In Retrospect and Denial

A paralyzing pain woke Namenlos from his sleep, the first peaceful sleep he could recall. The pain itself was not a new experience; pain was his near-constant companion, had been for as long as he could remember. Crippling headaches, physical abuse, phantom pains that refused to go away, and most recently, a heinous device of imprisonment and torture locked around his neck, glazed over by a facade of faith and the illusion of goodwill.

This was different.

For the briefest of instants just as he opened his eyes and became aware of the world around him, a searing agony held him captive in its grip. It felt like the flesh had been flayed from his back. He had only enough breath to wheeze inaudibly before - as quickly as it had come on - the pain vanished.

Trembling, he put a hand to his spine. He felt something wet, sticky, and warm.

Shaken, Namenlos staggered to his feet, drawing the tattered remains of what had once been a cloak around himself. He stared without comprehension down at the corner in which he'd been sleeping--at the bloodstain on the floor.

As he drew in shallow breaths, calming himself down, he put a hand to his neck, felt the accursed leather collar the Jedi Bastila had put on him in order to 'save' him--a tool of subjugation and control. She said he was endowed with the powers of the Force, but when he lost his mind - her words - he lost his ability to control it, and as a result his own affinity would gradually begin to destroy him if he went without help. She said the headaches were only the beginning, and they would worsen. This much he could believe; he'd grown to fear his headaches so much he would do almost anything to keep them away.

He knew it felt like more and more of himself was slipping away every time he touched the emptiness he always felt lurking just behind those headaches.

Bastila claimed to be concerned for him, claimed the Jedi Order meant only to help him. Her solution - the Jedi's solution - was to enslave him.

Namenlos' anger heated again. He'd vowed to himself no more life lived at someone's whim; not a street punk's, not a crime lord's, not the Jedi's.

His stomach twisted, reminding him of how hungry he was. He couldn't remember the last thing he'd had to eat, and now that the thought of food had entered his mind, his mouth watered at merely the idea of nourishment. Yet, at the same time, he felt he was about to vomit. Caught between the conflicting physical impulses, Namenlos fought a retch and put his back up against the cargo bay wall, sinking to the floor as he tried to settle himself. He remembered this predicament well enough from his time on Taris; helpless, without hope of things ever improving.

Now Taris was gone. For good or ill, that chapter of his life was over.

He heard a soft rap on the wall, looked up to see Mission peeking in at him. "Hey, you okay?" she asked in a subdued voice.

He'd lived on Taris only a few months. She'd lived there her whole life. While he could, to a degree, understand what the girl was going through, Namenlos couldn't really comprehend how much worse it was for her to have seen the destruction of her home. He hated everything about Taris, but it still was all he had, and all she'd had. Now it was gone.

"I've been kidnapped, enslaved, and forced to watch everything that used to be my life go up in flames." He shook his head. "What do you think, Mission?"

"Ahem!" Bastila had appeared behind Mission, stood with her arms crossed, wordlessly demanding the Twi'lek girl leave her presence.

Mission shrugged, retreating. "See you later, Namenlos?"

"I guess," he replied.

"We will be landing at the Jedi Enclave shortly," Bastila announced, letting herself into the cargo hold. "The Jedi Council will wish to speak with you immediately, I have informed them of current matters and your own condition. I'm sure they will also wish to begin your training immediately."

"Training," he said flatly.

Her serene smile faltered. "Yes, the Jedi training. In order to properly control the power within you, you must learn the Jedi way. If left untrained, as I have said, this power will kill you, even with the collar." Her expression darkened. "Worse, if improperly trained, you would turn to the Dark Side and become just like the Sith. That is the fate of anyone who foolishly believes it is acceptable to use the Force for their own personal gain."

"Jedi don't use the Force for themselves?"

"It is our calling, our duty, our very destiny, to use the gift of the Force in the service of others, not ourselves. Among many others, this is the most important thing you will learn, from Jedi much better than I who will be better able to teach you the founding principles."

"So the purpose of a Jedi is to take what is his own and give it to someone else?"

