“I have something new to teach you,” said Varrel, leading Jaesa from the ship.

“Oo, fun,” she replied, “A new technique?”

“Not…exactly.” Varrel halted, still in the hangar, the twin wings of Lemures high above them. He could see Quinn in the cockpit, dwarfed by distance, tending some insignificant, imagined duty. “Wait here,” he said. He advanced to a stack of fuel pods and took out a minicomp. Paging through the list, he found the selection he wanted. He activated it, set it on the pallet, and turned back to Jaesa.

She drew her saber and dropped into a defensive stance. “No, no,” he said, “No sabers, Jaesa.” She straightened and deactivated her blade. Without its hum, he could hear the opening strains of the waltz. He increased the volume just a bit and the sound reverberated through the open hangar.

“Music, my husband?” Jaesa asked.

“Music,” Varrel answered, taking her hand, “you must have music to dance, pet.”

Jaesa giggled, “Dance? Why should we dance?”

Varrel placed one hand loosely around her waist, “Do we need a reason?”

“Well, I thought you were going to teach me something new,” Jaesa said, still unmoving.

“Do you know how to dance?”

“I saw the nobles on Alderaan dance.”

“But not you.”

“No,” she said, scuffing the deck with her foot, “handmaidens don’t dance, silly. And neither do Jedi.”

“Then I have something new to teach you.”

“I don’t think Sith dance, either,” she protested.

“I think,” Varrel pulled her close to him, “that Sith decide what Sith do. I dance.”

“If you say so,” Jaesa said. She placed one hand on his shoulder, probably as she’d seen on Alderaan.

“Follow,” said Varrel. He held her, waiting for the proper beat in the music. Then took a step forward, the first step of the waltz. Jaesa giggled and shuffled to catch up. He waited, then began again. As before, Jaesa missed the cue and the step. Varrel released her from his embrace, “You’ve seen dancing, yes?”

Jaesa dropped her eyes, “Yes.”

“This should be easy for you, Jaesa. You’ve mastered movement far more complex,” Varrel said.

Jaesa shrugged, “That was fighting. It had a purpose. I just don’t see any reason to dance, husband.”

Varrel stifled a sigh. Jaesa was usually an attentive student, but she always opted for power over form. Dance was not so dissimilar from swordplay, but it was all graceful, fluid shapes and transitions. It addressed her weaknesses in a pleasant way.

Besides, he missed dancing. It had been ages now, in another life. Jaesa was right on that count. Sith didn’t dance, or not often anyway. On Dromund Kaas, maybe, but as Wrath he was often far afield. Though even the capitol didn’t have the same kind of complex social scene as he remembered from his homeworld. Perhaps there was little reason for large-scale social games when destroying your rival for real was perfectly acceptable.

The last strains of the music played out and it ended. Varrel returned to the minicomp and restarted it. The opening measures filled the hangar again. Varrel took Jaesa’s left hand in his right, “Dancing gives me pleasure, pet,” he said.

“Oh, well in that case,” Jaesa sidled in close, “I will learn.”

“Passion has its place in dance, love,” Varrel returned her wayward hand properly to his shoulder, “after you master the steps.” Jaesa honored him with one of her pouty-child looks. He chose to ignore it. “You hear the tempo? One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three.”

“Yes,” she replied, still pouting.

“All the steps fall in the pattern. On one,” Varrel disengaged from her, maintaining only the hold on her left hand. “My steps are so:” he waited for the opening beat in a measure and executed the basic steps, several times, clear and in tempo to illustrate the waltz. “Yours are the mirror. I lead, you follow,”

“Mmm, I always like that,” Jaesa purred.

Varrel let go her hand, “Be serious, pet.”

“I am serious,” she replied.

Varrel did not for a moment believe she was. She did not want to do the exercise; she thought it was useless. “Jaesa, dance is not unlike Kata forms. Scripted, choreographed.”

She frowned, “Kata forms are hard. Even the Jedi don’t do your Kata forms.”

Of course you don’t like them, they are all form, no power. “Try again. Follow my steps.” Varrel waited again for the proper beat then took his first step, exaggerating it for Jaesa’s benefit. She followed, scuffling. The second, just as poor. And the third, in time, but she overstepped and nearly tripped. He caught her up, and started over.

