#*locks jaq in a dark room and makes him confront himself*

[sovonight]

undone, part 3 (end) | atton/exile, sith exile au, kotor 2

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

✧ — ✧

"Whinu claims he had nothing to do with it," Cela says, as soon as the door closes behind her. She moves to pull her cloak off her shoulders, before remembering that her cloak is gone, and abandoning the movement. Jaq is at her desk, leaning against the edge of it, leaving the chair free for Cela to take with a tired sigh.

"And you believe him?" Jaq asks.

Jaq's tone is neutral, leaving the judgement solely to her. Whinu had been insulted by her accusation, and had insulted her in turn, saying outright that Cela had plenty of other enemies at the academy to accuse instead. Beneath her anger, Cela had felt in that moment that she'd burnt her last, tenuous bridge at the academy, but she'd had to persist. The access codes, the timeline, the motivation, everything pointed to him. And yet….

"I don't know," Cela says. "I'm no longer sure of my judgement of him. But… Jaq, you've been on many interrogation assignments, haven't you?"

A strange look passes through Jaq's eyes, before he forces a casual laugh.

"Yeah, but breaking a Sith's different from breaking a Jedi," Jaq says, "And I'm out of practice, anyway. I'm just a pilot, now, remember? You need any ships flown, I'm your guy."

"Of course," Cela says, not so taken by the mystery of her assassination attempt that his somber air passes her by. She nods to his jacket. "A pilot who carries a small arsenal with him wherever he goes."

"Hey, old habits die hard," Jaq says, with an easy shrug, and Cela is glad to hear his tone is light once more.

Perhaps she can set this mystery aside. She had feared that Whinu or another Master would take advantage of her absence to claim her title, but nothing had happened. And for all that she's been through in these last few days, she's emerged better for it: the academy is still against her, but she's now assured that Jaq stands by her side.

"Jaq," Cela begins slowly, casting her gaze down to her cold hands, "Do you remember the last shipment you collected for me?"

Cela has never asked for Jaq's help in rounding up hopefuls. At some point, he had just begun doing it, offering them to her of his own volition. Cela had interpreted his help as some jab at her own weakness, but beneath her doubts towards him, she had long grown grateful for his silent devotion.

"I find myself in need of another," Cela says. "The sooner, the better."

Instead of the immediate yes she'd expected, Jaq frowns to himself, shaking his head.

"I can't. Nothing's coming in right now," Jaq says. "Word is, recruitment efforts are waning now that most Jedi are dead or dying. The academy's still getting students, but they're coming direct from the torture chambers."

"And the academy would be expecting them," Cela finishes for him, and Jaq only nods.

Cela falls silent, unable to suppress the cold in her chest. She had always known Korriban's supply would run dry, but had never thought it would happen so soon—not when she truly needs it. With the state she's in, the most she could do is mind-trick a gizka. She can feel the Force around her more acutely than ever, flowing throughout the academy, winding through its inhabitants; it drifts so near, and yet denies her grasp, taunting her.

"There are other ways to let off steam, you know," Jaq says.

"I'm not stressed," Cela says, her tone harsher than she intends it to be, and Jaq just gives her a raise of his brow, as if to say, And you were saying?

"I'm not!" Cela insists. "I'm—I'm just—"

There's just Korriban, bland and bleak and threatening, all around her again. There's just the academy, so full of plotting minds and jealousy and vehemence. There's just the vacuum in her chest, chilling her to the bone, threatening to eat her alive.

And there's Jaq, who's watching her now, who's closer to her now than she has ever let him be before, and yet—for all that she wishes he would reach out and help her—can do nothing.

"I'm just… not used to feeling the weight of the academy again," Cela finishes, hollow. "It is a temporary thing."

It's a familiar wall that she reaches for—so familiar that Jaq's body language closes off in response, taking her words as a push away.

"Right," Jaq says, subdued. "Well, I just remembered some repairs I have to do anyway, so—"

"Wait!" Cela says, and it's only when Jaq looks to her with a mixture of puzzlement and astonishment that she realizes that she's snagged the edge of his sleeve as he turned to leave.

"Yeah?" Jaq says, his tone edged with hope. "What is it?"

"Perhaps a moment at the cantina would help us both," Cela says, "If you're willing to join me?"

—

The cantina is a bright light in Korriban's dusk, filled to the brim with the liveliness of the evening crowd. Cela's gaze passes across the room, recognizing the mechanics from the hangar; workers and archaeologists from the dig; and guards from the academy. The only person she doesn't recognize is the woman behind the bar, who stares at her in open shock before spinning quickly away to wipe down more glasses. Jaq leads her towards the booths lining the back wall, where the din of the cantina is quieter, sinking into the backdrop.

