does that sound right to you?"

"I am here, to rescue Bastila." Kal retorted.

Bastila and Carth ignored him, even as they spoke about him. Revan was impressed that she could keep a straight face and look someone in the face. He would have thought her a terrible liar. She held their fates in her hands, but her voice was dispassionate, if tinged with impatience. "Yes, I know him, I have definitely seen him in Republic uniform."

She looked up at him, questioning in that thoughtful intense way, as she had the first time they'd met, faces bared. "And I suppose I do trust him."

The taller man relaxed. "Well, alright then." He was still too wary to apologize. Later, Carth was sure to find things still weren't quite right, even after her reassurance and his thin explanations. But for now he was appeased.

Fleet had said it didn't matter who was in charge, but Bastila still fought for that yolk. Carth seemed reluctant to lead outright and also doubt all his companions at the same time. Somehow, it fell on Revan. But, as his master had said, he was a natural leader. And yet they all complained when he went to the cantina and watched the dancers and duels.

When she protested, Bastila had to do so carefully, swallowing her tongue when it came to his name, remembering their lies. They could only talk, normally, when alone. Which was very infrequent. The Padawan was peaky around the edges. Pale and jumpy. The Jedi insisted on meditation and peace from teenagers and annoying soldiers. Mostly, she didn't get that.

Bastila seemed to avoid speaking to him alone, acting polite and unnaturally so, playing at pretending they were strangers with frightening ease. If anything, condescension was more comforting than having to speak normally to her husband. She was exasperated by his attempts to divert her, and tried to discipline Mission, and shore up her own bruised delicate Jedi ego. She got looks when they left the apartment, and they forced her to hide her lightsaber.

She had been of two minds at the idea of simple talking to the first Sith or Republic guard they found, and admitting who she was, but resolved otherwise at both Carth and Revan's insistence they keep her identity hidden for now.

Why trust a pile of snakes, after all, Carth reasoned. Besides, she had been here for the Republic and had a mission to complete, people to contact, a title to withhold. Bastila agreed, though resented the growing pile of falsehoods and lies. Kal the Private wondered quietly if he would end up having to clean Republic refreshers if they were picked up by the Republic after all.

But it was all for her own good, the hiding and arguments they had with her. Bastila had a tendency to brood, and she fretted about the possibility of a war and what a big misunderstanding this all was. She needed things to focus on, and what better than her disguised Bondmate? She had bad dreams, and Revan would watch her until she came awake and they would sit in their respectable areas, silent. Revan wanted to reassure her, but had to remain quiet, in case the others woke. Even though all he wanted in the Tarisian nighttime was to go to her side, sit next to her on the bed, and reassure her in whatever way he could, perhaps hold her hand and remind her that she had survived, and would survive this like she had all the rest. Instead, they would swamp shifts, and she would sit in the chair, with the flashing lights peaking through the window to light up her features with annoying regularity. The Sith could only hope his near presence might help, a little. But in the mornings, she would order him to make his bed.

The Jedi Padawan was both less and more of a wife than ever. She had to keep a close cover on her words, but also felt free to criticize things like his diet and how long he played pazaak and refused to try the ale here ('Don't you know it has tach glands in it? Disgusting.') and wanted him to follow orders that no one else did either. At least now he got to share a bed with her instead of sleeping alone on a couch, even if they would sleep in shifts.

Still, he had weapons of his own.

Especially when Carth was gone, out to hear news and to get away from the bickering. Bastila looked at him with those serious eyes that drew him in. She had tried thus far to speak to him as little as possible, but he could tell she wanted to talk now.

He had his own news to tell her. The Sith kept his voice pitched low. "Before I came to rescue the damsel in distress—"

"Kal." She scowled. "I managed to free myself, as I recall."

Bastila sniffed. "I also aided you during that fight, although I have no need to constantly remind you of it."

"—I had a vision of you," he finished.

"A vision?" She was curious. Then, she admitted, "I've had a few of you as well. I'm not sure what it means."

"Dreams? Are we sharing dreams?"

Something froze in both their hearts, and fear glazed their eyes. What did that mean? What did you see? What did you see? Nothing!

"Sometimes," she corrected.

"Just that one," he mentioned. "That's the only one that matters."

She was, for once, eager to agree. "Yes, I'm sure you're right."

"It was of our first meeting." Revan recalled. "You wildly, irresponsibly facing me in combat, practically single-handed."

Bastila frowned. "I had a squadron of armed guards and Jedi Knights."

"That still wasn't enough. Especially by the end," he corrected. Those Jedi he's seen had been useless and the guards just the same. If not for Malak, she would have been his prisoner, and who could have guessed how that would have gone. Perhaps very badly, Revan reminded himself. Even if she might look quite fetching in black robes.

"Maybe I've grown sentimental," he admitted.

She gave him a stare. "Or thinking about having me back at your mercy."

"Some mercy. Oh, I'll make sure to be much less benevolent towards you after this escape plan."

Bastila's face had time to clear in alarm just before the pilot chose that excellent moment to enter the room. The girl was with him and so was her walking carpet. Kal turned to them, trying to become that cheerful young man. "We have to move our Jedi out of here."

She kept her head down. The new companions were unsettled by her silence. What did you do to her?

Nothing much. Yet. He had only saved her, again. If anything, Revan was very kindly. When she and Carth had a disagreement, he made sure to favor her as much as possible, until both she and Carth scoffed and dismissed him. Until Bastila revealed she lost her lightsaber during the crash. "It is completely a violation of the Jedi Code!" he corrected her, just as heated as her. "I'm sure it is."

The pilot had managed to laugh, but Bastila had not. Then she would comment on the short-sightedness of the Republic over the Jedi Council, and it would be Carth's turn to frown.

Mission would wonder who was older, really, even if it seemed like Carth said he was the senor one, but who had more gray...They scanned both those heads of hair for a wild moment while the two humans who were not wanted by the Republic on various counts of various things stood there, annoyed. Self-conscious, all but patting their precious brunette locks.

The Wookie even politely stepped in to add in the bullying, in his own kindly way. "The Jedi Bastila is also a grown adult sworn to another."

"Oh yeah I guess she is married...damn." Almost horrified at the remembrance, they all looked at her. Bastila scoffed at their stares, true discomfort instead of the dismissive way she'd batted off Carth calling her a legend. She still struggled with the idea of matrimony and being Missus Revan. On Taris, of all places, fighting for their lives, it was hard to blame her for finding the idea ridiculous.

The teenager reached into her most mature, giggling jokes. "We should throw you a belated bachelorette party."

Kal agreed.

Bastila disagreed.

Carth too, had his qualms about strippers, even if Kal assured him that Bastila would get to pick them to her taste so it would just be demure, cheerless and everyone would be kind and sober and completely dressed, and probably particularly uptight librarians. The Jedi protested, but so did the pilot. But for quite different reasons.

"Are you kidding, you've heard of her husband. She'll have those Sith from that party over you stole those uniforms at, and give them lectures."

Revan laughed.

The Padawan did that thing with her nose and her eyes. They both told her to lighten up, and Carth added he hadn't meant to give offense, while Revan just smiled in a way that told her he had. The two wouldn't really do it, not with Mission here and the lack of alcohol, the taller man explained, smiling still at her frown. He thought of her as a woman, yes, and a Jedi with a powerful gift, his Commander as well, but clearly still a young one. Revan offered her a handful of free credits if she wanted to slide them into any particular Sith's underwear.

