Chapter #6: Ghosts

"Well I won't live forever, dear. Come on now."

Bastila felt as though she had been bludgeoned over the head, the dull and weighty appendage reeling from the blow. Her mouth gaped, dumbfounded. Even within the last inches of life, her mother retained her all too familiar staunch and critical attitude. In years serving the Jedi, Bastila's image of the elderly had warped into a view of wise and tranquil individuals, markedly patient with her; age and illness seemed to have no softening affects for this expiring woman. Though it displayed to Bastila her misrepresented view of seniors, she was unsurprised of time's negligible changes on her mother—stubborn to the very last. The apple apparently did not fall far from the tree.

As she slowly regained awareness of the present situation, Bastila approached her mother's side. They stiffly greeted one another, the mother recounting her experiences since their last encounter; using the credits Bastila had given, she found passage to Coruscant and checked into a local hospital. The doctors grimly discovered little to be hopeful for, but made an offer of an experimental medication that may offset any immediate ends.

"And is it working? It must be—the last I saw you, were certain you'd be…" Bastila then paused, unable to admit the inevitable fate that hung over their heads. She swallowed heavily and continued, "… soon. And that was months ago," unsure who she was more endeavoring to convince: her, or her mother.

"It's a temporary means, Bastila. I'll last as long as I continue… or as long as the credits last," Helena corrected. "They never said it would be any more than that."

"Credits aren't a problem, mother. I can give—"

"I've taken enough of your money, my dear, but thank you." As her mother smiled and clasped her hand, Bastila watched the wrinkles fold, the tired eyes thin. Never had her mother appeared so small, so fragile, so unguarded. "I'm an old woman. Your father and I had you late in our time, and all that moving about had to catch up with me eventually." Bastila looked away, doubting her ability to cope with mention of her father on top of the impending loss of her mother. "Don't misunderstand me; I'm not planning to let go anytime soon," and with this, Bastila regained a small amount of courage: they had time. "Besides, I've got to meet this man of yours. Make sure he's worthy."

Bastila blinked away the small tears forming. "You've already met him, mother. On Tatooine?"

"Yes, in a dark and crowded cantina. Hardly the proper place for a lady, let alone to meet the man lurking about your only daughter." Bastila scoffed at the portrait her mother painted, thankful that the heaviest of the conversation seemed to have passed.

"He's with me now, if you want me to get him." Without waiting for a reply, Bastila reached through the Force and found his mind, beckoning him. Helena started to reply, but was interrupted by the slow squeak of the door as Revan edged in.

"Everything okay?" he whispered towards Bastila. She pushed him back into the hall, motioning to her mother that they would return momentarily.

"She wants to meet you," Bastila replied, nudging to the door. "Meet you again, I suppose, I don't really know why it has to be twice—"

"I meant with you. You two are getting along well?" he asked, Bastila growing aware of a concern within him, mixed as it was by an apparent support.

"As well as can be expected," Bastila drifted, wondering what laid ahead for her relationship with her mother.

"I shall perish soon, my dear," called her mother's unmistakable voice, in a tone that recalled a host of childhood memories. Bastila exhaled and glanced up at Revan, searching for a confirmation that he was ready. He smiled and pushed open the door.

The couple left the hospital intending to return to the Temple by foot. For all the meditation and serenity it stood for, the Jedi base had a suffocating atmosphere for Bastila. The extreme quantity of people and machine on the rest of Coruscant coursed through her, invigorating her still soul; the Temple, by contrast, reeked of a rigid repression, a void to the life surrounding, drinking in all the city's vivacity.

"That went well, I think," she exhaled, releasing some long pent tension.

"It did… despite the whole 'your daughter is dating that evil guy from those wars' thing," he replied, smiling.

"Well, you have to admit, you're probably not the first person she would choose for me. I can only image what my father would say," she teased back.

He laughed in return and squeezed her hand. "I'm glad you pushed yourself to do this, Bastila."

She pressed him, amused. "Oh?"

