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She was back on Malachor V again, in the depths of the Trayus Academy.
“I wondered if, here, at this ending between us, if you would care enough to try to save me—if a Jedi could find it within themselves to spare one who has fallen so far,” the Sith Lord before her smirked tauntingly.
The darkness behind Kreia’s eyes shifted and danced maniacally, and in spite of everything they had been through together—in spite of the old woman’s efforts to taint her which had, thus far, failed completely—the famed Jedi exile knew she would not repent. She was Darth Traya through and through, now, easing into the Sith Lord role she’d lost—that she’d always wanted back—with terrifying ease.
“But I do not want your mercy,” Darth Traya scowled, “I want you to break.”
The exile scowled. “Why me?”
“Well, I suppose I would not be a good teacher if I did not give you the answers you seek, here, now.” She shifted, three violet lightsabers humming to life behind her. “It is said that the Force has a will; it has a destiny for us all. I wield it, but it uses all of us, and that is abhorrent to me.”
Elsewhere on Malachor V, it seemed as if almost all activity had stopped. Everything outside the antechamber had grown eerily quiet in the absence of Sion. What had happened to her companions? Had they succeeded in their task? Would the Mass Shadow Generator be activated, would the planet be swallowed whole? Would the Sith be destroyed once and for all?
Deep down, the exile recognized she was merely in a dream, and knew the Sith would never be destroyed.
“Because I hate the Force,” Kreia spat venomously, “I hate that it seems to have a will, that it would control us to achieve some measure of balance, while countless lives are lost. But in you…”
She paused for a moment, and regarded the exile. Simultaneously, the blonde Jedi examined her former master, perhaps truly looking at her for the first time since they’d met on the Peragus Mining Facility. The old woman’s skin may have turned a mysterious, dusky shade of gray, but the lines and wrinkles on her face were still in the same place as they’d been when they first met. The irises in her eyes may have disappeared in favor of a deep blackness, but they still moved with the same vigor, the same activity of life as they had beneath her hood all those weeks ago, when they’d stumbled upon each other in their weakest moments. Somewhere beneath the dark side’s monstrous hold, Darth Traya and Kreia were still one in the same. Neither had died yet.
The bond between them thinned, and the exile knew one of them would soon.
“…but in you,” the Sith Lord continued, “I see the potential to see the Force die, to turn away from its will. And that is what pleases me. You are beautiful to me, exile. An dead spot in the Force, an emptiness in which its will might be denied…”
And in that denial, in that emptiness—the destruction of balance, the exile knew. This had always been Kreia’s will, to usurp the balance.
Within the dreamscape, as the walls of the Trayus Academy on Malachor V melted into some sort of astral essence, the exile felt the Force bond between her and her former master melt just the same.
Severed, once again.
The Ebon Hawk zoomed through hyperspace.
During the rather uneventful drive, the normally always-alert Meetra Surik had nodded off in her seat in the cockpit. Her search for her former master had thus far proven equal parts exhausting and futile, and in this rare moment of respite, had nudged the exile into a much-deserved slumber.
Kreia faded, and visions of Revan danced in her head as she slept. In her dreams, the lights of a thousand unfamiliar stars bounced off his signature. She called out to him, but he didn’t answer—didn’t even spare her a look. Instead, he turned away and dissolved into deep, black mist.
Where had he gone? Was he safe?
Did he even want to be found?
The ship rollicked a bit, and the frantic whirrs and buzzes of her trusty droid companion, T3-M4, shook the Jedi from her slumber. With a grunt, she bolted upright, her fingers smashing into various buttons on the control panel in front of her. The Ebon Hawk shifted slightly, responding to her accidental commands, and dipped abruptly out of hyperspace before reaching the earlier-input destination.
“Fuck,” she muttered, straightening her spine and sliding toward the controls. She manipulated the navigation controls wildly, but the freighter seemed to take on a mind of its own; it wouldn’t respond to her commands, and, in fact, seemed to slow almost to a stop without any prompting.