After the better part of an hour, Varrel was beginning to wish he’d never introduced the waltz. He was hoping he’d never be forced to dance the waltz again. And he especially hoped to never again hear the waltz he’d chosen for the lesson, since it now grated on him like nails on glass.

Jaesa, as a dance partner, was hopeless. Perhaps he’d killed what beauty there was in her soul long ago. She remained his ruthless hunting falcon, and there was a certain beauty in that.

But not the kind that danced.

Varrel let go of her, “The lesson is over, Jaesa.”

“I was getting better,” she said, meeting his eyes.

He caressed her cheek, “I do not think your talents lie in dancing, pet.”

“I have other talents, my husband,” she said. She embraced him, kissing him slowly. Passionately.

He returned it. Held her close. The opening moves of a very different dance. Then the music looped; the distinctive initial measures of the waltz rang out in the hangar. A shiver ran up Varrel’s spine and he pulled away. “No. The rest of the day is yours, Jaesa,” he said.

She tipped her head, half-lidded eyes pinning him, “Later?”

“Later, yes,” he replied. He ran his hands down her arms, “go now.”

“Later,” she said. She returned to the ship with a seductive sway to her hips.

Varrel had already turned to shut off the damn music. Only men laugh, only men weep, only men dance. A very old proverb. It seemed he was doing very little of any of those things anymore.

He heard Vette’s tread on the deck behind him. “My lord?” she asked.

He did not face her, “If you’d like to visit a cantina, I’d recommend staying to the North end of town. Pierce said he was headed to someplace called ‘Cratered’ in the South for half-priced bowl drinks. I believe he mentioned a ‘bomb-bowl’ as a particular favorite, because, in his words, ‘you get drunk just looking at it’.”

“Yeah. That’s not it. I, uh, heard the music. And I was watching you dance.”

Varrel picked up the minicomp, “You were.” He turned slightly, Vette’s slim form now in the corner of his eye.

“Well, until Captain Compulsive opaqued the cockpit windows and kicked me out so he could re-re-re-re-re-re-calibrate the tertiary backup obsession generator. I think he’s jealous.”

A bemused grin crossed Varrel’s face. Vette pegged Quinn’s personality exactly. And jealousy? He’d seen no signs, but it was likely Quinn was less guarded around Vette, whom he considered beneath notice. He glanced at Lemures cockpit; the windows were indeed opaque. “When was this?”

“About the time Jaesa started chewing on your tonsils.”

He spun the rest of the way around, his good humor gone. The irreverent, disrespectful, foolish—

Fool.

The Fool. The courts of the ancient kings on his homeworld always had a Fool. The one person in all the company who could speak his mind, criticize and mock the king and his court and guests without fear of reprisal. Harming the Fool, in fact, was considered bad luck, not to mention bad form. The Fool was there to make the king laugh. And also to remind him that he was dirt and clay just like everyone else. And sometime the Fool gave better advice than the best advisors, couched always in satire and silliness.

How appropriate, then, that Vette would take this role. With Quinn his General, Pierce his Sergeant at Arms, Broonmark his Enforcer, and Jaesa his Consort.

To her credit, Vette stood her ground. “So, how long did you pay the port workers to stay out?”

Varrel checked his chrono without thinking. Clever girl. “Twenty more minutes.”

“Bet I can learn your dance in less than half that,” she said. Hands on her hips. A challenge.

“You dance?” Varrel asked.

Vette pointed at herself, “Twi’lek girl, remember? Dancing is the second-most common reason people keep Twi’lek girls.”

“I don’t keep you. You may leave my employ if you wish.”

“Yeah, well I don’t wish. So are you going to teach me your dance or what?”

He’d grown distant from Vette with time. As his retinue grew, he relied more on her specialized skills, rather than her blaster and companionship. Like dance, it was something he found he missed. Varrel looked down at the minicomp, at the list of music he’d prepared for the lesson. At the chrono. Eighteen minutes.

“You watched from the cockpit?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Vette acknowledged with a nod.

Varrel returned the minicomp to the stack of fuel pods, after selecting a different waltz. He held his hand out to her, “Show me what you have learned.”