Cela stirs her drink idly, the ice within it long melted so that it no longer makes a sound. She doesn't remember what Jaq had gotten her—it doesn't sharpen the mind the way Jaq claims juma does, at least, she needs her wits about her—and it doesn't matter, as such trivialities are far from her mind right now. The soft light around the booth melts against Jaq's features, leaving a touch of gold upon him that softens his sharp smirks and scowls as he talks over the day's work at the hangar. His grey eyes shine amber, like setting suns through the haze of dusk, and a sigh escapes her as Jaq continues on, oblivious.

"So I looked into it," Jaq says, "And yeah, if it's going to take that long to go through official channels, we should keep the junk ship for now."

"And our rogue repair droid?" Cela asks, resting her cheek on her hand, only to be startled by a cold sensation as she nearly sticks the stirring spoon to her. Thankfully, Jaq doesn't notice, and Cela quickly sets the spoon on the table, a safe distance away. Surely she's stirred enough.

"I didn't catch its serial number, so I sent them all in for inspection," Jaq says. "Mechanics weren't happy with that, but we're past the busiest part of the month, anyway. It does mean I'll be working on the junk ship myself for the time being, but it's worth the trouble. With the way cargo ships only stop in periodically to deliver supplies, we could be left trapped here if any brave Jedi decide to ambush u…"

His gaze drifts over to hers, and he interrupts his words with a smirk.

"Oh, so it's the idea of us all dying gets you smiling, and not a single one of my jokes?" Jaq says. The smile on her lips surprises her, disappearing as soon as she notices it—but Jaq doesn't tease her further; his gaze only softens.

"No, it's just…" Cela hesitates, wondering if she might be saying too much, but that ease and lightness in her shoulders guides her to continue, "We're on Korriban, and yet it feels like we're together for one of our old missions. As though we could step out of here and be... anywhere."

"Yeah, I miss it too," Jaq says, and she notices then just how wistful she had sounded, for him to respond in the same way.

"Why don't you go back?" Cela asks; she's long been curious. "The work here is tedious and unchallenging; I see how this place stifles you. They would take you back, easily."

Jaq only shrugs, glancing down at the table.

"It just isn't the same without you," Jaq says. "I don't want to work with anyone else."

I came here for you, he'd said. A sentiment that would've sunk sweetly into her heart if it weren't for everything keeping her here. If he had hoped to convince her to return with him, he'd sought her out in vain.

"Don't think of me," Cela says, quietly. "I am glad for your company, but Korriban has a way of wearing its inhabitants down to shadows of themselves. I would not want to see that happen to you, when you could thrive somewhere else."

"Funny," Jaq says, "You took the words right out of my mouth."

Cela looks at him, and realizes what he's saying.

"Jaq—I can't leave," Cela says, stunned, and Jaq shrugs.

"Why not?"

"I'm the headmaster."

A couple heads turn from the tables beside them. Cela hushes herself a moment too late, but Jaq replies, unfazed.

"Last I checked, you have twelve replacements who'd happily kill to take your place," Jaq says. "Besides, once you leave, it's not your problem anymore."

She has long dreamed of throwing up her hands and telling the Masters to sort the academy's troubles out amongst themselves, rather than turn on her—but….

"I still have a duty to Revan," Cela says, quietly. "It's her wish that I remain here."

"Yeah, but Revan's not watching this place anymore, is she?" Jaq says, meeting her eye. "If she doesn't care about it, you shouldn't either."

It could all just... go away. Without explanation, without logic, she and Jaq could escape into the night, and leave the Masters to fight amongst themselves over the empty title she'd left behind come morning. No one would notify Revan of the change in command—and with Revan's frequent turning wheel of projects, it could be a year or more before her personal attention returned here.

"You could go anywhere," Jaq says. "An army's not the only place that could use a Dark Jedi like you."

"A rogue Jedi who had abandoned both sides would soon be found and dragged back," Cela points out. "If I am to walk free, I would never be able to use the Force again."

"Not necessarily," Jaq says, "You're a healer. People would be willing to cover for you."

In that one word, this hypothetical escape crashes back down to the earth. A bitter smile takes her lips, holding back more complicated emotions that she hasn't touched in years.

"I'm no healer," Cela says. "It was a pleasant thought exercise, Jaq, but my place is here."

"But why not? You heal me all the time," Jaq says. "Just do that for other people."

"It doesn't work like that. You're—different. A special case," Cela says, and Jaq chuckles, giving her an amused look.

