“I…I cannot help but wonder, Revan. What would have happened, had our positions been reversed? What if fate had decreed I would be captured by the Jedi? Could I have returned to the light, as you did? If you had not led me down the dark path in the first place, what fate would I have found?”
Revan clutches her side, but it is the question that burns her, more than his blade ever could. Ever since they first met on the Leviathan, ever since he fought her and hid behind blast doors, the question torments her, keeps her awake at night: what have I done to him? And part of her resents him, wants to lash out at him for blaming her, tell him his path was his and his alone, he didn’t have to fall with her, and yet he chose to. Deep down, she knows better. His eyes bore into her, pleading for an answer. She doesn’t know. But those are his final moments, and the distress in his tone moves her. He coughs again, still looking up at her.
“Yes,” she says.
Malak doesn’t smile, not really – how could he? – but there’s hope in his voice as he manages to speak again.
“Are you sure about this, Revan?”
And that is when the present fades into the background. Now, of all times, she remembers.
The two of them shake and pant, training swords still in hand as they lean against a coarse pillar.
“Glad this is just for sport,” he smiles, and she understands they must have sneaked out of the enclave to spar in the ruins. “You’re the smallest person to ever beat me.”
“Is this you pretending I don’t know about that match against Vandar?” she smirks.
“Fine. The smallest human, then.”
They laugh. His forehead touches her and her lips reach up for his – full, soft, whole.
“Are you sure about this, Revan?” he breathes against her mouth.
She kisses him, and the memory fades.
She looks into his eyes. They had been blue, bluer than the ocean she had almost crashed into, and she knows now there was a time she would have gladly drowned in them. Now they are rimmed with red and glisten with unshed tears.
She kneels at his side and brings a hand to his stomach, reaching out through the Force, but fails to heal his wounds.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. She doesn’t know exactly what for, doesn’t know all that she’s done – all that they’ve done – but she is.
Malak reaches for her hand, but lacks the strength to keep hold of it. She presses a kiss to his forehead.
“I wish I remembered more. I’m sorry.”
Revan feels his heart stop as she pulls away. A single tear rolls down his cheek. He’s gone.
Carth and Mission spend the next morning trying to get her out of her bunk, and Juhani spends it telling them to leave her be. Ultimately, they have to go, because the celebration is about to start and she can’t wait to leave this planet behind.
She doesn’t say a word as they walk towards the Temple, doesn’t talk about what she saw, about what happened on the Star Forge. There would be no point. Malak is dead, and it is enough for them. Not for her. Only now does she take the measure of how much she has forgotten, how alien she is to herself, how much she may have lost without even knowing, and she doesn’t know who to blame. Blame is not the Jedi way. She doesn’t care.
Dodonna speaks. A lot. Revan clasps her hands behind her back, forcing a smile as the crowd cheers for her. She is supposed to be happy, rejoice in the Republic’s triumph. Heck, she is alive, and that alone is something she should be grateful for, but all she feels is the crushing weight of her chest as the Admiral pins the medal on her robes. She looks into the ocean, blinking back a tear.