Vette took it and twirled into his arms. One hand on his shoulder. His at her waist. Chaste, this time, like at the old gatherings. At the correct beat in the tempo Varrel began the waltz. Vette followed with the barest hesitation. That was gone before the end of the first movement.

Vette did indeed dance. Rather well, in fact.

They spun in the waltz’s graceful steps. Vette’s body was slim and lithe in his hands, unlike the more curvaceous Jaesa or his memory of Reka’s matronly figure. His loose hakama trousers flowed with their movement the way a woman’s ball gown would. Vette’s close-fitted leatheris was just as utilitarian. Varrel felt a genuine smile on his face at the irony. As a pair, they would still resemble the couples at someone’s fete. Summer, perhaps, or the tri-alignment of the moons in the fall.

She was probably just humoring him. Knowing her history, the kinds of dances he knew and enjoyed were not the kind of dances she’d be familiar with. And vice-versa. Dance, like this, was something he’d hoped to share with Jaesa, as his wife. As he’d shared it with Reka, his first wife. Their children, their grandchildren, their families and friends.

Only men laugh, only men weep, only men dance.

The final notes of the waltz faded in the hangar. Varrel’s hand left her waist and he held only her left hand. He bowed to her, as he might for the daughter of a peer, “I thank you, Vette, for a very enjoyable dance.”

“Wow,” she said, following with an awkward almost-curtsy, “Um, likewise, my Lord? I mean, you’re welcome.”

Varrel’s chrono chimed. Quiet bells. He let go her hand, “End of the ball, I’m afraid.”

“Shame,” she said. The pressure doors at the far end of the hangar hissed and opened. The port workers returned to reclaim their space.

“Perhaps another time,” he said.

Vette blushed, “I’d like that.”

I cannot take credit for the proverb. It’s from one (at least one) of Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Darkover novels. So props to MZB—I was sure it was an old folk saying I remembered from somewhere until I looked it up to verify the source. It always seemed to sum up what it means to be human. If this weren’t fanfic I’d be pulling hair trying to come up with something half as cool.

And this did kind of take on unintended Cinderella overtones at the end. Sorry about that.

I did the crude character-emote portraits in paint.NET, free and ad-free software that I have always found less confusing/intimidating than GIMP. I'm still a novice at it. The facial closeups could easily have been done in Windows Paint, but I used paint.NET because its tools for precisely placing selections are better. In general I took screenshots, cropped them to a chosen selection size (instructions are for Windows Paint), then copy/pasted the resulting standardized images to place them on a broad white canvas. I resized the resulting picture by percentage to shrink it a bit. Then slap on text boxes (scroll/search to 'Adding Text') and voila! Family picture gallery!

http://i934.photobucket.com/albums/ad187/LouiseDoolaar/pic1.png

It had been the most excruciating week of his life. Ever since the force ghosts made themselves known after his attempt at their redemption that he now knew had failed, the four entities were hardly letting the Twi'lek have any time to himself. He banished Ashara from his bed with the lie that he was researching a highly sensitive new force ritual to help heal Sith whose psyches had been damaged from the dark side of the force. She was upset, but took his explanation in stride.

He was terrified of letting any of his crew learn of his affliction. They looked to him as their leader, he couldn't show any weakness. Fortunately, with his new appointment to the Dark Council, there was no shortage of menial diplomatic tasks to send his companions on. He used the time in his empty offices to close the reinforced door and meditate, nap, give in to the urges to yell at his mind's four uninvited residents, anything to bring him some peace and quiet. Fortunately, either the administrative staff outside his door were used to a Darth screaming at invisible entities in his chambers, or they were masking their surprise extremely well.

Today was one such day where Mel'ake knelt on the floor of his chambers in the pretense of meditation. He let the light of his past deeds wash over him, hoping against hope it would cure him. He tried not to think of Harkun, tried not to think of Rylee, tried not to think...

Try all you want, your deeds determine who you are. You've given into the dark side one time too many..

Shut up.

You released the Gormak to the stars, the Voss will never welcome you back. You can't get rid of us so easily this time..

Shut up.

They're going to find out sooner or later. Then they will leave you. Your friends, your sister, your wife-to-be. You'll be alone.

SHUT UP!

"My Lord?"