She turned back, after a moment. Her brows were twisting, stormy. "What Sith? What party? Uniforms? What were you doing?"

Revan stopped laughing. "Never mind."

Onasi, it turned out, had an interesting perspective on things. He was a little suspicious of them all, including the woman he'd come to rescue. But he didn't like it when he and Bastila spoke by themselves for reasons other than helpful paranoia. He made a point to keep an eye on them, particularly when Mission and Zalbaar had left the apartment they squatted in to go find food. The Jedi did her best to settle down and ignore him, even when he rocked back and forth on his bed until it creaked. Carth glanced back into the apartment from his spot on guard duty. "Oh. Oh."

"What?"

"I thought you might be..."

Was the man embarrassed? His brown gaze had shifted to Bastila sitting in the corner, perfectly still as she meditated. Her posture was ramrod straight to the point of discomfort. She made his own attempts look sloppy, and the Padawan would have no doubt despaired if she'd seen it just as his masters had when his shoulders slumped.

"You know." Carth looked uncomfortable. He was doing his friendly, thoughtful paternal older man impression. It reminded you of responsibilities and helped tease and argue with Bastila just to get under her skin. It was one of those aspects that Revan could not decide was Carth's real persona, or if it was the hurt man that had found a trigger and snapped out when Karath or the Sith or Mandalorian were mentioned. A layer of him still raged and burned as it had on Telos, under his contrition and fundamental good nature. Revan wondered what the man would have looked like in a Sith uniform.

Carth kept his voice low. "She is married. Technically. And Revan seemed like a bad guy to piss off."

"You don't know that for certain," Darth Revan the Butcher reasoned.

"Oh yeah, I'm sure he's a peach." He sighed. "Just be careful. Bastila's..."

What? Impressive? Attractive? Neurotic, demanding, and all the more charming for it? Thank the Force she'd run into his evil arms, rather than Carth's slightly taller, annoyingly handsome and orange-clad ones. Revan didn't really get more than a simple appreciation and mild friendship (and annoyance) from Bastila and Carth, but he also was quite glad he had been the one to save her, instead of Onasi.

"What?" The smaller man looked at him, wanting the sentence to be finished.

"I'm not saying she's vulnerable. Or likes you in any way," he added. "But she's very serious about here responsibility to the Republic and the Jedi. I can't see her getting involved with anyone even without, you know."

"..."

"Her being married," Carth repeated, at Revan's blank stare. "That little thing called her evil Sith husband."

"He's not that small," he argued, off-hand.

"Well, actually, he's kind of a little guy," Carth corrected. "A lot shorter than his follower Malak was, not even a lot taller than you or Bastila, no offense. But he's also incredibly powerful and dangerous."

"...I am aware, believe me."

"You've only seen him in those bad holos." The ace pilot chided. "Those things are never accurate."

"Sometimes amusement is all one seeks," he replied, not even a little bit priggish.

"You know, I met Revan once," Carth related, thoughtful.

"Oh, did you?"

"Yes. At the wedding. That's how I know all those holos are full of it. But the guy (and pretty sure it was a guy) kept his face covered and barely noticed me. I don't even think he would recognize me."

"Probably not," Kal readily agreed. "An important, powerful Force user that could control a tall man like Malak that must be very busy."

"But I know he's not the kind of person you should mess with personally," Carth told him. "And unfortunately, he and Bastila have their own connection. Or so I've heard. You'd have to ask Bastila more about that."

"Oh I will," he assured Carth.

"That's why the Sith are here," Fleet explained. "They came to take her again. She hadn't turned to their side yet thankfully."

"Maybe he missed her?" The less-tall man suggested simply.

Carth was skeptic. "I'm not sure if Sith can care. Especially a guy like Revan. He did just kill his friend and then blackmailed the Republic to capture her. It's just a surprise he's not blowing up Taris to make sure she doesn't escape him."

"But that was after Malak betrayed him," Revan insisted.

"I can't tell you whose responsible for what exactly. I'm not sure it matters. But nothing good will come from dealing with the Sith."

"Everyone's so scared of the Sith. But we might have to ask for their help to get off this planet," Revan reminded him. "They have a stake in her return as well."

"If she wants to go back." Carth disapproved but strove to be neutral. "I wouldn't force her to return to them."

Even if it meant destroying the fragile peace?

Yes. But not just because he liked Bastila well enough and didn't want her to be captive to a Sith Lord, though that was part of it. Carth still remembered Telos. Revan was reminded that Bastila was the fulcrum between the Republic and Sith, the thing connecting and separating them as though she were a bone or scrap of land to fight over. Or she were a precious resource, he amended, with some affection. As precious as the slimy kolto cultivated on Manaan. Still, both sides were desperate for a 'piece of that' as he'd heard one soldier declare with scorn, and admiration. Revan could not entirely say it was untrue.

"But that's not the only reason I want to talk to you." Then those eyes were serious, and cold. They looked at the Jedi, to make sure she was not listening in. "I see you and her off talking to the side…And I know you two might be hiding something."

Kal gave his largest smile, the one that Master Kae had despaired of in and of itself, and the one that could drive Malak to stomping away in fury and his previous general to suddenly worry. Sometimes though, it made Jedi Padawans smile in return, despite her better instincts and training. "Just our intense sexual attraction."

Bastila finally spoke up at that excelling moment, making both men jump. "And what exactly are you two discussing?"

They both flinched.

Her own color was high. That dangerous spark was in her eyes. Her posture was still flawless. "If my presence is why the Sith are here, because of Revan, then it is my responsibility to see them leave."

The two men remained silent.

The Jedi rose in one smooth motion. Kae would have approved. "And if Revan does truly...care about me, then Revan would make sure these Sith remove themselves and no one comes to any harm."

Bastila paused in the doorway of the refresher. "I would be grateful for that."

Then she was gone with a firm sliding of the door. Outside, she might run into Sith guards that recognized her, or pissed off Vulkars or general ruffians that looked for anything valuable. Yet no one dared rush off after the Jedi or even warn her about carrying a lightsaber around was just asking for trouble. Soon, she would be back, distracted and irritated, after having used the Force to convince soldiers that she was not the Jedi they were looking for, her bulky weapon all the while hanging from her side.

Carth looked at Kal, uneasy. "See, that's why I don't think you have a chance."

Kal looked right back, startled. "What?"

"I really do think those two have some weird...connection? And you think you can compete, but does she want you to? She's with him to help the Republic, and only that, but she's very dutiful, that woman." He admired and was annoyed by that trait, like everyone that came into contact with the Jedi Padawan. She made you want to sit up straight for her inspection as she walked by, and also stick out a foot for her to trip over.

Yes, making the Jedi forget the constant responsibilities was a task greater than even destroying the Republic it seemed at times. That was part of what made Bastila so uniquely...Bastila.

...grateful? Had she used that word? Oh Force, his imagination could feast off that for a long time. Damnit.

When they were accosted in the hallway, Bastila all but reaching for her lightsaber that did not pass muster as a plasma cutter at all, Revan was only surprised it hadn't happened sooner. At least the Twilek did not attempt to murder them like so many others. By comparison to the gang members, he was downright polite. Revan supposed he was the swoop champion, even if he had never drive the swoop. But why should he meet some stranger in a dingy bar, even if it meant escape?