Bastila frowned. "Sacrifice of our own wants and needs is our sacred--"

Disgusted, Namenlos cut her off. "It is our 'duty' to take what is ours, something we were born with, and use it as a justification to enslave ourselves to others, any others?"

Bastila licked her lips, exasperated. "Pledging ourselves in the service of others is not slavery, as you would put it, it is the only moral use of the Force. It is not our place to judge who is or is not worth our help if they are in need."

Namenlos' ears twitched and his nose flared in ire. "What about Mandalorians then? They assaulted and destroyed our world, massacred and butchered thousands of my people, while you Jedi did nothing! Are we still to give up our lives 'in service' to them?"

Her face lost some of its color. "You know nothing of what happened."

"You're wrong. I know plenty. I may not know who I am, but I have always remembered what I am," he snarled. "I'm Cathar, and I will never forget what the Mandalorians did to my people. I'll learn your little codes and your rules, I'll learn whatever you want to teach me about the Force if that's what it'll take for you to take this collar off me. But don't ever, ever, expect me to forget what I am. What I am is all I have left."

As soon as his tirade was finished, Bastila quickly regained her composure. She went back to a smooth, placating voice. "You are seeing only what you wish to see, Namenlos, only what is convenient for your state of mind. You are upset, and perhaps you have the right to be, but you must let go of this pointless anger; it does you no credit and only harms you. To be a Jedi, as you soon will be, we must constantly be on guard against the lure of the Dark Side. It is just this sort of anger, what seems like perfectly reasonable objection, that carries the poison of the Dark Side. Anger leads only to hate, and the true suffering of the Dark Side.

"The Sith were once Jedi who fell into this same trap. Now they work toward the destruction of the Light and the free civilization of the Republic, but it is they who pay the true price. The Dark Side corrupts all it touches, and it is only through strict adherence to the ways and the Code of the Jedi that we can keep it at bay. For all other courses, the lure of the Dark Side is unavoidable.

"If for no other reason, this is why you must allow us to help you, Namenlos; to keep the Dark Side from you."

Namenlos could hardly believe the things he was hearing, but it was clear to him that Bastila sincerely believed in what she said, she wasn't simply the messenger for this Jedi Council--this was what she believed. In a way he almost felt sorry for her; she was devoting so much of herself just to convince him to give up his life and go willingly into this slavery, something he would never do.

He clenched a fist. "You teach me what you want. All your codes can't take away the fact that you took me against my will. That makes me a prisoner. I intend to learn what I need in order for you take this collar off me. I have no interest in being a Jedi, but the Sith have certainly earned nothing but my hatred, and I have little choice in the matter besides."

Before Bastila could respond, the ship's intercom crackled with Carth's voice. "We're touching down."

---

Namenlos squinted his garnet eyes as he stepped out into the bright sunlight. In months of living in the shadow-world of Lower City Taris he'd grown quite accustomed to low light. Not a cloud in the sky, the full sun hit him like a slap in the face. It was something entirely new, and apart from the squinting, he didn't half mind it. The warming rays were a welcome change from the cold, dank drafts coming up from Taris' lower reaches to make him shiver in fitful sleep while he grappled with insanity.

A sideways glance at Bastila and his mood soured once again. She was asking Carth, Mission, and the others to stay with the ship while she and he went to see the Council.

Examining the grounds around the landing pad, Namenlos took appraisal of the Jedi Enclave, his new prison. The pad itself was one of three, obviously the Enclave's primary port of connection to what few cities Dantooine could call to its name. People of several different stripes were strolling about, inquiring at the few markets placed strategically between the pads and the buildings of the Enclave itself. He could see Humans, Twi'leks, and Rodians in abundance, with the occasional Iridonian and Quarren straggler, an Aqualish here and there, and a few individuals of races he didn't recognize. Most of the people were wearing the same tan-brown outfits Bastila favored; this probably identified them as fellow Jedi.