Mel'ake's eyes snapped open. He fought the mental fog to realize he was staring at the ceiling. Apparently he dozed off and fell over while attempting to meditate. It wouldn't be the first time. As he gathered himself and tried to sit up, his eyes focused and he saw there was some one standing in the doorway.

"Talos?" Mel'ake asked, still slightly stupid with sleep. The archaeologist crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at the Sith sprawled on the floor.

"The door was unlocked. I heard screaming." He offered simply in way of explanation. "I don't think this was one of your ice cream relic dreams."

Mel'ake stared confused for a moment, before remembering the joke he told so long ago to explain his problems with the ghosts intruding his sleep. He smiled as he remembered Talos' reply back then.

"No, this was a flesh-eating-Jawa dream. They were going after Hutts in bikinis, I think that was the scariest part."

Talos chuckled despite the situation and offered a helping hand up to the Darth still on the floor. Mel'ake took the offered hand, and was slightly embarrassed by how much help he needed to stand. It wasn't easy; although Mel'ake was painfully scrawny, he was still over a head taller than Talos. Still, Mel'ake felt himself go pale as he realized the ghosts' return was affecting his physical state as well.

"They're back?" Talos didn't need to specify in his question. Mel'ake didn't want to answer. He didn't want to admit the problem was there, staring him in the face. Instead of speaking up, he merely nodded. Talos made a tsk'ing noise.

"You shouldn't feel you need to hide it, my lord. Would you like me to inform the rest of the crew?"

"No!" Mel'ake almost shouted, and felt guilty when he saw Talos wince. "I'm sorry, but I'd rather handle this myself."

Talos sighed, looking exasperated. "As you decree, but I don't believe any of them will abandon you if they find out. You tried to hide it last time, and look how far you fell."

"Then what do you suggest?" Mel'ake was starting to feel too tired to fight.

"Trust your crew." Talos allowed a small smile to visit his features as his voice took a theatric tone . "Think of it as a great change in your life, a new path. 'Mel'ake, the big scary Sith lord who actually trusts the people who try to help him.'"

Mel'ake pouted. "I didn't think I was so big and scary."

Talos shrugged. "You aren't, but like I said, changes."

"I'd rather not." Mel'ake sighed and shook his head. "I'd rather not anyone find out. Just, just give me one chance to set things right with the ghosts. If I fail, you can tell the others, but please don't tell them until then."

Talos nodded, apparently agreeing with the compromise. "I can call in favors from the reclamation service to see if anyone there has any leads regarding ghosts, and I can give you a sedative for the nights. It should stop the crying and screaming."

Mel'ake winced. "I don't cry in my sleep, do I?"

"Well, the Hutts in bikinis give you a valid excuse." Talos offered, "But I'm sure the new, changed Lord Mel'ake won't cry in his sleep at all."

The ice cream relic and Hutts in bikinis line comes from a conversation choice at the end of Act 2. I tried to find it on youtube but every SI video I found has a different choice. In summary, Khem/Zash mentions the inquisitor has been talking in his/her sleep, and the inquisitor can respond "Oh that? That was just a dream. There were all these relics, and each produced a different flavor of ice cream." Talos will then say, "I envy you my lord, all my dreams tend to involve flesh-eating Jawas and Hutts in bikinis." (Quotes paraphrased.) I loved the line too much to not make a reference out of it.

Camp 27. It was part of Shadow Town, one of the Empire's blackout prisons. Stars only know why they put it on Nar Shaddaa; probably some arrangement with the Hutts that it's best not to dwell on.

The mission was a rescue for Ako Domi, a Jedi hero of the Great War. Any facility that can keep a Jedi in place worries me, but it was an excuse to shred Imperials and that was enough for me. Plus, there were other POWs we might free while we were in there.

We met up with a couple of local Republic squads for the raid. Sergeant Dorne came with me. Of course. She was part of the squad. Now, when you're out there in combat, you trust the people around you or else someone gets hurt; it always took everything I had to keep my focus with her around, but I leaned into the fact that she did good work and everybody else in the army seemed to think she belonged there. It wasn't ideal, but I managed.

Shadow Town had two rings of gates and automated defenses that could only be opened on timed codes. We carved through the outer guards, recovered the first set of codes, entered. It was when we were sandwiched between defense rings that it got hairy.