Carth said to be wary until Bastila said to be careful, and then the pilot added that they should still go just to see what was up when they had no better options. They bickered about the odds of it being a trap, and of old resentments against the Mandalorians that might distort the truth. Then the girl Twilek and her Wookie came back with a mostly full bag of food. Zalbaar cautioned against trusting mercenaries but would not stand in their way. Mission said to go, if they wanted to leave Taris so bad, and offered to come with to make sure they didn't wake up in a different apartment missing organs.

Revan decided to meet the Mandalorian, and promised to return with at least two kidneys. Mission almost asked a follow up question, but then declined. "Watch this guy, will ya?"

Bastila reluctantly agreed. "I shall have to keep a very close eye on him. A very close eye."

Mission then looked at Carth.

"Don't worry," he assured her. "I won't let them get into too much trouble."

Nettled, the two Force Users led the way, keeping any conversation light and focused solely about the lingering fires and rakghouls. How terrible. Yes. People lingered inside the dangerous bar around in tight groups, speaking quietly, making deals and doing what they needed to get through the day. Never mind the rubble. Bastila leaned very uncomfortably in a wobbly stool at the bar.

They overheard the gossip: "Who knows if it will break out in full out war? Some people are trying to make peace, but suddenly Revan's missing."

"And that Jedi, the one that married the Butcher."

"Well, we know where she is, kinda, now don't we!"

"Yes." They sounded bitter. "And everyone's going to suffer because of some fool Jedi."

Not some just 'some Jedi.' But he would forgive them their impertinence.

Bastila bit her tongue but only just. She stared down at the heavy bar top that had withstood a bombing so intently you'd think she was trying to learn to be as resolute at it. But the bar had been manufactured and so taped and stickied from a thousand other attacks that the Jedi could not imagine. Carth told them to relax while he kept on eye on the door, searching around while Bastila tried to flag down a waitress. Revan imagined them in another life, in another few years, as a General and an Admiral. For the Republic, of course, though the Sith would have enjoyed having both of them working for him. Their pretty faces would look all the better in his uniforms. He believed that together, they could have all caused a lot of harm to the Republic. Perhaps they still might, he thought, wistful.

Then someone entered the bar, not scurrying but standing there manfully, looking around at the bar and mentally separating out the losers from the threats. Gray eyes stopped when they met his. It was the Mandalorian he'd met earlier, the brawny one that might be the one of the smartest mercenaries on the planet just for seeing this potential. He had the look of a survivor. There weren't many Mandos left, especially older ones.

The man, Canderous, nodded his head towards an empty table and Kal reluctantly followed, with the other two following his lead. He didn't like following any orders from a Mandalorian, an old prejudice that Revan was aware of and could acknowledge. "I saw you at the swoop track."

The brawny man laughed, a mean bark. "Very impressive. You know how to get results."

He wanted to make a deal. The blockade was getting worse. Soon no ship would be able to leave and the Republic and Sith would be clawing each other to death over this world.

"And the Jedi." The cold eyes glanced at the woman by Revan's side. She stirred, and the Sith wondered if the Mando has seen their embrace or had left early like the fleeing others. If he said anything, how would they explain it? It really was an intense sexual attraction... "What do you say? Do we have a deal?"

There was a base set up, Republic, wasn't there? All they needed was departure codes from them. His two companions began to bicker immediately. Bastila was less reluctant, which seemed to egg Carth on to become more against the plan. Yet what choice did they have? In the end, the two acquiesced.

Still, the Jedi grew nervous the following morning, even more so than the pilot.

"Should we play a game of pazaak over it?" He offered, again, just as he had when they were first deciding who would play what roll. But Bastila had a terribly easily read face to the man she shared a Bond with. Thus she grumbled, in brown and orange, her lightsaber finally allowed.

"Of course." Kal tried to not scowl. "It's for the greater good."

"Is it?" Bastila asked. "We don't even know if this isn't a trap that man in the pub created."

"And if things go truly bad, we'll just come rescue you from your Republic prison."

The Jedi frowned.

"After all, if the roles were reverse, you would rescue me right, Bastila?"

"First things first, we need the droid," Bastila reminded him. Unless he could break into this random base based off his intuition as a Sith and her lightsaber. He could have, but what a struggle. A shame the Republic hadn't established a base, he and Carth could have found some armor from both sides, and then brought her in there as as their Sith prisoner...

It was the only part of this expedition he would find enjoyable, to find the right droid. A chance to bargain, with his favorite Jedi, and peruse droids and parts. They were old, rusted, and he frowned at the dust. Worst yet, he found his old droid. "Ah-hah."

T3 beeped and buzzed, lighting up in the quiet, dark storeroom. It rejoiced at being found, and at finding Bastila! How had she been? She was pleased to see it too, this fellow Endar Spire veteran, and there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this. It also had, as well, some insulting criticism about Revan's saving skills. Revan wanted to refuse pay for T3 (it was his droid! Or hers), but Bastila insisted. Even if the droid's memory unit was reportedly partially damaged when Revan tried to pry at old messages.

She didn't bother trying to play on his better feelings, but just got angry, and claimed it was 'beneath him.' He bit his tongue rather than say, 'at least something was,' but was too wary to fight with her over a few credits that were meant to be spent anyway. Still, he, reasonably, bargained with the shop keeper for a discount.

Maybe he should have bought the other one...

But it was too late. And they had other issues to work out.

Bastila looked into his eyes once they'd left the droid shop. It was still unsettling, how she did that, and that she could, and under natural light. He'd spent years in that mask, sometimes entire whole days. The sun made him squint still.

"We're going to kill soldiers," the Jedi reminded him, as though he didn't know. Your soldiers. They had to watch their words, even around the droid who waited resolute off to the side, one stun gun out in case someone tried to steal it again.

"Do you care?" he asked, honestly.

"I do." She looked strained. "Of course I do."

He raised a brow. Why?

"No true Jedi would relish taking anyone's life, even a Sith's."

"But are you a true Jedi, Padawan?" he teased. "You seemed eager to get rid of those Vulkars."

She glared in return. "Are you really okay with this—Kal? Since you are such a considerate person, a true servant of the light, surely you must dread the thought of taking a life? Does that not weigh at you?"

"For you, anything." Revan blew her a kiss.

The T3 droid beeped. If it had eyes, they would have rolled like those wheel did. Bastila told him, not unkindly, to adjust his posture and stand up straight like the pilot had ordered before he'd left. If he was going to be an enlisted soldier-mercenary turning in the wanted Jedi Commander Bastila Shan, then he must be professional to some extent. Just like Kal, the newly drafted Republic soldier. Or they would be shot at the front office.

Revan would nod and take orders, and not remind either of them that before he'd been the Supreme Commander of the Republic's Fleet, he'd been an officer.

"This meeting is a stroke of luck for me—my master will surely reward me with my lightsaber once I bring you back!"

Bastila gave him a look.

Before them, a bald head and a smirk stood there. Revan's arm still smarted from an earlier blow from the soldiers in black and chrome, and he had no patience anymore for tall men who liked to laugh at him. At least this one wasn't so hulking or clad in red.

"Perhaps even Darth Revan will make me governor of this world as well," he crowed.

"If you won't turn away from the dark side now, it will lead you to destruction," Bastila warned. Despite his wariness, he was amused that she would still try to convince someone of their wrongness.

The man sneered. "Spoken like a true drone of the Jedi Council. We Sith, however, have learned to embrace the potential of the dark side. It is what gives us strength!"

Revan wanted to wince.