In addition to the bright sky - through which glided enormous, graceful creatures and colorful birds of every sort - all over the grounds were planted tall, proud trees full of leaf and flower. Lush pads of thick grasses lined every walk, and beyond the complex, vast fields of green stretched for miles. He could smell the warm richness of the air, so different from the abrasive feel of floating concrete dust in an atmosphere that stank of molded building insulation, rank sewer water, and creeping vermin.

The gentle breeze lifted some of his smaller dreadlocks, he pushed them out of the way. This was the sort of place he could grow to love--but not as a prisoner. The shackles of oppression would turn even the lushest paradise into a purgatorial wasteland to him. Pretty words and beautiful surroundings did not negate the fact he had been denied his freedom, his life.

Namenlos had regained his glower by the time Bastila called "This way," and began leading him into the Enclave proper.

Leaving the landing pad behind, they entered a round courtyard dominated at the center by a massive, thick-trunked tree whose branches roofed nearly the entire ground, filtering the glare of the sun and letting its glow upon everything in dappled streams. Many tan-robed Jedi were meandering through the courtyard, still more sitting on benches either around the perimeter, in fuller sunlight, or up against the broad trunk of the guardian tree, conversing in low, respectful tones, reading, or simply sitting peacefully, eyes closed; others stood about engaged in similar activities.

Most - the very young and young adults, as far as he could tell - wore a thin braid in their hair; most without this distinguishing feature were attired in dark blue robes of similar design that somehow seemed to make their wearers seem more important. Perhaps this was a part of the hierarchy.

As he and Bastila passed through the courtyard, all eyes turned first to her, then to him, and stayed on him. Whispers broke out in the hushed courtyard, the words obscured by the masking sound of rustling leaves in the wind, but Namenlos knew they had to be discussing him.

With his dirty, tattered clothes, unwashed body, long, twisted hair, his filthy and ravaged face, not to mention his surly, unfriendly expression, he was probably a sight the likes of which no one present had ever seen before. An uncultured barbarian, an unenlightened savage; that was what they saw as they looked at him. That was what they felt gave them sovereignty over him, they were somehow better than him.

Namenlos acknowledged none of them.

Some of the younger ladies crowded around Bastila, eager to speak with her but obviously a bit intimidated by her presence and that of the strange new visitor.

"Welcome back, Padawan Bastila," trilled one of them, a petite Twi'lek girl who looked only a few years older than Mission and with a greener hue to her skin. "It's been months, we all missed you so."

"Thank you, Rusha," Bastila replied, walking at a rather fast clip, apparently not relishing the possibility of being hemmed in by the gaggle of admirers. "I have had important work for the Council and the Republic."

"Will you be staying long?" another girl asked.

"That depends on the Council, Klaire," Bastila responded.

The girl Klaire, who looked only a year or so younger than Bastila, turned her naive blue-eyed gaze back to Namenlos. He noted her attention but pointedly refused to look back at her.

"Who is he?" Klaire asked. "Are you training him, Bastila?"

The girl's question caused Bastila's face to flush, something Namenlos noted with some satisfaction, having hardly ever seen the Jedi so flustered by such a simple thing as attention. "No, Klaire, of course not. The Council will oversee any training he may receive."

Klaire's blonde ponytail bobbed as she nodded agreeably. "Belaya told us you were bringing another Cathar to the Academy. It was such a shame losing Juhani, maybe things will feel a little better around here now with him around. What's his name?"

"Klaire, wait." Bastila stopped a moment. "What happened to Juhani?" she asked the girl.

Klaire shrugged. "She attacked Master Quatra with a training lightsabre, injured her quite badly, and then fled the Enclave several weeks ago. We haven't had word of her since. Poor girl."

Bastila's face took on a look of maternal authority and she grasped Klaire by the arm. "Klaire, Juhani has fallen to the Dark Side. Did Master Quatra survive?"

Suppressing a few tears, Klaire nodded. "After she recovered, Quatra left for Coruscant. I don't think she expects Juhani to come back."

"Juhani is lost to us, Klaire, you must put her from your mind."