"Mhm. I think you needed to confront this," he answered, looking ahead. The mood suddenly grew dense, both parties quite conscious of the change; their pace slowed, the surrounding atmosphere seemed to recede in upon their small circle of earth.

Her smiled faded. "And what about you?" she asked. She stopped walking entirely and moved in front of him, blocking his path. "Your past, I mean," she clarified. He did not meet her gaze. Silence fell. "Have you confronted it?" Bastila, to her displeasure, found an immense discomfort in him as she pressed his mind; in an instant, she met with walls and distractions which, though well-disguised, were hastily thrown. As she continued her assailment, her efforts were interrupted.

Had she blinked, she would have missed it, but for a moment—a single moment—an expression of panic and horror struck his face. One moment, one speck of time, he was vulnerable; the same vulnerability she saw that day on the flagship, or when his identity was revealed. It left him as quickly as it arrived, but left its mark on her. He looked straight into her eyes, conjuring every confident charm, and replied after a significant pause. "Yes," he said quickly, a thin-lipped smile forcing through. "Yeah, I have."

A woman who knew him less would have been entirely swayed by his deceptions. His manner so attractive, so assured, how could it be a lie?—But she knew. She knew him far too well for this. She knew where he would give; she knew what to look for. His manipulations held no power over her, much as she would like to believe them.

But why would he lie? Why cloak himself from her? She, who had seen so much of him, who had traveled so far with him! Both Revan the Sith Lord and Revan the redeemed Jedi had touched minds with her in an open and exposed state—she knew what he was. Why hide?

His former persona, though strong and direct, was also intrinsically cunning. He had his enemies down perfectly, so that any fault may be assaulted—this alone had the makings of a great war hero. But Revan? Revan was more than that. He understood that he must also possess an intimate knowledge of his allies, his companions, just as much as his enemies; their strengths and weaknesses, what type of man they would follow, what buttons they needed pushed. With no significant expenditure of effort, he could transform into any role required. He could sway entire armies with his mere presence; any person would be glad to follow—it felt natural, right, as if you were silly for thinking there another option. The ultimate people person, a master of manipulation. That was what made him the man of legend.

She simply never thought she would be the target. She, who gave him another chance at life aboard that starship. She, who plummeted to her lowest point in the length of their acquaintance, who had been rescued by him, who had been loved by him.

She, who had lied to him, hid an essential truth. She, who was so far below him, in strength and in character.

Following his capture and reprogramming, the Jedi hoped that dangerous side of him long buried. Though she occasionally caught glimpses of his previous self in actions and behavior, she pushed away any worry with the paradigms of the Jedi, clung desperately to their teachings and the reassurance that that piece of him would never resurface; believing it could meant that the Jedi—that she—failed, that they were entirely fallible, a truth she could not handle. Now dispelled of blind devotion, and her own arrogance, kept at arm's length by her most intimate companion, worry over what Revan was concealing began to build. It transcended mere curiosity, any womanly search for gossip. The idea, firstly, that he did not trust her to confide in was painful enough; when she imagined him coping on his own, contending with something serious, she was overcome. Knowing the pain of attempting to manage alone, taught not only in his recent absence but through years of solitary existence, she was sickened by the thought of him in the same position. Her own small progresses and victories, she knew, were credited in no negligible part to Revan; she wished dearly to offer him that same service, if he so required it. But why hide?

Was it that he did not trust her? Her past transgressions may have shaken his faith in her, but he forgave her—hadn't he? He welcomed her back to the light and they shared their love; she assumed that equal to impunity. Were her mistakes and weaknesses to be so held against her? By him, of all people?

The hiding was not the only wound—it was also the lies fabricated to further disguise his behavior. Did he think so little of her, of their intimacy, that he expected her to be so easily deceived?

Of one thing, she was certain: there was, from this point on, a marked shift existed within him and within their relationship. She knew the inexorability of confronting the issue at some point in time, but she feared to do so, terrified by the prospect of losing him, a life without him. Questions arose as to just how deep beneath the surface that previous identity was, and what the consequences would be—for her and for the Republic—if and when it reclaimed its host.