She said she didn't want to kill anyone, or relish it, but he could detect little regret as she drove her blade towards the man. Though she disapproved mildly of his looting, to this body and all the previous ones, and the way he rummaged through all the bins and desks. Just like the others did. But did they complain when he gave them new armor and weapons? Alright, sometimes, but this was all for their own good. Just like this convenient murder that got them codes to the Sith fleet circling above, waiting.

On the long walk back to through Taris to the bar, still smelling of blaster fire and smoke, Bastila was deep in thought. In the flickering lights, from failing electricity and the fires, her thoughtful face was in particular striking. And young. Sometimes she would glance up at the ships visible above in the dusky light. For a moment, he didn't despise this world so much. "I can't believe someone was willing to do all that."

"What do you mean?" Revan scowled.

"That man thought he would be trained as a Sith apprentice if he captured me. Where would he get that impression?"

"Someone must miss you," he replied, breezily.

She gave him a look, unsure whether or not to glare. "Don't play glib."

"Oooh, should I stop being so glib? You sure about that Bastila Shan?"

Her eyes narrowed. T3 was no longer there, instead returning to the others had gone back to the apartment to wait on them, but after enough time with Onasi you might begin to believe it was best to always be paranoid. Still, the Jedi could hear the irony and threat in his words.

He scoffed at her entire line of questioning. "Imagine thinking you're worth less than Taris."

Bastila remained silent, feelings that she tried to hide squirming beneath a veneer of false peace and rigid control that she wore with less comfort than her leather combat gear.

The Mandalorian was happy to see them. Even Bastila, to some degree, though that disappeared when she mentioned again her doubt at this plan. Still, they eventually came to an agreement. Canderous finished his Tarisian ale, ignoring their warnings and disgust, and then led them to another swoop bike that had all three of them moderately crammed. Kal kept them all distracted by replaying the fight, making sure Bastila was completely comically bloodthirsty, and he'd been frankly appalled by such violence. When he mimed her kicking a fallen head away, as she scowled, Ordo finally cracked a grin. Then he revved the engines to block out any voice behind him. Kal shot Bastila a smile while the wind whipped over them, and she slid downward in her seat a little to prevent remorseless damage to her hair.

It really was, still, despite all the roadblocks and struggled and suffering and hurt arms, still going according to plan.

Yes, Revan was on Taris of all places in the galaxy, and yes he had left his army, and he'd momentarily lost an apprentice but he was still optimistic. He was simply trading one tall, ball man with a strangely mechanical voice for a much shorter woman with ridiculous coiffed hair and a strong Coreworld accent. How they both would hate any comparison. I'm nothing like them!

Davik Kang acted impressed by Kal's mere presence, making a careworn comment on Bastila's prettiness out of habit, and keeping the other mercenary at his side at heel when he and Canderous snarled. The other mercenary, a familiar Calo Nord, was quick to skepticism, and Bastila sent Revan an unnecessary twinge of doubt and alarm through the Force.

"I didn't know you were a swoop fan," the man who was still unclear on how to drive a swoop mentioned, casually.

Oh, Davik had little interest in such things though all on Taris looked forward to the Opening Day—and had been surprised to hear about the mass murder that had broken out. The man's cold blue eyes met his. Apparently Kal had been as indifferent to Taris' traditions as Revan had been to Mandalorians above Malachor. What a shame. "But we have more important issues to discuss now."

The old mercenary prince showed them around, and bagged about his ship while they all stood around it. Only restraint, pushed through their Bond from Bastila, kept him from strangling the short mercenary he'd seen before in the bar, and then moving onto Davik. Bastila would rush to his aid, and the Mandalorian all the more glad to see his previous employer choking before 'his baby' that they were about to steal.

Though she would regret that decision as they were told they weren't prisoners, but needed to follow orders and not leave their quarters, and Kal broke out to wander around. He felt again the strong tug of disapproval when they met Twilek women who were willing to touch him and were very eager to make Kal happy. At least someone did.

Though, the Jedi did look willing to lay hands on him if it meant dragging him away. He tried to be equally charming to the other guests here, but alas, many decided to fight back or were altogether worthless, stuck in their cages to plead to be let go. Both the Jedi and mercenary watched him, the man curious and the woman admonishing him for his uncaring attitude, and told him with some anger to get off that ridiculous throne seated in a common room not far from the barracks full of enemies right now.

When they ran into their 'hosts,' they were treated to a look of rare surprise on Calo Nord's face as Revan reached out through the Force to give a mighty tug, thinking of his foolish helplessness of before and rage giving him power. Canderous drove his boss backwards, as Bastila flicked back blaster fire with her yellow blades. He wasn't sure which one killed him, but he was quick to leap over rubble to inspect his armor as the Jedi ordered him onto the ship right now.

The Mandalorian jumped behind the yolk, arguing briefly with Bastila over who would be the pilot while Revan tried to not fall over onto his face as they bounced around the buildings, trying to figure out where the others were to pick them up. Ships on the surface were not rare, but the Ebon Hawk had a reputation enough to warrant second looks at the scratched singular paint job.

The other members of their posse were relieved. Mission and Zalbaar had been fairly certain that Kal and Bastila would return, but Carth had wondered. Kal made sure to give him a big grin and pat on the back when he came onboard, enjoying the rueful shame the older man felt. "Guess everything worked out alright?"

"Of course," Revan winked at him.

Unfortunately, they ran into a snag as Sith and Republic ships turned their lasers on them. Both must have thought: spy. Or perhaps suicidal attack, a heavy bomb or two inside the hull, or maybe even that it was a mercenary ship, desperate and dumb. In the cockpit, the Jedi and Republic pilot were too distracted to pay any attention to the slim man behind them in looted armor.

The Padawan even considered slipping into a meditative state to see if it would make difference, and wondered if she had time for such things, knowing she did not. Carth was trying to get a message to the ships, after he'd entered the codes and they spend off past the atmosphere, hoping they wouldn't be shot down before he could do so. All it took was Revan pressing a little button on the stealth belt that had thankfully been left on his body by Carth who had too distracted by the fires and explosion and handcuffs to do a more thorough inspection.

It was time to leave.

Somewhere a command was being given, and another, and another, all through the chain of command. And somewhere, a rusted droid's photoreceptors lit a small cluttered room in red.

Finally, a sharp static broke through the silence as their stolen code worked. In the crackle, they heard orders being given. Foolish, dangerous orders, about the Jedi, about what the Republic was doing. Both he and Bastila them yelled in return to whomever they'd managed to contact on the Sith side. They were all ignored, as the Sith fired at them and Republic ships, and those Republic ships fired back. Taris below was hit in the crossfire, one building, one ship, one after another. Over and over again, until they could watch the Endar Spire be slowly blasted apart and fall onto the metropolis world.

Revan was forced to stumble to the gun turrets to shoot down any fighter that approached, and it was many as neither Sith nor Republic trusted this small ship that had blazed past the heavy ships that fired at each other with lusty vigor. He sat there, lost in the Force, hardly feeling the jolts that sent pain through his arm, and the little deaths out there. Then the many deaths.

Then he returned back to the cockpit, feeling sore and not just physically. They had escaped Taris, relatively untouched, but anger roared through him. He felt very much the wounded Sith Lord fighting for his title and life, his empire, his plans. And whom did he fight against, but the one man he had grown up with and called a brother, and their old familiarity had given their fight a nightmarish reminder of their sparring, even as small children with sticks in the garden on Coruscant. Revan, even the superior fighter and skilled strategist, and he'd been nearly overwhelmed as Malak drove his blade down at him, cursing him and the moment they had ever met. His best friend had always had the better reach. Aside from saving his life, when she had escape onto a pod away from his flagship, Revan had though she had used her Battle Meditation. Not just to divert attention away from her either, and perhaps to not even help him, but to send a burst of vexation at Malak and his troops.