The girl nodded again, sadly. "'There is no death, there is the Force,'" she intoned. An expression of sudden cheer spread across her face. "I hope we can talk later, Bastila. It's been dull here without you."

Bastila bid the girl goodbye and they continued on.

Namenlos had paid keen attention to the exchange. The mere mention of another of his kind had rooted his ears to the girl's every word. There were few of other species or races who could truly understand his own. Especially now, after the diaspora and exile from their own world, bonds among Cathar, even strangers, were strong. He would have wanted to speak with this Juhani before making such a brazen assumption as had Bastila.

They moved past the onlookers and clucking admirers, into yet another building. It was neutrally-lit, decorated sparely, and eerily quiet all about. A few brown-robed Jedi passed in either direction, all easily twice as old as most of the people outside, undoubtedly masters and the like.

Bastila led him down a series of hallways and through a few intersections, at the last of which they were met by an older, dark-skinned, balding Human in the dark blue robes he'd seen on a few of the Jedi outside. He examined the both of them with a sharp eye, taking twice as much time on him than Bastila. The man was committing Namenlos' face to memory, he realized. He wasn't sure how he could know such a thing, but it seemed what he would do in the situation.

Finally, after what seemed like hours under the man's scrutinizing gaze - but had, in reality, been only a few seconds - he took his gaze off Namenlos to smile warmly at Bastila.

"Master Dorak," Bastila said in greeting, bowing.

"The Council are eager to speak with you and--your companion," Dorak said, noticeably avoiding saying... something. They were hiding something from him.

Dorak gestured. "Come, they are waiting for you both."

At his behest, Namenlos and Bastila followed him into a large circular chamber, about half the dimensions of the courtyard outside, enclosed by a glass dome overhead that let the fresh sunlight in while maintaining a surreal calm and quiet inside. At the far end of the chamber sat a row of ornately simplistic high-backed chairs arranged so they curved with the natural flow of the room itself and the face of each seat's occupant was directed inward--towards him as he approached the men waiting.

Those seated included an older man with thinning gray hair and a permanent scowl affixed to his face, a Twi'lek with a pinkish-tan hue to his skin, and an odd little creature of a race he'd never seen before. Creature was the wrong word, but words failed him to describe the green-skinned, two and a half-foot... person, with a deeply-wrinkled face and long pointed ears who sat on the far right of the three. Dorak took a seat beside this odd fellow.

Namenlos looked at Bastila, at her unreadable expression, then looked at each new face in turn, trying to size up each one and gather what he could from passive observation. No one said anything.

For an instant, while his eyes tracked between the man with the sour disposition and the Twi'lek, Namenlos was struck by a sliver of nauseating pain. It couldn't have lasted for more than a fraction of a second, otherwise he would have retched his empty stomach onto the polished marbled floor in front of everyone, but while it did last, it seemed to stretch on into infinity. His head felt like it was being torn open like an obscene flower.

The moment it stopped he drew a shallow breath and staggered a little on his feet while the shock and physical sensations dissipated as fast and suddenly as they had come on. Within a matter of seconds he began to wonder if perhaps he had imagined it. But the bile in the back of his throat invalidated that conclusion.

He looked at the faces again. Nothing. Namenlos could not shake the impression that a lot more time had just passed than it felt like.

"Welcome to the Jedi Enclave," the Twi'lek said to him. "I am Zhar, a member of the Jedi Council here on Dantooine. This is Master Vrook--" he gestured to the surly Human with gray hair beside him, "and this is Master Vandar," he said, indicating his short companion. "You have already met Master Dorak, our Academy Chronicler."

Namenlos nodded at each one in turn. "Why am I here?" he asked.

Vrook spoke, and as Namenlos suspected, his voice matched his appearance; scratchy, impatient, and grating. "You are here because you cannot remain loose in the galaxy with your powers untrained. Such untapped power could easily kill you without proper help, or worse; put innocent lives in harm's way."