"Alright, I know an excuse when I hear one," Jaq says. "I've never been a special case in a good way in my life. What's the real reason?"

"I'm serious!" Cela insists.

"Sounds like a Jedi lie to me," Jaq says, though his tone is teasing—and Cela's face warms, both out of indignance and what she's about to say.

"Force healing isn't like kolto," Cela says. "I can't use it whenever and however I want. I need to feel a certain kind of genuine emotion towards the receiver—emotion that I can no longer muster towards most people."

Cela watches for Jaq's response, and wonders if her burning face and beating heart might reveal to him the full implications of what she's just confessed, but Jaq's lips quirk to the side in confusion.

"What does that mean?" Jaq says. "Cela, can't you just drop the cryptic Jedi talk and tell me?"

She lets go of her breath in a frustrated sigh.

"No," Cela says adamantly, and turns away from him, taking a long drink from her glass. In their silence, the din of cantina roars back into her awareness, bringing her pieces of conversation that float past:

"—so I say to him, look, you find me another pair of power converters, and I'll—"

"—can't stand these Hssiss, we're running out of antidote packs—"

"—still making preparations, the Dark energy readings are overwhelming—"

A pair of archaeologists walk past their table, leaving Cela with that last shred of their conversation as they leave. Beside her, Jaq plays with the empty shot glass in his hand, muttering, "Something she feels towards me but no one else…."

"Jaq," Cela interrupts, too pulled by urgency to wonder what guesses are going through his head, "Those archaeologists. Do you know what site they're talking about?"

Jaq blinks, brought out of his subdued and thoughtful state.

"Oh—yeah, I've heard about it," Jaq says. "It's another tomb they've been digging out for weeks now. It's got some kind of strong stench around it. I say it's just the dead guy inside, but they say it's Dark energy, and they're making all these preparations and requests for it. I bet the forms are going to cross your datapad soon, if they haven't already."

Cela is on her feet before she fully registers her movement, and only glances back at Jaq when he calls her name, puzzled.

"It's getting late," Cela says, by way of explanation. "I'm returning to my quarters."

She doesn't address her abrupt action, or the way that this is hours before she would usually turn in; and thankfully, Jaq points neither out.

"Alright," Jaq says, "But you're not going to stay up all night working again, are you? Because you know those forms can wait."

There's that concern in his eyes again; now that Cela knows his sincerity, it's hard to push it away. Jaq is always looking out for her; he wouldn't want her to head into the tomb alone. Perhaps… she could tell him—

But as Cela looks at the lively flush in his cheeks, and the bright gold in his eyes, her uncertain words die in her throat. The Force is dangerous in her hands. She's only just opened her heart to him again; she fears what would happen if he walked in.

"I'm not," Cela lies. "Good night, Jaq. Take your time without me."

—

When Jaq leaves the cantina at last, the sky is long dark, and only a couple stragglers remain inside, their silhouettes hazy in the dimly lit windows. He hadn't meant to stay so long, but something about a lively room leaves just enough space for his thoughts, and he'd had many to sort through.

His hand has gone absentmindedly to his temple, touching the very spot Cela had healed just days earlier. Jaq pulls his hand back to his side, curling his fingers closed. He has all the pieces to understand what she'd said. Healing is an ability of the Light side—she'd told him this—and he's seen the Light. It had left him shivering, drowned in the vastness of it, haunted by the way the world looked through the eyes of the other side. But… he had felt none of that at Cela's hands. What she'd shown him was anything but grand and unknowable, it was... familiar. It was as if she'd known he was afraid to see the Force again, and had eased it for him.

Gratitude curls up in his chest, but guilt is there to meet it. She hadn't known. And it's precisely because he's kept all these secrets that Cela—Cela, who faces all challenges with a cold determination and set shoulders—had broken down and cried in front of that wreck of a ship, not from the pressures of Korriban, but from a fear of him. A chill grips his heart at the memory; he never wants to see that look on her face again. He had always thought that she walked beside him knowing the way in which she marked his limits. Anyone, but her. No one, but her.

But that small, troublesome voice in the back of his head pipes up: he has never wanted to let Cela to know just how far he'd go for her. He's had his moments of self-justification—it's more noble, isn't it, to serve her quietly from the shadows—but he's long known that his reluctance is due to pure cowardice, tied up in that itchy sense of self-preservation that's kept him alive all these years. Even that glimpse he had shown her of his uncovered heart had taken all his willpower to hold open. And Cela… and Cela….

Cela had given it back to him. His affection, still wrapped within his fear and his guilt. The Light, tamed to fit into the palm of her hand. He's back at the start: an emotion that she feels for him, but no one else. He's close, but he's afraid. Because if he wants it, then all these tricks and shadows and lies he's built up around himself have to go, to leave room for her.

