Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, Knights of the Old Republic, or anything related to them. On that same basis, it's disputable whether I even own this fic. xD

Author's Note: I posted this once before, on a joint account I had with someone, and I took it down when we decided to give up on that. Still, it was written entirely by me, so now I've revised it on a whim, and I'm re-posting. But, in the (unlikely) event you've read it before, that would be why.

Smile

He knew it all too well.

Alone, the Exile had little left to do other than follow Kreia's advice and head for the Unknown Regions in search of Revan, his former - and apparently future - commander. The whole situation was so strange, almost as if the past were playing a most cruel joke on him by trying to repeat itself. And still, he bore no grudge in his heart for the woman he had faithfully followed and nearly fallen to the Dark Side with, an act that had culminated with a catastrophic loss.

Despite that, he was loathe to begin and lingered still on Coruscant. Before he could leave, he had to kill that feeling, that something in the back of his head that said things had yet to happen before he should go.

Admiral Carth Onasi was especially interested in the fate of Revan and had offered to help with his preparations for the journey, but Jace had chosen to wait out the play of who-knew-what. Each morning, he woke with the pain of too many dreams etched on his face and wondered why he was still there. Later, after breakfasting on food that no longer had taste or texture for him, he would pay a visit to the Ebon Hawk on its landing pad. And seeing it would cause him to swallow back the decision to leave, in a tight knot, then wander the platforms and ramps aimlessly for the rest of the day, deceiving himself as he mentally repeated the idea that good deeds would make him forget.

But they were there.

Even if he preferred not to think of them, Jace remembered the many deaths at Malachor still; he hadn't been able to let go of a single one. Through his exile, there had only been one huge wave to avoid, composed of many screams of people he didn't really know, but whose loss he was made to feel. Now, there was another set, more recent and painful, which he feared might end up breaking him if he gave it much thought. He had seen his traveling companions, some of which he had grown to care for deeply, fall one by one and remain to litter the halls of the Trayus Academy along with the corpses of so many Sith.

If there had still been hope the first time, if it had stirred his heart when Kreia had shown the Force was not permanently lost to him, there was nothing able to grant him a single hour of peaceful slumber now, nothing to erase the dark circles below his eyes. His hands were stained with the blood of many and washing did them no good, but only served to remind him of everything they had touched. And of the effects. Before, there had been many who wondered how he had survived at Malachor, why he had not died, where he had found the strength to live with that burden. Now there was no one to feel this new affliction with him, even if it was far more terrible.

Coruscant was generally still celebrating his victory over the Sith Lords; it was quite sickening to see how the rich and worriless clung to every pretext they could find and kept partying endlessly for as long as they could. Occasionally, a figure on the street would recognize him and offer an excited greeting about which he could honestly not care less. The polite answers he gave had become more of a reflex. Even the Force had decayed to a simple perspective of the world; he knew it was there and he could make use of it, but he preferred not to as he engaged in endless charities and tiresome activities meant to make the lives of others better.

Meant to make him feel better.

This week, he hadn't failed to show up at the local orphanage every day, to help entertain and take care of the children there. He could, in a way, relate to them. They were so young and yet they understood him better than anyone else. They never asked why he didn't smile, they never told him jokes and actually expected him to laugh - they were just as serious, troubled and afraid as he. One, in particular, he was especially fond of: a gloomy human boy aged six, whom everyone called Moody because he preferred to go through the days by himself and avoided the company of others in anything he did. Hadn't he been conscious that he would indeed go search for Revan some day, Jace would have considered adopting that child. This way, though, he stopped at seeking the little one whenever he was done with the common welfare of all children in the orphanage.

Today was no exception.

"Hey, kid," he said gently when he found the boy hiding in a corner, while all of the others were surveying the toys he had collected during the week from various citizens and brought in that day. Taking a cross-legged seat on the floor, to be level with the child, he ruffled Moody's hair. "Still alone, are you?"

With a sigh, the Jedi barely kept from adding, 'Me too'.

The boy raised his head and wide blue eyes met the man's attentive gaze. Moody nodded silently, continuing to cling to the small pillow he was hugging. Jace couldn't recall seeing the kid without that object and one of the caretakers had told him it had belonged to Moody's mother, who had died in an attempt to stop the father from beating his child again. Perhaps subconsciously, the boy was suspicious of all male figures and that was the reason behind his permanent silence in front of any man. Jace himself had only managed to get two cold words out of him so far, "Thank you", on occasion of offering the boy some sweets.

"I'll miss you, kid," he remarked, almost without realizing what he was saying.