Two Imp patrols hit us at the bottom of a ramp in our descent into the camp. We were doing okay until the third Imp squad reinforced. They drove us back, step by step; there were more than we expected in one place and I knew even more must be on the way. It was turning bad fast.

"Fall back," I yelled. "Fall back!" I ran over to three of our people who had fallen at the base of the ramp. It was an open field of fire apart from a couple of random crates; I bent over a big guy with a worrisomely torn-up torso and started wrapping on the minimum bandaging necessary to move him safely. Dorne ran out of nowhere to work on getting a second guy back on his feet. A wounded woman was just finishing bandaging herself enough to move. I jerked my thumb back to direct her and kept working on the big guy.

We had to be out of there as of ten minutes ago. The Imps weren't taking prisoners. Dorne looked up at me. "Go on," we yelled at each other, "I'll catch up." I would've argued, but I had somebody to evacuate. I finished what I could, enough to make sure my guy would live through the move, then hauled him up over my shoulder and looked back to make sure Dorne could move with her man. She nodded sharply and we got going.

The main thoroughfare was too hot, but there were alleyways in this twisting town. I freed up a hand to holo in to Jorgan and get him our position. He met with us not far from the outer gate; he had a few people with him, enough to take charge of the wounded.

"Objective's still in there," I told him. "Go on. Make sure our people get out clean. Dorne and I are going in to finish this."

"Alone, sir?"

I considered switching sergeants, but Dorne's medical expertise might be necessary. Or, for that matter, her knowledge of all things Imperial. "I'm kinda counting on them staying focused out here for a while. I've got guard access codes and I can sneak. Move it."

"Yes, sir." Jorgan gestured to the others and they continued their retreat.

I led Dorne further into Shadow Town, staying to side passages and darkness where I could. The inner gate had way too many guards; I called up the map and we worked our way around to a different door. Two guards and a couple of droids. Nothing we couldn't handle. I leaned back in a deep doorway and looked at Dorne. "How long 'til our access code cycles in?"

"Four minutes fifteen seconds, sir."

"All right. Good." For once that bizarre precision of hers seemed fitting. "Now while you're waiting, let's get one thing straight. You-"

You're an idiot. I told you to fall back. You're no good to me or anyone dead. You put a hair out of line and I'll forget I ever tried to trust you, so don't even try it, no matter what heroics you think you see the chance for. That stunt was stupid, plain stupid.

Dorne frowned. "Sir?"

"Just a minute. I'm working through all the yelling I should be doing at you for being stupid enough to go out there in that heat."

She looked…confused. "You were right there with me, sir."

"Yes, that's why I'm running through it in my head instead of yelling it. I'm not a complete jerk. I…that…was solid work. Stupid, but solid work. But next time I tell you to move, you move."

"Yes, sir."

Access code cycled in. We pushed on, knocking out cameras and droids and guards as we went. Liberated an armory, freed up a few Republic prisoners so they'd have the chance to blast their way free. Kept going into the deep block marked Camp 27, home of the Jedi war hero, Ako Domi.

We reached a big room that housed all the tools for Imperial-style interrogation. There was a little man reading in the corner.

"I'll ask once," I called out, "where's Ako Domi?" Prisoners here didn't have cells, as such; the Jedi might be wandering.

"Ako Domi?" He quailed. "Are you really asking…"

"Yes. I am. You're short on time."

"I can summon him," squeaked the interrogator. "Here." He entered something on the console. "Now I'm just going to…wait…elsewhere." He started running. Didn't seem to be me he was afraid of.

I shot the scum. Then I waited. Not too long after, a big guy walked in. Sith, by the looks of him, corrupt, gross, dressed in ill-fitting dark clothes.

"Who comes before me?" he demanded.

It was hard to meet those furious yellow eyes. This couldn't possibly be the Jedi. No way.

"I am Ako Domi, the lord of Camp 27. No one seeks me out."

"I'm here to return you to Republic space, Master Jedi." I figured the respectful address was safe-ish. As safe as anything was around a guy who looked this wild.

"How tiresome," he sneered. "Will you offer me pardon? Sanctuary? A chance to turn back to the light?"

"Uh, something like that. I think the Jedi back home will handle the light if you'll just come with me."