"Easier said than done," Jaq says to himself, then pauses, looking up. "Wait, where the hell am I?"

He'd been heading towards the hangar, but a glance around shows him that he's wandered onto a dig site, his boots upon the gradient of a shadow cast by an entrance dug into the cliff face, within which lies a path that only seems to slope down. Jaq looks cautiously in, reaching a hand out to the side of the entrance to support his lean in, but the moment he makes contact, an overwhelming wave of emotion hits him: urgency, wrongness, danger.

"Cela," Jaq says, because his responding pull of protectiveness would emerge for no one but her, "You didn't go back to your quarters, did you?"

Sparing only a second for a steadying breath, he heads in after her.

—

Jaq knows he's entered the tomb proper when the dug-out soil of the cave fades into tiles of dusty ceramic, which run alongside carved reliefs that line the wall and stretch into the shadows ahead. It takes a moment for Jaq's eyes to make out the entrance to an interior chamber ahead; the workers had installed lights in the cave, running wires down from the surface, but none hang here. He runs a hand along the wall, following the lines of ceramic down the path, and that feeling of foreboding crawls up his fingers once more.

There's just enough light to guide him into the chamber—into the empty chamber. For a brief moment, Jaq's heart drops, but he's heard stories about these tombs: about the ones that torture their trespassers, and the ones that don't want to be entered. Surely this is one of the latter; and surely Cela had left her touch here, had marked the way ahead, even though she had been foolish enough to go on her own.

A thought bothers him, nudging at the back of his mind—what is she looking for in a place like this?—but Jaq waves it away. He needs all his focus to make out the reliefs on the walls in this terrible, dim light, and that foreboding is still—

That foreboding is still guiding him. His eye catches on some text on the wall, probably some sort of ancient Sith riddle, but he doesn't need to play their games when he has her. Jaq places his hand on the wall once more, closes his eyes as he's seen Cela do for her use of the Force so many times, and holds still as that danger, alarm, fear crashes over him, sending spikes up beneath his skin. She's so close, he can almost feel it—

—And a low, grinding sound comes into his awareness. Jaq opens his eyes to see a carving in the wall, a piece of which has been depressed by a push of his fingertip—a hidden switch. With a step back, it's released, and the wall that had pretended to be a dead end before begins to pull away from the ceiling, sinking into the floor. Jaq grins to himself in relief, but relief soon becomes confusion as the light in the room begins to fade, cut by a rising line of shadow cast along the falling wall. He turns back in time to see the last gap of light between the chamber and the hall outside disappear into the ceiling, as a second wall slides into place.

Of course: a trade. With these people, there's no give without take. Jaq shakes the residual shiver off his shoulders. Whatever—he doesn't need that door open anyway, not until he finds Cela. But... that feeling he's been following is gone.

Thoughtlessly, Jaq clutches at his heart, as though emotion were a physical item that could be lost then found, but it's vanished. That can't be right. Jaq doesn't know much about the Force, but he doesn't think it works like this. He can't run out of awareness. That'd just be stupid.

A nervousness tugs at his lips, a reassuring smile that has no one to see it, alone and sunken into darkness as he is. Cela's here… right? Unless he'd just imagined it. Unless he'd just been tricked. It wouldn't be the first time, but it hurts more now, now that he's walked into it. Something gives in Jaq’s chest, and when he sways slightly, finding a wall behind him when he takes a step back to steady himself, he just lets himself slump against it. What is he doing? Assuming that Cela's here, based on one bad feeling? Assuming that Cela needs him, when he'd been left behind?

Take a hint, Jaq. Cela knew what she was doing when she left him for Korriban. She'd seen enough in their time together to see through him, to all the ways in which he's weak. And she'd been right: when he'd seen that Light without her there to make sense of it—without her there to prevent him from ever seeing it at all—he'd ran, afraid, in the direction of the closest safety he knows. He'd told her he was here for her, but the truth is in a twist of the words.

A ragged breath escapes his lips, and horrified, he clamps a hand over it, silencing himself. This tomb is mired in Dark energy, whatever that is, but like the others scattered in the valley, it could hold all manner of creature inside, from a common mynock to a wandering Hssiss. Jaq doesn't have any antidote packs on him; for all the supposed precautions that line his jacket, he'd rushed in after all.

Then he hears a shuffle of fabric against the floor... a step of a boot. When a light shines through the darkness, in the familiar vivid red of a Sith lightsaber, all Jaq can feel is relief.

