Chapter Text
The light was coming from inside the library: a soft yellow glow spilling onto the hall’s floor in a small puddle. Someone was up late.
Bastila quietly opened the door and, sure enough, was greeted by the now-familiar sight of a figure hunched over the corner table, left elbow propped on left knee, which was itself resting on top of the right one. All long limbs and sharp joints, the result was uncannily like a curled-up kinrath spider and kept giving everyone in the Enclave minor heart attacks. Mission bestowed upon him an appropriately unappealing nickname of “fluff-rath”. Larion just snickered and continued to slip into the pose whenever he found himself sitting.
Whether at the sound of the door or at the sensation in the bond, he lifted his white head from the datapad in front of him and smiled at her.
“Good evening, Commander Shan.”
“Good evening, Larion,” she replied, stepping into the room. “I thought we were on a first-name basis now?”
“Ah, yes. Sorry, force of habit. I did address you like that the whole time I knew you, after all.”
“As was proper by the military etiquette.” Bastila pulled a seat for herself from the neighboring table. “I am not your commander now, though.”
“Yes... Bastila.”
“That’s better. Now, I see you are again neglecting the Enclave regimen,” she chided softly.
“Guilty as charged.” Lar’s smile which had dipped somewhat warmed up again. “I made the mistake of following a couple of links in that description of patching wounds up with the Force. Did you know you could use the same technique to correct even congenital anomalies like ventricular septal defects?”
“To be honest, I am not even familiar with ventricular septal defects,” she admitted, feeling a bit sheepish in the face of his obvious excitement.
“Basically, a hole in the wall between the heart ventricles. It’s not even technically a wound, just underdevelopment of tissue unless it’s a complication of a heart attack…” Lar looked up at her sufficiently confused face. “Okay, that almost got away from me. Anyway, this treatise says you can sense the defect through the Force and prompt the tissues to heal just as you'd do with your ordinary open wound, directing the growth. A half-hour meditation at best, when practiced. No incisions, no patches, no nothing. Fascinating.”
Fascinating, indeed. Who would have thought that propensity for healing arts survived his fall as well as injury? Sure, the Council had based his cover story on facts from his early biography, but this… this went well beyond the scope of said cover story. Was it another harmless memory latching itself to the new framework - or a sign of something worse? She should probably check. Just in case.
“I suppose it is,” Bastila said carefully. “I am no expert in the field of healing, but you’re a medic, after all; your interest in such topics is only natural. Although I seem to recall from your service records that you did not have… much of an opportunity to pursue anything else but combat medicine?”
“True. Joined the war effort before I could finish my education.” He tilted his head. “Still, I’ve never wanted to limit myself to tacmed. Especially as I’m not much use as a field medic anymore, as you probably also know from my records.”
Huh. So far, so good. Let’s poke a little more.
“In fact, I do not. I know you were a medic with the Army, were injured in the line of duty, then, after recovery, applied for a position with the Navy, but the reason for that was never specified.” That last was even true; the documents manufactured for his cover only stated the dry facts, as they should, and the medical histories of all soldiers were confidential, so she wasn’t supposed to know what she knew. “If you do not mind my asking, what was that reason? It would seem you are a capable specialist.”
Lar grimaced.
“Let's put it this way: I'm not exactly fit for ground missions anymore. Not even for a stabilization unit. As you may have already noticed, my vision is… well.” The corner of his mouth twitched in a sardonic smirk as he touched his visor; with mild surprise, she noticed that not only was the photochromic glass left transparent in the soft library lighting, but that he opted out of his usual brown contact lenses. “It’s not like I haven’t had ophthalmological problems before, my genetic makeup being what it is, but they weren’t caused by direct damage to the visual cortex and were much more manageable. Now it's permanent difficulties with my left visual field, and if my brain gets overheated, it can and will send me into full blindness. It's sheer luck that hadn't happened on Taris."
"So I applied for a transfer because it was the only opportunity to still be of some use. Assisting in the ship’s medical is a lot easier than being dirtside. Although, truth be told, if the Fleet weren’t so desperate for staff, I’d probably still be disqualified.”
Exactly how he’s supposed to answer, and with nothing untoward for her Jedi senses to reveal. If she didn’t know better, she could’ve believed the story herself.
“I see. I’ll admit that I was keen on having a fully crewed medical bay on the Endar Spire .”
“So that’s why you had a hand in getting me reassigned there?”
Uh-oh. If it isn’t Carth’s paranoia at work. The man just had to be absolutely obnoxious about last-minute additions to his crew, even if the ship could really use one more medic.
“Yes. Yes, of course. Though it was probably the will of the Force that your application came when it did. Otherwise, someone else would’ve been in your place, and we would not be having this conversation.” She put on her best sympathetic smile, which really wasn’t all that hard to do in front of that guileless visage. “Perhaps it wasn’t correct to think of yourself as to only “be of use” in the Endar Spire ’s medbay, after all. However… disastrous the events on Taris may have been, they have at least brought you here, Larion; to be more than just a medic, to be a Jedi. There will be much use for your abilities, and perhaps more ways around your disabilities. Especially with the kind of effort you are putting into the healing studies.”