"What Master Vrook means by this," Vander, the tiny green Master who sat between Dorak and Zhar, interjected, "is that it is both for your own well-being and the safety of the citizens of the Republic that Bastila has brought you here. We Jedi are concerned with the safety of all life. It is our duty to ensure that those gifted with the powers of the Force receive the proper training of their abilities. In other courses, such as when there is too little training, or training that is in some other way inadequate or improper, there is great danger to the Force-adept that they will fall to the Dark Side, the enemy of all Jedi. If not properly guarded against, the Dark Side can consume even the greatest among us."

Almost as if on cue, Dorak began speaking. "The Sith who now threaten all freedom in the galaxy are led by the fearsome Darth Malak, once an accomplished Jedi and, by many accounts, a hero of millions. When he and his illegitimate master turned to the Dark Side, they unleashed the Sith upon the galaxy, and now Malak works to bring all peoples under his rule. It is this kind of tyranny and oppression to which the Jedi stand in opposition. Our most important function in this capacity is to ensure that Jedi never stray onto this path in the first place--"

"--thus emphasizing the importance of proper training and devotion to the Jedi Code," Master Vrook finished for Dorak. "Only by strict, total adherence to the ways of the Jedi can one resist the lure of the Dark Side. This is the undertaking that lies before you."

Namenlos stood silently regarding them all for a moment. Once, he might have been able to read the movements of Zhar's lekku, but that inexplicable knowledge was gone from him. Vrook was easy enough to read; every crease and fold of his face spoke of a conviction that this entire proceeding was a very bad idea. Oddly enough, Namenlos found himself half-agreeing.

"What if I say no?" he asked the assembled Council of Jedi Masters, who had taken the considerable time explaining the obvious why but not the baser why. There was much more to this than they would tell him. Not once had they asked his name, suggesting they already knew it. If they knew his name, it stood to reason they knew a lot more even than his name.

They were holding his life in their hands in more ways than just the one. He hungered for those answers, but at the same time he feared what might be necessary in order to find them. The clearer his picture of the Jedi Order became, the less he liked the prospect letting them "train" him.

His question was received with well-honed looks of scholarly concern from Zhar and Dorak, and a darkening expression of disapproval from Vrook. Vandar remained neutral in his reaction.

"Namenlos, you mustn't refuse. You are not qualified to judge the ways of the Jedi," Bastila chided him in a low voice of warning. He whirled on her.

"Then first tell me who I am!" Namenlos demanded. "Tell me how this nightmare became my life!"

"Brash, loud-mouthed, arrogant. You would do well to keep such unbridled backtalk in check," came the stiff rebuke from Vrook, who scowled gloriously at him. Namenlos glared in response.

"The apprentice's questions are not unreasonable Vrook," Vandar spoke, and for some reason Namenlos felt vaguely reassured by the oblique support he had just been given.

"You are correct, apprentice," Vandar told him. "We do indeed know many things about you, and in due time it may be necessary for you to learn of them from us. But the mind is complicated, and more so when the Force is added into the equation. Suffice it to say for the time being, apprentice, it is best that you be allowed to come to these answers on your own, for only then will they be truly meaningful to you."

Vandar was right on all points, Namenlos concluded with sick realization. He would not trust things of such import coming from the mouths of the people who had laid claim to his life, his precious life. He could never be certain they were not simply more tools to keep him in control; metaphysical collars that brought on phantom pain to bring him to heel. Even so, to be so close to what could be the keys to what had come before, and have them dangled just out of reach, was demoralizing.

"Am I then to remain nameless?" he asked in a numb voice.

"You have already given yourself a name," came the response from Zhar. "Your decision on a name for yourself, in your condition of uncertainty and desperation, displays you hold the will to continue this search for answers. Keep it for the time being; though it is only a name, it gives you an anchor to what was and what will be."

Reaching inside himself, he drew in a deep breath--

My name is Namenlos. I am Cathar and will always be Cathar.

--and exhaled quietly.

His choice made, "How long?" was his last question to the Jedi Masters.

"It would be unwise to set a time limit for something so important as training in the ways of the Jedi, apprentice," Zhar responded. "It may take no time at all; it may take decades."