"Cela," Jaq says, quickly wiping the dampness from his eyes, "You're alright."

"Yes, but are you?" Cela asks. The light rises to illuminate half of her face—oh, how he's missed that half of her face—and she extends a hand to him, helping him up. "You look shaken."

"You know me. I'm fine," Jaq says, though the quick grin on his face has never felt more like a lie. "What are you doing here? I felt—I mean, I thought, that you were in danger."

"Ever vigilant," Cela comments, with a small, fond smile that lifts his previously leaden heart. "There is no more danger here than there is in one's mind. This is a proving grounds, of sorts. I came here to conquer my doubts."

Cela holds her lightsaber aloft before them, revealing their surroundings in its red glow. Rather than a wider version of that chamber he'd stood in, what lies before them is some kind of underground arena, with stands that stretch out to either side, circling a pit in the center. Jaq steps forward for a better look, doubting his eyes; he's sure he would've seen hints of a structure this grand before that wall sealed the way behind him. But all thought escapes him when Cela places her hand on his shoulder and draws in close, the fabric of her robes moving in a whisper against his back.

"I'm glad you're here," Cela confesses. "I was waiting for you to follow me."

"Well—you could say something next time," Jaq says, turning to her, but Cela rests her head against his other shoulder, and her hand moves into a loose embrace across his chest, holding him; he stills against her softness.

"Do you truly not know what I was trying to tell you?" Cela asks, softly. "In the cantina."

Her breath ghosts past the shell of his ear, a kiss of warmth against the cold; he holds back a shiver.

"I think I do," Jaq admits.

"Then what will you tell me in return?" Cela asks. "A confession for a confession."

But an unease crawls up his neck, and he has the distinct sense that they should get out of here.

"Look, Cela, I feel the same way," Jaq says, "And I'll say it, properly, as many times as you want, but—can we leave this place? It's giving me the creeps."

He still has too much to tell her, too much that might change her mind, and he'd rather not rush it here and now, not inside this tomb. But Cela laughs, low and drawn out, tipping her forehead against his shoulder. Jaq wonders if the bartender had gotten her drink wrong, if Cela weren't drunk after all, but when he turns to face her, her eyes are dark and unreadable in the lightsaber light, and hold no amusement anymore.

"Not that confession," Cela says. "The other that you owe me."

"What are you talking about?" Jaq is aware of now of another, building nervousness under his skin, layered upon the unease; different from what he'd followed for Cela, it's a portent for himself. "You know, relationships are built on—"

"Relationships are built on respect," Cela interrupts him, and takes a step forward; with her lightsaber drawn before her, all he can do is step back, startled, dropping down a stone step. "A respect you refuse to show me when you continue to hide the truth from me."

"Uh—Cela, I—" Another step, and another, steadily pushing him away from the entrance. "I'm lost. Help me out here. What—what truth are you talking about? Because I—"

"This is about the Jedi," Cela says, low and serious. "I know all about your last interrogation assignment. I know how you almost left."

Speechless, his veins run cold, and he stumbles down the last step, backing away until the arch of his boot rocks over the edge that separates the stands from the pit below. For a split second, his balance is gone, until Cela reaches out and grabs a fistful of his collar.

"You ran to me like a coward," Cela says, coldly. "You think I can't see the way you cling to me? How you hope to use me? Not just as a distraction from the spark of the Force that lies in your heart, but as something more?"

"That's not true," Jaq says, desperate even to his own ears, but Cela only holds him further out from the edge.

"Be honest with yourself, Jaq, in a way you have never been with me," Cela says. "What else did you seek of me?"

"I…" His voice fails him, breaking upon his words, "I wanted it to be you. If anyone was going to train me... I wanted it to be you."

"Finally," Cela says, with a cold satisfaction, but Jaq can't stop looking for the warmth in her eyes.

"But I didn't come here to use you," Jaq says, his words as rushed as a plea, "I came here because I couldn't leave you behind. They're destroying you here, you know that—"

"And a coward that can't even bear the Force can save me?" Cela asks.

"I can bear it now," Jaq says. "I can bear it, if it's you."

"Then prove it," Cela says, and in an uncurling of her fingers, lets him go.

Weightlessness is followed by impact far too soon, and he groans in pain, finding himself upon the dusty floor of the pit. Cela's figure swims in his hazy vision as she looks down at him from above, and he watches as she deactivates her lightsaber and tosses it over the edge after him; it strikes the dirt next to his hip.

"Pick it up," she commands. "Stand and face your opponent."

"You're crazy," Jaq says, pushing himself off the ground with a wince. "I don't care what's going through your head—I'm not going to fight you."