A quizzical look crossed Meetra Surik’s face as the Ebon Hawk halted its trajectory. T3-M4 rolled up beside her beeping madly, and through the droid’s lunacy she made out something about the navigation systems unceremoniously exploding.
…wait, exploding?!
She leapt up, rushing out of the cockpit and busting into the navigation room to find, indeed, all of the nav computers aflame and smoke billowing towards her. “Goddammit,” she growled, raising her hand and using the Force to twist the sprinklers on. Why didn’t they fucking activate when the smoke had reached them? What was wrong with her fucking ship?
Teethree stood in the doorway just beneath the cloud of smoke, monotonously reciting everything he’d ever loved about his master as if this was their death throes. The Jedi Exile would have none of that. She’d survived a war with the most physically threatening race in the galaxy, a huge, drawn-out battle against three Sith Lords, and the complete and utter destruction of Malachor V; no way a simple hyperspace malfunction was going to do her in. Not on this journey, of all journeys, and not today, of all days.
And then gravity shifted, and she flew into the air and smacked into the ceiling. She blacked out for a few seconds, and moments later came to as the entire room around her spun. Teethree’s screams faded as his programming began to shut down, and Meetra Surik crawled across the smoke-stained, wet ceiling, through the hallway, and back into the cockpit. She reached the frontmost room of the freighter just in time to gaze out the window and watch as her beloved ship, that had been with her through so much, met its match in the form of a craggly, blood orange-colored rock face jutting out of the ground of what seemed to be some sort of desert planet.
The Ebon Hawk crashed, and Meetra Surik and T3-M4 faded into the darkness.
And within that darkness, her master returned.
Silver braids fell from Kreia’s hood as she knelt next to the defeated exile. “You said my time with you was done,” she whispered. Surik’s breathing quickened at the sound of the old woman’s voice. “And yet…”
A chill ran up the exiled woman’s spine.
“You still need your teacher.”
The exile tried to open her eyes, but they refused to obey.
“Rise.”
“I wondered if, here, at this ending between us, if you would care enough to try to save me—if a Jedi could find it within themselves to spare one who has fallen so far,” the Sith Lord before her smirked tauntingly.
The darkness behind Kreia’s eyes shifted and danced maniacally, and in spite of everything they had been through together—in spite of the old woman’s efforts to taint her which had, thus far, failed completely—the famed Jedi exile knew she would not repent. She was Darth Traya through and through, now, easing into the Sith Lord role she’d lost—that she’d always wanted back—with terrifying ease.
“But I do not want your mercy,” Darth Traya scowled, “I want you to break.”
The exile scowled. “Why me?”
“Well, I suppose I would not be a good teacher if I did not give you the answers you seek, here, now.” She shifted, three violet lightsabers humming to life behind her. “It is said that the Force has a will; it has a destiny for us all. I wield it, but it uses all of us, and that is abhorrent to me.”
Elsewhere on Malachor V, it seemed as if almost all activity had stopped. Everything outside the antechamber had grown eerily quiet in the absence of Sion. What had happened to her companions? Had they succeeded in their task? Would the Mass Shadow Generator be activated, would the planet be swallowed whole? Would the Sith be destroyed once and for all?
Deep down, the exile recognized she was merely in a dream, and knew the Sith would never be destroyed.
“Because I hate the Force,” Kreia spat venomously, “I hate that it seems to have a will, that it would control us to achieve some measure of balance, while countless lives are lost. But in you…”
She paused for a moment, and regarded the exile. Simultaneously, the blonde Jedi examined her former master, perhaps truly looking at her for the first time since they’d met on the Peragus Mining Facility. The old woman’s skin may have turned a mysterious, dusky shade of gray, but the lines and wrinkles on her face were still in the same place as they’d been when they first met. The irises in her eyes may have disappeared in favor of a deep blackness, but they still moved with the same vigor, the same activity of life as they had beneath her hood all those weeks ago, when they’d stumbled upon each other in their weakest moments. Somewhere beneath the dark side’s monstrous hold, Darth Traya and Kreia were still one in the same. Neither had died yet.