Moody said nothing, but simply continued to look at him, his innocence stained by that sadness that held a permanent sway over his features. The child's fragile chin came to rest on top of the pillow he held; like that, he almost looked like the wisest sentient Jace had ever seen. The intense gaze fixing the Jedi gave the impression of thorough scrutiny. Although such an expression should never appear on a child's face... Although Jace knew it was wrong... He found it captivating, if not more, and he would have been able to spend hours studying that one image.

He was interrupted when a young woman behind him cleared her throat.

"Excuse me," she said. "A woman asked to see you. She said she would be waiting outside."

"Thank you." Jace gave a curt nod to her, over his shoulder, before his attention fondly returned to Moody. "Looks like you've been granted a wish, kid; I'm out of your hair for now."

As usual, he handed the boy a bag of sweets, before standing up and wordlessly turning away. There were no thank-yous this time; repeating a gesture never got the same effects as the first time, and that was a general truth the Jedi had long learned to accept.

Too caught up in his thoughts of the child, he forgot to wonder who would be waiting for him. To his surprise, the mentioned woman was a figure he knew well, tall and silver-haired, as neat and proud-looking as ever in her clean white robes.

"Atris?" he asked, disbelief taking over his features. "Well, this is unexpected."

"And unwelcome, I imagine," the woman completed, pulling away from the parapet she had been leaning against and putting some distance between her and the precipice beyond, above which the structures towered quietly. "But I needed to speak with you."

Jace made no move to meet her halfway as she came closer and created a more reasonable environment for conversation. For a moment, as she stopped to look him in the eyes, the woman seemed to fully expect him to say or do something; then, all it took was a sigh, and her pretense was no more. Just like that, she had ceased to appear calm and collected.

"You have done me a great service, even when I was unworthy of it," she said. "And yet, I never told you... I'm sorry. For everything."

"You came all the way to Coruscant," he began, raising an eyebrow, "just to tell me that? It's hard to believe the mighty Atris would ever do anything like that."

The woman made no visible effort to hide how his words bothered her and she bit her lip to contain the first reply she felt like giving.

"Sorry," he said, though his shrug indicated he didn't really feel that way. "I haven't been kind to my past lately and you are a part of it."

"That's fine," Atris replied, content to just study him. "I don't recognize you, either. It's almost as if Jace Laard had died."

As per some sort of unspoken agreement, both of them turned around and walked back to the parapet the woman had left only moments before. Together, they looked down into the endless shaft, the walls of which darkened progressively downwards until all was lost in complete blackness.

"Atris? Do you remember how to smile?"

"What kind of question is that?" she replied, sounding somewhat outraged.

He didn't clarify, so she sighed and her shoulders slumped visibly. Just as her lips moved to speak the real answer, he forestalled her.

"Neither do I."

"You... deserve to remember," she began, tentatively, loathe to say what she was about to. "I do not."

He shook his head slowly, leaning against the parapet and settling his elbows down on it.

"Strange," he mused. "You can remember, but you don't think you should. I think I should, but I can't. It's just like the reason we're here. I know what I must do, but I'm here because I don't want to do it. You want to do what you must, but you are here to ask me what that is."

"How... did you know?" Atris asked, not bothering to mask her surprise.

"It seems I've grown perceptive," he replied bitterly. "I felt your doubts through the Force."

"You know my answer, then?"

"Bastila Shan appears to be alive and well. You should probably find her."

"Then, if that is so... The Force now belongs to those that did not deserve it," Atris passed judgment. "How ironic."

Jace rolled his eyes, too drained of a Jedi's patience to bear through more of her self-pity. He didn't want to enter this game, to give her the reassurance she hoped for when she uttered those harsh things. He was so tired of people who didn't mean things when they said them, who spoke only with the hope that someone else would care enough to bother and soothe their suffering. He turned away and slowly began to walk back towards the orphanage's door, with the thought to spend the rest of the afternoon among the children's refreshing innocence. He soon stopped short, for there, in the doorframe, stood the figure of a small boy hugging a pillow.

And, most confusingly, the boy was smiling as he looked up at the Exile. And when the Exile looked back, he spoke.

"I remember," Moody said proudly.

And Jace was conscious of something stirring inside him and of a familiar tingle crossing his facial muscles as he returned to Atris and looked her plainly in the face.

"Speaking of ironic," he remarked.

The woman looked at him for a second, almost as if it were the first time she ever saw him.

"You are smiling."

"Because I just realized why we really do it," he said, taking her hand. "Come. I will bring you to someone who knows where Bastila is."

There was nothing Atris could do, except walk as he pulled her away. She felt silly – every single bit so silly – because her lips, too, had stirred.

"Why do we smile, then?" she asked.

"Because other people need it," came the reply, and few matters had ever been settled as perfectly as that.