But Cela ignores his words, folding her hands behind her back, and looking out into the area behind him. Jaq realizes that there's more than one red glow illuminating the place—and there has been, for some time.

"You must take his place," Cela says. "There is only the Dark side, or death."

Jaq feels like a mind trapped as his body moves for him, turning to face the figure behind him. Twin lightsabers rise to reveal their wielder: his own corpse, staring back at him.

—

Revan's reinforcements are late, and with their forces struggling, the Mandalorians may yet turn the tide of battle. Cela knows she must give the order—and Jaq, beside her, gives her a solemn nod, prepared for the sacrifice—but she isn't. Somehow, Jaq wears the robes of a Jedi; somehow, his heart beats next to hers; and she would trade the galaxy to spare herself from feeling not only her wound created anew, but the agony of the Mass Shadow Generator tearing through him, tearing through her.

"I can't," Cela says, betraying the Light for her attachment to him, betraying the Dark for her unwillingness to complete the test. "I can't do it."

"And the sacrifices you've made to stand here?" Jaq says. "Your kyber, your family, your Order. What are they worth if you don't commit to your path?"

"It's not the same," Cela says. "I haven't lost you yet."

"You will," Jaq says, his eyes cold and unkind, "When I see you for what you are. When that time comes, do you want to face me with the Force, or without it?"

"You..." Care about me, she wants to say, but the words catch in her throat, "You'll understand."

Jaq sneers, cruel.

"And I joined Revan for my generous sense of understanding, did I? You're a Jedi, Cela. You'll always be one of them, looking down on the rest of us. Even if you spare me now, one betrayal is all that stands between my blade and your throat."

Jaq advances, and Cela steps back, maintaining a buffer of distance between them.

"Will you walk away from here with the power to keep up your act—or will you show me what you really are?" Jaq says, low and mocking. "Lost, and broken. Worthless without the Force."

Cela's back hits one of the consoles on the bridge, having backed away as far as she can, and yet Jaq still advances, gripping her jaw in his hand, twisting her face up to look at him.

"Love is fleeting," Jaq says. "There is only the Dark side, or death."

Jaq's eyes are on hers, their grey as opaque and uncaring as the sharp edge of a vibroblade, and Cela shuts her eyes, no longer able to stand his gaze.

Power is what kept her going, but in that time when she had believed that she stood alone on Korriban, lost in a sea of hostility, what use was her power then? Cela had never felt more unlike herself—and until she had healed Jaq of his injury, she'd forgotten what she'd once held in her heart.

And yet Cela cannot fathom turning away. She's never known how one could bear it: to hear the Force and never be able to grasp it again; to feel like this, forever.

But before she can voice anything, Jaq's cruel touch is pulled away. A sensation of falling lifts her heart to her throat, and a gloved hand grips hers, pulling her through—and Cela's eyes fly open, seeing not the bridge or the stormy skies of Malachor, but the mundane and familiar interior of the headmaster's ship, the one that she and Jaq had left in flames on that pale speck of a planet.

Her hand is still held, tight, and her gaze trails up her rescuer's arm, to the shoulders of a familiar jacket. Jaq's back is turned to her as he scrolls quickly through the screens at the pilot's seat, and scenes fly past in the front viewport: sandy dunes, barren land, a cantina interior, a forest floor.

"Jaq?" Cela says, and hears in her voice a trembling, fearful shadow of herself; with a breath to gather herself, she tries again, firmer. "Jaq, what is this?"

"Hold on," Jaq says, "I'll find it—any moment now."

"Find what?" Cela says, pulling away. "If this is another trial, I—"

But when Jaq turns at last to face her, his eyes hold none of the cruelty of the tomb’s trials, bearing only concern and warmth—he’s real. With a shaky breath, relief drives her forward, and Cela finds herself throwing her arms around him, pressing herself to his chest.

"Wow, you're really glad to see me, huh?" Jaq sounds relieved, relaxing and wrapping an arm around her in return. "For a moment there, I thought I'd never find you."

"Wait," Cela says, pulling away to look at him, "How did you find me? How are you here?"

"It's a long story," Jaq says. "You know, I almost got fooled by this other version of you, but then I saw myself, and—well, you have no idea how many places I waded through to find you."

"You're navigating inside this place," Cela says, disbelievingly. "But you shouldn't have been let in. These trials, the Force, it…"

"I guess now is as good a time as any," Jaq says, and with a hollow smile he shrugs and says, "I'm Force sensitive."

"What?" Cela says, faintly, pulling away from his grasp, but Jaq steps forward to meet her step back, reaching out to her.