The bond between them thinned, and the exile knew one of them would soon.
“…but in you,” the Sith Lord continued, “I see the potential to see the Force die, to turn away from its will. And that is what pleases me. You are beautiful to me, exile. An dead spot in the Force, an emptiness in which its will might be denied…”
And in that denial, in that emptiness—the destruction of balance, the exile knew. This had always been Kreia’s will, to usurp the balance.
Within the dreamscape, as the walls of the Trayus Academy on Malachor V melted into some sort of astral essence, the exile felt the Force bond between her and her former master melt just the same.
Severed, once again.
* * *
The Ebon Hawk zoomed through hyperspace.
During the rather uneventful drive, the normally always-alert Meetra Surik had nodded off in her seat in the cockpit. Her search for her former master had thus far proven equal parts exhausting and futile, and in this rare moment of respite, had nudged the exile into a much-deserved slumber.
Kreia faded, and visions of Revan danced in her head as she slept. In her dreams, the lights of a thousand unfamiliar stars bounced off his signature. She called out to him, but he didn’t answer—didn’t even spare her a look. Instead, he turned away and dissolved into deep, black mist.
Where had he gone? Was he safe?
Did he even want to be found?
The ship rollicked a bit, and the frantic whirrs and buzzes of her trusty droid companion, T3-M4, shook the Jedi from her slumber. With a grunt, she bolted upright, her fingers smashing into various buttons on the control panel in front of her. The Ebon Hawk shifted slightly, responding to her accidental commands, and dipped abruptly out of hyperspace before reaching the earlier-input destination.
“Fuck,” she muttered, straightening her spine and sliding toward the controls. She manipulated the navigation controls wildly, but the freighter seemed to take on a mind of its own; it wouldn’t respond to her commands, and, in fact, seemed to slow almost to a stop without any prompting.
A quizzical look crossed Meetra Surik’s face as the Ebon Hawk halted its trajectory. T3-M4 rolled up beside her beeping madly, and through the droid’s lunacy she made out something about the navigation systems unceremoniously exploding.
…wait, exploding?!
She leapt up, rushing out of the cockpit and busting into the navigation room to find, indeed, all of the nav computers aflame and smoke billowing towards her. “Goddammit,” she growled, raising her hand and using the Force to twist the sprinklers on. Why didn’t they fucking activate when the smoke had reached them? What was wrong with her fucking ship?
Teethree stood in the doorway just beneath the cloud of smoke, monotonously reciting everything he’d ever loved about his master as if this was their death throes. The Jedi Exile would have none of that. She’d survived a war with the most physically threatening race in the galaxy, a huge, drawn-out battle against three Sith Lords, and the complete and utter destruction of Malachor V; no way a simple hyperspace malfunction was going to do her in. Not on this journey, of all journeys, and not today, of all days.
And then gravity shifted, and she flew into the air and smacked into the ceiling. She blacked out for a few seconds, and moments later came to as the entire room around her spun. Teethree’s screams faded as his programming began to shut down, and Meetra Surik crawled across the smoke-stained, wet ceiling, through the hallway, and back into the cockpit. She reached the frontmost room of the freighter just in time to gaze out the window and watch as her beloved ship, that had been with her through so much, met its match in the form of a craggly, blood orange-colored rock face jutting out of the ground of what seemed to be some sort of desert planet.
The Ebon Hawk crashed, and Meetra Surik and T3-M4 faded into the darkness.
* * *
And within that darkness, her master returned.
Silver braids fell from Kreia’s hood as she knelt next to the defeated exile. “You said my time with you was done,” she whispered. Surik’s breathing quickened at the sound of the old woman’s voice. “And yet…”
A chill ran up the exiled woman’s spine.
“You still need your teacher.”
The exile tried to open her eyes, but they refused to obey.
“Rise.”