"I've been here six years. I've seen your Republic heroes turn on each other like dogs for a scrap of meat. I've seen human nature at its core, and there is no light there."

In Shadow Town? Of course not. "You've seen the Empire at its core, Master Jedi, and what the Empire twists people into. Nothing more."

"There has never been a captive here so noble he did not eventually succumb." Stars, the guy was practically getting off on his own aura of dark misery. "How long do you think you'll last?

And then, just like that, Ako Domi raised his hand. I only had a fraction of a second to fire before he seized my throat in a Force grip. Bad.

Dorne blasted his arm down for a moment, but still. Just about the only thing we had on him was numbers, and two grunts to one Jedi-Sith-thing was poor. At least he was unarmed. But it wasn't close to even 'til I managed to get a concussion grenade into play. That interrupted his choke hold on Dorne while my blaster rifle worked on his torso. Finally, he cried out and fell to his knees, hissing in pain.

Moments later he forced himself to look up at me. "Do it," he snarled. "It's in you, too, so go ahead and kill me. You want to."

I put my rifle to his head, keeping my finger just tight enough that any movement from him might fire the gun before I had to consciously do it. I tried to imagine taking this guy out to freedom as ordered. The thought didn't lead anywhere pleasant. "A mad dog like you? Maybe I do."

"Or would you rather hear me scream?" suggested Ako Domi. "Draw it out for days while I beg you to end it?"

"The thought hadn't occurred to me," I said. Sicko.

"Leftenant," said Dorne. "We need to get him out of here."

"I don't think that's going to happen," I said.

Ako Domi abruptly seemed to forget about us. He lapsed into unintelligible mumbling.

"It may be best that he die in prison," I added.

"Sir, I must object," said Dorne.

"You heard him talking. It's better that he be remembered as a hero than...this."

"It's not too late for him," she said. "If we return him to the Jedi, I'm sure they would be willing to help him."

"No. If we let him loose anything he does will be on our heads. There's some depths you don't climb out of."

"People change."

"No, they don't, Dorne. Someone like this, it's way too late."

"You don't know that, sir!"

And that's about when I figured out what else she was lecturing me about.

She took off her helmet to fix me with brilliant green eyes. "Give him a chance," she said.

"It's completely different. He doesn't want to set things right." I couldn't exactly see Ako Domi running into the line of fire for anybody any time soon.

"In a place like this it's hard to remember what the point would be. Help him get away from here and he can try again."

I wanted more time to think, or possibly just a magic Dorne-disappearing button so I could put Ako Domi down and move on. But I didn't have either.

"It's a risk," I said. "I think it's a stupid risk." I stepped away from the mumbling once-Jedi and let my rifle fall to my side. "But I owe you one, so we'll do it your way."

"You…owe me…?"

"Back there. Going in to patch up our reinforcements. You haven't forgotten already, have you?"

"No. I just didn't think it incurred a personal debt."

"They work with me, they're my people, Dorne. I don't forget. Now come on."

Dorne knelt to tend to the wound in Ako Domi's chest. He grimaced at her, glassy-eyed. "Fool, you don't know what you're doing. You do know you want to hurt me, even you, stupid creature…"

I nudged him with one boot. "Respect the sergeant," I said, "or I will change my mind."

He chuckled nastily, but after that he shut up.

We got Ako Domi out of there. Me, I figure he's crazy past fixing, but maybe he got a fresh start after all. For what it's worth, he got the chance to turn it around.

Maybe I got a chance to turn something around, too, but that's a stretch. It's just that she did a good turn for me and mine, and I did one for her, and that makes us even. In hindsight I think it would've snapped what shaky working relationship we had if I just gave him that shot in the head. Doing it this way opened something up. It meant something to her. Of course the defector would want me to believe people can climb out of a pit like that and start getting it right.

I don't know yet.

it's after the fight at the end of Act 2, immediately after you subdue Ralos and then have your cutscene power-flipout vs. Darth Thanaton. Said power flipout continues, same cutscene, with you collapsing and your crew showing up, at which point Zash will comment on the nightmares.

And I said something lame and serious instead of "Lucky guess" or, possibly, "I was just sleeping." Which meant I didn't learn about exciting dreams.

The response that will get you the amazing line is "I was just sleeping."