Again, he had a feeling that while his attention was focused away, he'd been blindsided again.

She and Carth were talking in hushed tone, saying nothing but wanting to distract themselves. Revan stood there, listening to them speak so softly of navigation and the ship's state, as though they had turned to children, even as he sensed a grasping control. Carth wanted to run, to go to the Republic and then rejoin any fights with the Fleet that were sure to break out, but Bastila was quiet, and felt steely, concentrating. A strange shiver went through him, seeing them sitting there in anxiety and pain but still continuing on with their duties.

The dark-haired man went to her, keeping close with an eye on Carth. Revan was surprised by his own sad silly smile and mild regret when he looked at the other man, and so exposed around the neck area with that sensitive pulse. He was just a moral man, Onasi, a soldier and an honest, good man.

"This is not your fault," he assured Bastila, whispering close to her ear. He couldn't tell her about this mistake. Bastila might blame him.

"No. It's your fault." She barely caught her yell in her throat, remembering their story and lies. It choked her. "Because of our escape. And this is all from those stolen soldiers and ships, men like Karath..."

And his leader. Even though this wasn't Revan's fault. He had not given this order either.

Bastila looked sick, with the damage that had happened down there. Indeed, he thought he did see a flat horror rush up inside her periodically, to be caught and strangled by an industrious self-control. It was not an easy thing for a Jedi to face such death. She had, of course, being on the front lines during a war, but this was different. Who or what would be held responsible, and what did it meant to do all that, everything she'd suffered, and still lose all those lives?

Those eyes were wide, looking up at the portal before her, and her face was still thin and hollowed from her time as a captive and now grief and guilt. Her face still bore bruises, and the faint imprints of her teeth could be seen on her chapped lips. Rarely, was Bastila so open. She looked only like this once before, when she'd heard her father had died, and she had managed to replace it with anger. Even when he'd proposed to her, she'd kept a flinty look in her eyes, challenging. Some part of her now wished she'd never tried to help anyone, when it led to this suffering. The other resented the very implication that this was in any way her fault, all she'd wanted was to help people, how could that be bad?

But how could it be so bad, when they were back together?

Revan was angry, restless about the Sith Empire he'd left behind, yet still had no regrets when he whispered into that shocked pink shell of an ear. "I missed you."

Safe now, on board and escaping both Republic and Sith fire, he went to the others to check how they were doing. It felt like something Kal Torel should do. For once, he did not seek out his Bondmate, even through the Force. As of right now, he did not even want to ask where they were going. He would trust in the Force, and Bastila, and keep his head low.

Carth was the pilot still, but Bastila was the navigator. The detail-oriented work soothed her. He had no idea where she wanted to go, besides perhaps running back to her precious Republic and Order, but they remain in the Outer Rim. He should seize control, he knew, but did not want to Bastila to a nervous breakdown, and knew she would not help him with the hostages at all. The Jedi was delicate now, and he dared not to push her very far. Revan might tease her about her inability to acknowledge being rescued, but would not talk in detail of her captivity. No here, in front of these others. Besides, he had seen flashes of it already. The wounds, literal and otherwise, still were too fresh.

This was just like another planet...and everyone on board seemed to feel same way. Especially the pilot and copilot.

When a round led him near to her, she would turn away with brisk orders. Surely there was something more important he could be doing…? Oh yes, there was. She made a face and then told him to go make his new bunk. Eventually, when she finally was able to speak, the Twilek girl Mission would whisper loudly to her Wookie companion, "Wow, Bastila's got Kal whipped." But that only made the Jedi more impressive, and Kal more relatable.

Revan had seen her with others, but not quite in this role. She was grateful and polite to T3 and Zalbaar, caustic towards the Mandalorian, and haughty to the Twilek, who in particular should not be fed sugary cereal. Mostly, she stayed away from her fellow companions and kept to the cockpit with her fellow Republic lackey. She and Carth were rather chummy, even when they argued and almost purposefully challenged each other. Overhearing how she'd done choked him during a friendly sparring match did not improve his feelings. Instead, the Sith grew jealous. "You'll choke him, but not me?"

Bastila had only choked on her tea. "Excuse me?"

Rarely would she agree to speak to him alone, or let alone to a sparring match anymore. Still, Bastila seemed to be getting better—even if he doubted she had slept since their escape, instead drawing on the Force to keep her awake and aware. At least now she could have the refresher whenever she wanted, which was very early in the morning while the rest of them snored into their pillows. A disappointment when the person that had come out the first time had been one slightly kinder. Still, given the close quarters, it was that much harder to hide the wet hair and scrubbed face that made her younger and vulnerable.

Revan would be thoughtful, however. For her. She could have her pick of the bunks, perhaps an entire sleeping dormitory wing for her. And any guests she might allow, since she was married and who knew when a certain beau would come looking for her. Bastila flushed and panicked when he announced that, in front of everyone. "That's not necessary." After she got done yelling at him, yelling at Mission for laughing, at Canderous for just existing unapologetic, she all but grabbed him by the ear to drag him to privacy—not to maul him in some delightful way, but to argue some more.

"You must excise control, Kal! Especially now of all times after everything that's happened."

"Because I can't deny my feelings any longer," Revan cheerfully admitted. "I believe I've made a big enough fool of myself for you to take seriously. Unless you say otherwise..."

"You cannot do this in front of others!" Bastila chastened, voice low, dismissing everything he'd just said said.

"We're married!"

"...well, yes. But not properly. And they don't know that."

"Properly? We both signed all the paperwork." He had. With gusto.

"I meant." Bastila appeared embarrassed. "Not illegally, but not with. Well. Affection and love."

He simply stood there, silent, wearing a pained smile.

She shot a flustered glare at him. Then she sighed, eyes loosing some luster. "Very well. I see I won't get anywhere with you, will I? Yet I do have something I would like to discuss with you."

"Oh?"

"And it does involve our...involvement."

"Does it?" He purred, just to see her exasperation.

"Our Bond complicates things, as I'm sure you know. I think the others have noticed." She glanced towards the doorway, as though expecting to see the Republic pilot, Mandalorian warrior and Twilek teenager standing there, listening in. Her fear was not unfounded.

"No." Revan assured her. "They just think we are rolling around back here, in ecstasy."

She gave him a glare, cross. "You say such terribly crass things. I have discipline! Shouldn't you have…something similar?"

"If I was good at controlling my temptations, I would not be a Sith."

"Some Sith." Bastila gave him a dark stare. "Your kind have not often needed to resort to a marriage proposal to steal land before."

"How dare you." But it was without fire.

Her stare was challenging. "How many Siths make peace and take wives? Even under duress."

He could turn that back on her just as easily. "How many Jedi Bond themselves to Sith. And then take them as husbands?"

Her wide, stormy gray-blue gaze focused on him. Her usual guards were down, and she looked like a young human instead of the only hope for the Jedi and Republic they had left. Those eyes were looking for something. "You are not at all what I expected."

Bastila did not exactly go around skipping in joy, but at least she was here. And her gaze lingered. And she had mentioned controlling temptations, which meant that they must exist. For her, as well. And maybe they involved him in some way. Revan would keep his hopes forever alive, burning patiently. They had the rest of their lives, after all. Perhaps after another hundred years she might be deigned to admit she liked his company.