"No, I know," Jaq says. "That's what I thought, too, but Cela, it's okay—"

"What part of this is okay?" Cela says, pushing his hand aside. "What possessed you to follow me? You should have stayed where I left you—far away from this place!"

Cela regrets her words when hurt flashes in Jaq's eyes, but his determination soon replaces it.

"I heard you," Jaq says. "You were calling for me—I didn't imagine that."

"You fell for a trap. You shouldn't have listened," Cela says, even though she knows he's telling the truth—the truth, for once, she doesn't want to hear. "I was fine where I was. I was in control. I always am."

"Then you have a funny way of showing it," Jaq says, sarcasm coloring his words. "Were you fine when you panicked at me rounding up hopefuls for you, trying to help you? Were you in control when you crushed that creature guarding the ship?"

Cela opens her mouth to answer, when the ship trembles, and she looks up quickly, eyes wide and afraid to find Malachor in the viewport again. Nothing fills it but dark, vast space; and when her attention returns to him, all the harshness in Jaq's demeanor is gone, leaving only the hurt beneath.

"Cela," Jaq says, "Please—I know something's happening to you. I thought it was just stress, but—whatever it was that overcame you, whatever it is that you're scared of—that's why you're here, isn't it?

"If you just tell me what's happening, maybe I can help," Jaq says. "Maybe this touch of the Force inside me can be good for something for once. Whatever you need of me, if you show me, I can—"

"You can't. I can't let you help me," Cela says, pulling away from him before he can take her shoulders in his hands, blanket her in more frustratingly gentle words. Though the Force can't be manipulated here, she pulls something like it to her hands to hold him apart from her, fearing that her resolve will break—and the ship shudders in response, protesting the barrier, but Cela ignores it, her voice strengthening in conviction.

"This isn't some monster we can kill, some night terror. This is the Force itself," Cela says. "After Malachor V, they called us all ghosts for witnessing so much death that day, but I was one who felt it. I held a tie to every last Jedi, every last sacrifice, and I felt their deaths scream across the Force, magnified tenfold in the intimacy of my mind.”

"I couldn't bear it,” she confesses. “I couldn't listen anymore. I cut them all from me, severed every last tie, including mine to the Force. But the Force must run through all living things, and the price I pay to live is to steal what shreds of it I can from others. I drained it from every Jedi we hunted, every doomed hopeful you brought to me, and now—"

She laughs, helpless.

"Now I can hurt you in the same way," Cela says. "You've seen the kind of death I deal; it had disturbed you. Aren't you afraid?"

She expects Jaq to look upon her as what she is: a shambling disaster, a tragedy past its ending. The metal of the ship around them strains, and the stars in the viewport begin to melt and marble into space, becoming the lightning of Malachor V once more—and yet, when Cela raises her gaze to Jaq's at last, the look in his eyes is fierce and determined, centered only on her.

"I’m not," Jaq says, “But you are. You’re just trying to scare me away.“

"Jaq," Cela says, despairing, "You don't understand—"

"Maybe I don't," Jaq says. "Not yet. I haven't known all this as long as you have. But there's something that you don't understand either."

Somehow, that not-quite-Force begins to slip from her fingers, the barrier between them buckling.

"Because I remember Malachor, too," Jaq says. "I remember all the anger and hatred I felt as the war was dragged out for nine long years, because the Jedi council refused to join it. I remember feeling that for so long that every other emotion in me grew dull. But you were part of what woke me up again, Cela; you were why I stayed. I've been afraid of the Force for so long—Light, Dark, it didn't matter—but you showed me another way."

The barrier is gone now; Jaq could approach, but he doesn't, leaving the space between them merely empty. Outside, the stars have become not the surface of Malachor V, but coalesced into plain sunlight; the ship, having accomplished its task, simply disappears from memory. All that remains is a tree, a wall, and a field of green, familiar to Dantooine. Light passes through the canopy above, falling dappled upon her shoulders, and unlike the memories the tomb has shown her, this one holds nothing but calm.

Cela runs her fingers through the sunlight, watching the flickers of gold play across them. Jaq, who despite taking her here, seems completely new to their surroundings, looks around with some confusion.

"The wall, it just… fades away," Jaq says. "I know none of this is meant to be real, but��."

"It's all I remember of home," Cela explains. "From before I joined the Jedi."

"Oh," he says, changing his tone in that single word; Cela gives a slight smile.

"It's alright," Cela says. "I'm told my family was proud to let me go. I was proud, too, of all the things I'd been told I could learn to do…."