“Effort? More time than effort, really. I wish I had more hours in the day…” He sighed, lightly drumming his fingers on the datapad. “There’s so much that can be learned.”
“Your training isn’t going to be over with the trials, not by a long shot. You’ll have plenty of time to focus on those topics afterwards.” Bastila tried her best not to let the quavering in her voice show, but Lar was too attentive.
“After the war, you wanted to say.”
“Possibly.” She echoed his earlier sigh. “I wish I could say something else, yet the truth remains: beyond the walls of this Enclave, the battle still rages… and sooner or later, we’ll be called to fight it once more.”
“And you sooner than me.”
“Again, possibly. There’s still the matter of the vision to investigate.”
“And after that? Battle Meditation for you, I assume?”
Bastila shrugged.
“That, or whichever path our joint endeavour will set us on.” She shifted in her seat a little. “It matters not. I will do my duty to the Order and the Republic, whatever that may entail.”
“As is proper,” Larion muttered under his breath.
“I’m sorry, what was that again?”
“Nothing.” He untangled himself from the hideous pose and sat straighter. “I’d like to ask you a question, though.”
“Please, ask away. I am always glad to help with your studies.”
“...About something other than studies.”
“I will answer whatever I can.” She tried not to sound too careful.
“Is Battle Meditation your duty, or your interest?”
Bastila’s eyebrows flew up.
“It is my duty. Therefore, it is my interest.”
“That’s not what I meant. Does it bring you any joy?”
She took a moment to formulate.
“I find joy in knowing that it has saved lives, yes.”
“Not in the process?”
The process… If she was being entirely honest, the process didn’t involve her feeling much. There was just too little space left in her head for it. Project, enforce, influence as the situation required; and the situations were often pure madness, thousands of beings enraged, terrified, exhilarated, bloodthirsty, disgusted, focused, in pain, in death throes… If she allowed herself to feel anything about it, she would surely succumb to madness herself; her teachers certainly made a point to remind her of that at every possible opportunity.
For the duration of her duties, she was more machine than human, a complex, detached algorithm in the Force. Sometimes she wished it would be like that for every waking moment. No emotion, but peace.
Except, for some reason, that particular kind of peace was only to be found in the heat of battle…
Bastila realized the pause was drawing much too long. Yet it wasn’t uncomfortable. Somehow she knew Lar wouldn’t begrudge her neither the time nor the resulting answer, whatever it turned out to be.
Now this thought should've been comforting, yet instead, it brought a bitter taste to her mouth. Sit here, blissful in his ignorance, will he? Shower her with oh-so-patient benevolence? Ask her if she was feeling any joy from fighting in this bloody war of his making! Did you feel any joy when you turned on us, preying on our weakness, you bastard? Did you, now?!
Oh, how she wanted to slap it in his face. But she couldn’t.
“My Battle Meditation is a difficult and delicate mental manipulation,” she finally gritted through her teeth. “Performed under duress, as well. Such feeling as joy is simply not applicable to the… process, as you put it.”
Lar’s expression flickered from patient waiting - to brief bewilderment - to something apologetic.
“I… see. Sorry, Bastila. Put my foot in it, didn’t I?”
“Of course not.” She still fumed, was acutely aware of the fact, and tried to not let it show. “A Jedi is above taking offense at misinformed questions.”
“So it may be; still, I apologize.” He looked her in the eye. “I should’ve known better than to talk about joy in regards to what places you, a Jedi, in the literal middle of fighting and dying. I just… hate to think you have to give so much of yourself to a duty you don’t even like.”
Damn it. Did something seep into their bond after all, despite her best efforts? Still, she couldn’t deny that it was nice to hear someone say that instead of another bout of lecture or praise. Even if it was this… impossible creature.
“Well, not all of us have the luxury of doing what we like,” she said dryly. “Someone has to do what is needed.”
Lar shrugged.
“Can’t argue with that. Wouldn’t it be nice if the two coincided more often, huh?”
Oh boy. No, no, and no, she absolutely wasn’t going to follow that particular line of discussion, however tempting it might be. He was the very last person she should confide her doubts to. She had to present a strong example; she had to hammer into him what being a Jedi entailed.
“Even if they never do, our Code gives us all the respite we need. Remember, Lar: there is no emotion, there is peace. There is no passion, there is serenity. Find the latter, and the former ceases to be important.”
“You have found it, then.” He avoided making that a question. Believed her, or spared her pride?
Whatever. It was probably time to withdraw. Before any more unbalancingly sympathetic remarks.
“It is not something that can be found once and for all, I think; but it can be found, and that’s what matters.” She stood up, breaking from the conversation.
“And while we are talking about peace, you should get some. Master Zhar has planned the basics of the Fourth Form for tomorrow, and your body should be properly rested for that one.”
“Yes, Commander. At once, Commander.” The sparks of mischief in his eyes gave him away.
Bastila made absolutely certain the huff that escaped her lips could not be mistaken for a laugh. Or at least she told herself so.
“Well, good night then, fellow Padawan.” She turned to leave, not waiting for his reply, yet unable to resist watching him out of the corner of her eye. Lar’s amusement crept onto his face, lighting it with another of those smiles, and somehow that drained the last of her anger.
As she walked out of the library, she found herself smiling as well - just a little.