"I didn't sleep with any of those Sith soldiers and get the uniforms that way." Revan finally blurted.

"What?"

"I hardly flirted with them at all. They had all been drinking. We just sat around and waiting for them to pass out."

Bastila seemed confused, but mollified. And while she hadn't put those ribbons in her hair, she held onto them, he felt safe assuming. Revan could also sense some reassurance, at being off Taris and here back in the galaxy. She had a better grasp up here and able to communicate again with the Jedi and Republic. Then she would practice with her blade in the cargo bay or meditate in the sleeping chambers or organize things in the medbay. All things that took precedence over talking to a man she admitted that she shared some Bond with, in front of the others even.

Besides, they had to be constantly vigilant. There was not only infighting amongst the Jedi but also pirates still out there, Czerka and the random assorted mercenaries. And always, the Sith, and Republic, both of whom must have thought they were spies for the other side like they had over Taris. That was not Revan's fault, he reminded himself.

Though he was glad vaguely the gangster was dead, he was even gladder the man had left supplies. Revan had his new war to fight, and win. Just like the others before. He would wear her down. He would charm her. He would earn her trust and respect and announce to her and her only: "I made dinner."

Revan would even forgive her telling the others. He would not mind Mission stealing food and criticizing his artsy arrangement made up of spare droid parts as this ship sorely lacked flowers. Let Carth mutter over there and the Mandalorian chuckle and Wookie demolish. She was ravenous as the rest, and he was glad to watch her eat, even if he couldn't escape these hungry animals that insisted on taking up space and time and asking for more gravy and insulting his rolls. Using lightning to strike them all down would not endear him to the Jedi, and really, he'd rather not be stuck with so many corpses in such a small space, not again.

But at least she stuck around after the meal. The other had escaped, and not to give them privacy, no, but to avoid doing any dishes. Bastila, dutiful, lingered. "Thank you. I do appreciate your trying to distract the others. Even if the rolls were a little burned."

Revan frowned. "I want to talk to you."

"I don't want to discuss anything with you. Kal." Her eyes were half-lidded. She hid a yawn.

"We are at a crossroads. It is of the utmost importance we discuss this matter."

Bastila was crabby. "I understand, but I am tired. Can this not wait until later? I should meditate."

You should sleep, he thought of saying. He wondered if she feared their dreams. "Tired of me?"

"Yes." She stopped. "You and everything else. I—I just need to rest."

"You're exhausted," Revan corrected. "Because you ran off and decided you could handle things on your own, without any care for what might happen."

She was sulking, and he wanted to grab her, pick her up, and crush her. That would have woken her right up. "Bastila, don't you understand that you might have died? That you could have ruined everything? Do you think I would have continued to honor our peace treaty if not for you?"

Those gray eyes widened a little. "That's unfair."

"Children whine of fairness, Padawan."

She swallowed. "Even now, you would ruin what you've been working so hard to achieve? Out of spite?"

"I might have died as well," he reminded her.

"Well, bully for you."

His hands came together. "Eight months."

"Excuse me?"

"We have been together eight months now, and sixteen days. Some people didn't even give us those sixteen days. They thought they would discover your body burned in effigy or me dead with a lightsaber in my back within three days. There were betting pools." Revan had seen the odds. He'd wondered if he should have put more credits down. After they'd hit six months, the pot had doubled.

She was slumping, adorable and frustrating. Force, but he did care for her. "Good for us."

"Isn't it."

He watched her buckling and trying to fight yawns. Her forehead all but hit the table with a resounded thud. When Revan went to retrieve her, Bastila struggled even now. "What are you doing? Don't."

"Shh. Shh." What had the Jedi done to the younglings, when they argued and fussed? Revan could not recall. He thought of pushing her through their Bond and the Force towards sleep, but she had enough strength to recoil. Instead, Revan pushed back her wild hair, and was stricken when she opened her eyes. The sadness and confusion in them hurt him.

"Don't." Bastila insisted with a powerful grimace.

"It will be better once you've gotten rest," Revan told them both.

He helped her stumble to her new bed and was grateful for her silence. She looked younger when falling asleep. Muscles relaxed, for once. Revan would tuck her in and be glad she was back and be very glad no one could guess how truly fond he was of Bastila. These fools had no idea, for all their commentary. In the morning, he would make caffe and powdered eggs. He would be quiet and serious. Whatever datapad or adventure Bastila wanted, Revan would help with. Be supportive. But she was on her own when it came to untangling her hair.

Revan stayed crouch next to the bunk, looking at her. He pressed his mouth against the back of her hand. Revan had thought her asleep already, but she reached out with one small bandaged hand to touch the top of his head. Was that her trying to push him away? Or an attempt at comfort, an apology, forgiveness? Either way, the Sith felt the light pressure to her fingertips, wishing he could feel every swirl of her fingerprints and the hard chipped nails.

Then he went to the other living quarters, still feeling the pressure of her hand. For his own sake, Revan decided to stay awake. He could meditate as well. It was the Bond, he told himself. It was always stronger when they were together. Especially under stress. One might dream of certain old, ancient things and worry if someone else could see them as well.

Relief made his own resting meditation come easier. Perhaps he slumbered. The night had passed more quickly with her in the other room even in this strange ship headed to unknown regions.

Her hair was free from the braids, dark from a recent shower, and falling around her face past her shoulders and neck as Revan had never seen and could not be prepared for. She squirmed at his stare and went back to her datapad. Feet bare and boney ankles visible under the loose pants that pulled up as she sat there. There were bruises on her; Bastila had refused what little medical attention there was available. "I am fine," she whispered in a low voice, aware that Mission was near and sleeping.

He went besides the bunk. He remembered the bed on his ship; it had been his briefly, and now it was to be returned to its rightful owner. Revan would go to the couch, he believed, instead of the cramped quarters he'd been previously occupied. "Bastila. We should talk."

"What of?" She shot a nervous glance at the sleeping girl.

His face rested against the freshly laundered comforter. Bastila had insisted on cleanliness. Yet she had missed the red sand tucked away. He peeked up at her, this tired, informally dressed Padawan with loose hair she ran absent fingers through. Despite himself, his training and warnings and sense, despite Bastila herself, he was dismayed by how easily attractive he found her.

"What do you want Revan?" Bastila sounded tired and he had no doubt she was, even after having slept so long last night.

"I wish to discuss our...arrangement."

"You refuse to dissolve it. Unless now you've changed your mind?" Bastila would have been a fine Sith; she knew exactly where to drive a knife. "You didn't have to drop everything and…find me."

"Rescue you," he corrected. "But that's not what I want. I want the opposite. I want us to spend more time together. It's important."

"For what?"

"Our relationship."

She grimaced. "'Our relationship?' It was one born of necessity, supposedly. How do you propose we make it better, Kal?"

"We are Bonded. That cannot be changed. We have to have conversations and work on our communication."

"How are you the expert now on this?"

"I read a book on this…" A book. Yes, just a singularly one, and he could say it was one of hers, because it had been. Just that one though. Not all twelve of them, from the dry texts full of warnings to the soppy ones of poetry. He could only hope that the Jedi Masters had been just as uncomfortable making this selection. He hoped the Jedi Historian Atris had personally needed to gather and inspect them for bawdiness. He hoped she had found a lot of it.

"On what?"

"Marriage."

She finally focused on him. "You are serious? Was it one of the Jedi ones?"