A leaf flutters in the breeze on one of the branches above, and drops, spiraling into a chaotic fall. Cela holds out her hand, and though its path appears unpredictable, it lands perfectly into her palm.

"The world felt different then," Cela says. "Unknown, but knowable. Vast, but finite. The whole world is simple when you heal; there's nothing else to pour your love into but the wound before you."

This time, she doesn't pull away when Jaq steps forward to close the distance between them. His hand finds the curve of her face; his thumb is gentle as he brushes her cheek, and she realizes that, at some point, a tear had fallen there, betraying her.

"Can you show me how?" Jaq asks.

"So you can heal the wound in me?" Cela says, with a weak laugh. "It's futile. You could keep trying for years upon years, an eternity, and never make a mark."

"That's alright," Jaq says, "I've got nowhere else to put my love. The Sith Lord it belongs to doesn't want it."

"I'm no Sith Lord after this," Cela says; though no one else need know about the tomb and its test, she'll forever know she failed it. "And… you don't know that."

"I don't?" Jaq says. "Does that mean you'll come back with me, now?"

Cela lifts her gaze to his.

"I will, but... do you understand what you're asking?" Cela says, stilling his hand. "If we're to love each other, we'll inevitably form a Force bond. You'll be able to feel my pain, my sadness—"

"—And your love, and your relief," Jaq says. "And the same goes the other way around; I know. I remember my training. I always thought a bond like that would weaken me, but now it sounds like what we already have."

"But it's stronger," Cela says. "Unbreakable, unless one of us dies, or wounds ourselves to sever it."

Rather than match her seriousness, Jaq only smiles, and the fluttery, warm thread laced through the tangle of his emotions reveals the love beneath.

"Cela," Jaq says teasingly, "Are you proposing to me?"

Her words play back in her head, her face burning with warmth—but her response is cut short. Dantooine is fading: the tree bark has grown stony and jagged, the land barren, and the wall translucent, a window back into the trial she’d left behind. Cela pulls Jaq close to her.

"We can't dwell here any longer," Cela says. "You've shown me a way out; now take it."

It's no different from waking from a dream. Cela's eyes open to the ancient, dusty tomb floor she had fallen upon, and Jaq, slumped over her previously limp body, begins to rouse as well. His eyes catch hers, and she's pulled forward.

"Cela," Jaq breathes in relief, pulling her into a crushing hug. It's uncomfortable yet calming at the same time; his heartbeat is strong against hers, reminding her that she's still alive. When the embrace relaxes, it's only so Jaq can pull away slightly to look into her eyes. "No more creepy Sith tombs, please—at least not without me."

"Y—yes," Cela says, and it's only now that she's experiencing the real thing that she realizes how muted Jaq's touch was in the tomb's illusions. Had he always been so warm? And had she really said all those things—been so honest with him... shown him the parts of herself she'd long sought to hide?

Somehow, Jaq seems to know exactly what's running through her mind.

"I guess they're not all bad, though," Jaq says. "I finally know how you feel about me."

The look on Jaq's face is smug, satisfied—but just a touch uncertain, as though a trace of doubt lingers that their earlier conversation had ever happened at all. Cela could deny it now, put him back at an arm's distance—but after all the pain it took to get here, there's something freeing in pure honesty.

"You do," Cela admits, and for all her embarrassment and flushed cheeks, finds it the easiest thing in the galaxy to say, "I love you."

It's one thing to know, and another to hear it outright: Jaq turns red, as well.

"R—right," Jaq says, and clears his throat awkwardly. "And the bond, well… I think you know what my answer is."

A warmth glows in Cela’s heart, and she takes his hand, interlacing their fingers.

"I do," Cela says, "Though I wouldn't mind hearing it."

"I'll spill everything once we get out of here," Jaq says. "We've had a long enough heart to heart in some dead Sith’s resting place."

Cela laughs, and with that, they leave.

—

"So, Nar Shaddaa?" Jaq asks.

"Nar shaddaa," Cela confirms. "It will be easier to hide you there than on Korriban."

"I'm sorry," Jaq says, and Cela wonders what the apology is for when she's already come to realize that she has only ever suffered through this place, but he continues, "I know what you gave for your place here."

That, out of everything, is what constricts her throat, with something not unlike sorrow cinching it shut. She grips the sill of the ship’s viewport; the pressure against her fingertips grounds her.

She looks out across the cracked and barren land, to the academy, standing high on its cliff, a lofty structure that well represents its place in Revan's army. It had seemed so crucial and all-encompassing, holding all the crushing weight of Revan's influence… and yet now that she's prepared to leave, it appears small.

"It's alright," Cela says at last, turning away from the sight. "It never suited me."