Some of them. Some had been written by non-Force-users. Some had used the word 'self-' twenty times a page. Express you feelings, openly and honestly. All that mush. Yet Revan choked it out. "I care for you."

Bastila was alarmed. "I see." She looked down. "You want to become friends. But that requires trust. Kal."

"I came for you." Anger blared, red and thick, filling him with a drunken power that widened his eyes and twisted his mouth. "I left everything to come and find you."

"Yes." Her eyes were wide, and she bit her bottom lip. She straightened up with severity. Mission was still snoring away, missing all the gossip that Carth would have killed for. "Since you want to talk, perhaps I should as well. I have been trying to come up with the best way to say this for some time, but I suppose I should just come out and say it. The truth is, I have come to depend on you."

"On you, being around, I suppose," she corrected. "For my own sake. I am... I am grateful you are with us."

"Is that a thank you?" The Sith slapped at his ears. "Did I just hear you actually saying that you're glad to be with me?"

"Well, yes, is that so strange, after what we've been through?" Bastila looked defensive, vulnerable. "And I never said glad."

"It's just...you look so pained, my Padawan."

"You deserve to know how much I appreciate you. I thought... I just thought I should tell you. And I am not your Padawan."

"Not what my paperwork said."

"You can stop. I know you're teasing me. I made sure to check what I signed, after all." She nearly dusted her hands. "Well, that was not nearly so difficult as I feared. Thank you for hearing me out. I feel... I feel much better. I suppose that would be best, if we could have a working relationship. Perhaps it would be good, if we could become friends."

"We can be more than friends," Revan reminded her. That was a choice. So was becoming a Sith Lord, or a Jedi Master or running bootleg Holos with Mission and Zalbaar or going with Carth back to the Republic.

Bastila gave a polite sniff and turned away. "Enough of your teasing. You know I can't feel that way about you."

He closed his eyes for a long moment.

"Kal? Kal?"

"And they call me the heartless one."

"Yes." She put aside her datapad. "But they don't...they don't know you except by reputation."

"And you know me so much better." He opened his eyes. Despite everything, he bit his lip to hide his smile. "Under there."

She did a double-take. "Under wear?"

"I just made you say underwear."

"Get out."

Revan opened his eyes. "Speaking of which, please tell me you kept that charming thing that gang fostered on you."

She was grabbing her lightsaber, nevermind the sleeping teenager. "You absolute—!"

"When you're ready to talk to me, I'll be there for you," he assured her, yelling over his shoulder, once he'd gotten a running start.

Things were better with Bastila around. Though she tried her hardest to be as stodgy as the Masters, she could be delightfully passionate and earnest. Things were more interesting around this resilient, if high-strung stubborn Jedi. He had known that from the day they had met, and on their wedding when she'd been so determined to be 'strong' and not terrified. Revan had never told her how impressed he was by her strength, even as they were bound together though law as well as the Force. Her smaller hand had fit neatly in his own, and he'd liked it, and Revan knew now that it was a sign they belonged together.

Though, their partnership had taken an unexpected turn. Such as becoming a partnership.

His plans for marriage had not been wrong, Revan knew, but perhaps not so completely well thought out. He had not foreseen the times sitting close, both buried in their datapads, sipping tea. Or grappling with her, one bony elbow digging into his ribs, or looking at him with concern when he stumbled out of a cheering stadium, though she thought Mysterious Stranger a ridiculous name.

He strove to not care for the rest of the lot of them. Unfortunately, their opinion of him seemed to be completely different. Kal was their leader, and a pal. If they really knew who he was, they would have treated him completely differently, complete with murder attempts and running away. Now they passed him the cereal and terribly thin blue milk to sop it in, and asked if he would clean up the refresher, since he had nothing else better to do.

At least they had more droids. He liked T3 well-enough. He only liked T3. Oh, he still preferred his HK, he would reassured the tall, rusted droid. Of course. But T3 was perfectly competent too, and there was nothing wrong with having another droid for him to tinker with. On the list of his favorite beings in the galaxy, HK was the first, followed by T3, and then maybe Bastila but only because he was legally obliged, and even that might not be enough because that Mandalorian could tell a good story and Revan had always been reluctantly impressed by those Basilisks. Bastila huffed and told them to have fun when she overheard them speaking, even when he reassured her that he thought she was much prettier than Canderous.

Shocking, he did not hate the Mandalorian. They had been tools, foolish brutes with queer codes of conduct that he neither trusted or respected but knew well. Funny, to have his old enemies onboard, but to get along with the Mando the best of the humanoids. But that was the way with them, and their 'honor.' This mercenary seemed to treat him like some callow youth, and told him stories. He laughed when Kal was ordered about by the Jedi and Republic representatives onboard their ship that were fine with the concept of forced labor when it suited them to have someone do the dishes.

For the others, well, the pilot was a grown man, and a fair cook and good shot. Revan trusted him in battle, and around Bastila after he saw them finally interact and had to break up their argument. If he was jealous, it was that she glared at someone else, though hers when aimed at Revan was more blistering. Still, he and Onasi did not see eye to eye on things all the times. Sometimes the man could be so exasperating. "I don't know why Bastila puts up with you."

"Because—"

"And don't say it's because your irresistible sexuality."

Good ol' Fleet.

Bastila's vouching for him had only relatively eased the older man. Yet in the end, it opened up more questions. Why after all would the Jedi care so much for some random ex-smuggler? "Well, I know she's not doing it for you."

He would give his little smile that suggested whoever was addressing him right now was beneath his contempt; he had learned and perfected it from his Master. Another man might have been jealous, to have some connection with the famous Jedi, but Carth was both too mature and paranoid to see Bastila as just an innocent girl to be wooed. "Do you want to talk about why you're so worried about me? Still think I'm threatening to destroy the Republic?" Now there was a jolly way of beginning a conversation with Carth Onasi.

The odd little impish Twilek orphan hung around still, her and her Wookie that warbled of life debt. Bastila insisted everyone treat her well, given what had happened to her homeworld. Until the Twilek began to bug her about how she did her hair, did she know Revan technically still had a bounty for her, (an unfortunate discovery that neither he nor Bastila appreciated learning) and could she just call the spouse for some credits? She was looking for her big brother, and maybe Revan could help? She even had a bodyguard that also was Kal's, somehow, and promised to follow wherever Revan went, and spoke little but had some mysterious past that involved Kashyyyk.

Everyone on this damn ship had a mysterious past except for him, it sometimes seemed—and Bastila, of course.

Oh, he supposed the Twilek child was alright. How much could a fourteen-year-old do, especially one that had a good spirit despite everything. Mission had no fear of the Force users, or any Dark Lord or Jedi, and Revan thought that remarkable. Although, she had grown up on Taris, in the Taris sewers, and surely he was not the worst thing she had seen. She mocked Kal's odd habits and Revan's mask and robes when she saw it on the Holonet and teased Bastila about her Bondmate. She criticized his 'wooing'. In front of them both, unknowingly as she watched some bad holo based off their wedding. "Damn, Revan, you should know dark and scary are no way to win a lady!"

While Revan would respond with a solemn reply: "What if my lady has very peculiar taste?"

Bastila would huff at them both, even as she settled down to watch the rest of it with them in the common area. They poured snacks on her like in tribute. She finally smiled, arrogant, clearly sure she was 'taming' them both. For that, neither warned her before offering her a large piece of lurid green candy, and she stuck the giant ball of unbelievable sourness in her mouth, unafraid and trusting these companions completely.

Yet she also did not want to discuss Revan. At all. Not even when a brown-haired female character defeated the even Darth Revan, or wooed him through various means (depending on the rating of the holo) right there as his flagship burned around him, and convinced him to make a peace and be with her forever. "That is not at all what happened."

Revan agreed. "Yeah, I don't think you two made out on Malak's body. He didn't even die until after this."

She glared, and changed the program and subject.

Only when Bastila was inspecting their supplies would he get the chance to corner her while she nearly jumped and looked at the door. He made sure to stay close, enough to whisper. Another secret couple might have embraced in this brief special moment alone. The Sith could count her few freckles. She demanded to know what he would do when back at his fleet, if he would punish who had done all that damage, and what could be done for Taris after all this. What was his plan, Revan? She also wondered where he'd come up with his name, a nearly-whimsical yet peasant-like Kal Torel.

"I can't wait to take you back to our ship," Revan finally admitted. "Things made sense there." He was a leader there, a Sith Lord, and not an ex-smuggler that professed such a lowly rank compared to the last one before it had been stripped from him in some formal procedure he had been unfortunate enough to have missed. Bakc on the flagship, they could sort of this betrayal and he could further rid his military of the foolish and weak. With Bastila.

"We are going some place safe, Revan," she told him. "Dantooine."

"What? Excuse me?"

"We need a place to recover and to contact the Sith and Republic. It's close enough, and should be ways of us contacting your fleet and the Republic's." She licked her lips. "We need to regroup; we need a plan. We can get supplies here and recuperate while we make sure no war breaks out. Carth agreed with me, as well. At least temporarily."

"When do we arrive?"

"Tomorrow."

He should have known.

Yet he did not fly into a rage, and begin to attack, first striking the Jedi and it would have been a tossup if she would be spared, and then moving to the rest of the crew. But Revan knew he would not.

He had once brought her to Talravin, to help give her some closure with her family, or just to see her possibly squirm (Helena Shan had been wonderful for that). He'd referred to it as 'home' for her, but he'd been wrong about that, like so many other things about Shan. For her, for all the power her parents had held over her, the Jedi were her family and calling, and their Academies her place, even now. Like so many Force sensitives, the bonds of the Jedi and Republic was found to be more powerful than family.

Had it been Master Kae's failures, some of the Masters had wondered and whispered that, when he'd proposed to Bastila Shan. Like student, like Master, one who knew about that secret might have said with a sneer. Those fools. It had been Yusanis that had followed Kae around like a sick kath hound. Though she had borne a child for him, Kae would never return back to the Enclave, not even if her lover had asked. Perhaps he had.

And that had ended—

"We will go to the Jedi, for their advice on how to proceed. They will know what to do."

Bastila would finally get the chance to bring him before the Council. As a prisoner? Perhaps it might not be so fun to be choked out and tied up by her after all.

"Perhaps the Council can stop war from breaking out. That is what this whole thing is about. Why else would I have married—Revan."

Revan was still. "You don't feel anything?" He wasn't sure if he needed to be more specific, or hardly needed to specify what he meant.

"I feel too much," she confessed. Her eyes were wide, earnest. And that is your fault as well. But she looked away, abashed. "I have never found the Jedi training easy to master. I've always struggled for control over my passions. I've always been too quick to anger, too quick to get involved...my instructors constantly berated me for it."

Revan was certain they had. They would have despaired of that restless passion that would have only grown as she and her powers did. After her powers had manifested themselves, he was certain the doors of that cage had closed around her, no doubt with her approval. At first.

"Life is too short to be so afraid, particularly of the dark side."

"But what comes next? After using all that power, would you decide to impose your own view on the universe? The dark side corrupts your very thoughts, does it not?"

"I happen to be very clear-headed," Revan replied, mildly. In most matters. Just not lately, when pertaining to a certain Jedi. "The light side is not innocent of killing either."

Still, how curious that she wanted to discuss such things with him.

"I shouldn't even be asking you this. The Jedi teachings are clear; who am I to question them? And even worse, who am I to try and question them with you?"

Why ever not.

"How can you know it is so terrible?" Revan smiled. "The dark side? Did I, with my powers, not defeat Malak and best the Republic so many times before?"

Until she had come around.

Yet for a moment, Bastila looked curious. Here he was indeed, strong and alive, ruler of half an empire, and seemingly reasonably sane and whole. Then she seemed to remember herself, where and who she was, and whom she was talking to. "These are dangerous thoughts, the indulgence of a vain mind. Please, forget I ever mentioned this. Let's just return to our mission. Perhaps the Masters will have advice. Kal."

He bent his head in a polite bow. "Good night, Padawan."

The Jedi Sentinel watched him go.

Manaan was neutral and safe. If they would be irresponsible and leave his empire unanchored, why not go someplace pleasant? Perhaps they would stay there instead. He could tinker with the autopilot. They could go to an ocean world, like the one Bastila had come from. Perhaps she could go swimming then. Or Alderaan, with the snowy picturesque mountains and clean thoughts that did not involve bathing suits or the thin possibility of not wearing one. Revan would prefer to not know the odds on those things, and remain optimistic instead. They had made it past six months, after all.

The next few days would be unpleasant.

Only one thing gave him some reprieve, instead of 'moping around' with his datapad, like Mission accused him. He'd had previous plans for this as well, all wasted.

No one seemed aware of it enough to talk about it, even the Jedi. Why would she? There had been so much going on, and he doubted she'd made a fuss about the event, though some of Helena's Shan holos told stories that told of such events. Many of those stories seem to involve high-level stress, and fire. Once they had involved a large buzzing nest of some sort that could only try in vain to defend itself when a tiny, gap-toothed Bastila came upon it with a very precisely aimed large stick, even as her parents shouted at her to stop.

Revan lured her into the cargo bay nonetheless.

All the candles he'd found, one, was lit, and the cake was disgustingly decadent in that fashion she enjoyed, despite the astringent tea she might sip. The chocolate cake came with heavy frosting that spiked your blood sugar levels dangerously just by looking at it and breathing in the air.

He made sure the others were aware, and for now, away. Until later, when he'd told them to wait and find hiding away to jump out when she least expected it. Well, Mission had agreed to do it anyway, and maybe she could even find a place to hide Zalbaar. It was a special occasion, they understood. The Mando had even given him a manly wink and suggested the translator choose an alphabet with a lot of swirls in it if the fates were kind to him (and he doubted that), and Carth reminded him that she could choke him out. 'Exactly.' Revan promised to put a belt outside the locked door to warn him and the others should things go even better than he expected, assuming they wouldn't end up using the accessory.

Though, he didn't think they would.

"Happy birthday, Bastila."

She sat there, eyes wide and bleached of color in the candlelight. "You did this? How did you even know…?"

Her look to him was gentle, amazed. Confused.

"You think I couldn't be bothered to glance at your file and find out when your birthday was?" Just how terrible did she think he was? Revan would have spent the ten minutes it took to read, if only just to find things to criticize about her past.

"I'd rather you hadn't, I think." But her eyes eventually drifted to the cake.

"I give you another gift." Revan held his hand out for her to take. And she did so, carefully, all but inspecting it, perhaps for a gag joke or something barbed in his fingertips. His poor Padawan wouldn't have anything to worry about, not until Mission, Zaalbar, and Carth jumped out at her to make her yell and make the Mandalorian laugh. She would still find it in her to forgive Revan, even when he brought out the footage T3 had filmed for them all to laugh over, and she scowled at them all through the holo. "Take me to the Council, Padawan."