With deliberate slowness, he brushed the hair away from his neck so they could see the hated leather collar on his neck. He touched it lightly, feeling its buzz of warning, the harbinger of what pain it could unleash were he to try to remove it, or if Bastila found cause to stop him.

"You put this collar on me; I intend to have it off. If it takes decades then so be it."

"Very well, apprentice," Zhar said in acknowledgment. He gestured and Namenlos noticed a brown-robed girl about Bastila's age entering the room. She halted halfway between him and the door and stood expectantly.

"Belaya here will see that you are settled. Go with her and she will show you to your living quarters," Zhar instructed. "Your training will begin tomorrow at first light."

---

Namenlos walked stoically and nodded woodenly as he was led through some of the more mundane parts of the Jedi Enclave by the talkative Jedi Padawan Belaya. She looked as old as Bastila, but behaved as if she were five or six years younger. Like some of the younger girls she was somewhat chirpy and fascinated by the prospect of something new and exciting, but on certain occasions he could clearly see the hardening layers of dogmatism beneath the evanescent cheerfulness.

She pointed out to him areas of interest, such as the open libraries, the exercise floors, cafeteria, communal showers, and vigorously detailed the strict rules relating to all of them. Occasionally, she would call his attention to one group of individuals or another and launch off into an inconsequential anecdote about some of them. Namenlos just grunted his acknowledgement of her tangents, not really interested in the latest Jedi gossip.

"Do you ever speak?" Belaya finally asked him as they entered the dormitory wing.

"Often enough," he responded, not looking at her.

She hmphed and came to a halt at a door midway down one corridor. "This will be your room," Belaya said as the door slid open, revealing the small but well-furnished room inside. Namenlos raised an eyebrow in suspicion as he crossed the threshold to examine his new habitation.

A simple bed stood at one end on the smooth tile surface, a large circular area rug on the floor between it and the door. To the side was an open closet and a small dresser, both of which looked well-stocked. A spare nightstand held a ceramic pitcher and bowl, as well as a clean white washcloth. In one of the remaining corners stood a table, on which lay both a rudimentary datapad and a plain, unmarked book, as well as a small pile of credit chips.

Belaya let herself in while Namenlos studied the plain walls, planning. She rifled through the closet, precociously picking out a set of uniform tan robes that would match those of half the students and masters at the Enclave. She thrust them at him with authoritative expectation on her face.

"Take these, go to the showers and bathe yourself, then give your old clothes to the laundry master to be burned. I understand this is something you may not be used to, but you are in a civilized establishment now and you will be expected to maintain certain standards of cleanliness," she said in a tone that was suddenly condescending.

Namenlos took the clothes and threw them angrily to the bed. "I will not be talked down to by you," he said with quiet fury.

"You should beware of your anger, apprentice. Anger leads only to the Dark Side," Belaya clucked, the impersonal armor of a Jedi locking over an innocent young woman's face.

"Get out," he hissed, not in the mood for more lectures.

She shrugged. "Mind what I say, apprentice, or you will find the path of your training long and difficult indeed." And then she was gone.

Namenlos sat down on the bed, testing the softness of the bedding. It was certainly more luxurious than anything he'd had on Taris, but there was a springiness to it that made him uncomfortable, for some reason reminding him of falling. The clothes were another matter. While he ruefully admitted that the freshly-cleaned, pleasant-smelling, drab brown robes would be a sight better than the permanently-stained, granite lice-infested, scavenged wardrobe he'd built up to himself during his time on Taris, there was certain sentimental value attributed to his old clothes. To get rid of them would be giving up another part of himself.

"Can I come in?"

He looked up to see Mission and the Wookiee Zaalbar standing at the door. He nodded. "Sure."

The Twi'lek girl immediately jumped onto the bed and sat beside him. "How are you doing?" she asked.

Namenlos edged on the bed a little bit out of reflex as Zaalbar came closer. "I don't know. I feel surrounded. You know how that feels?"

Mission smiled the slightest bit. "Well, there was that time Big Z and I got captured on Taris. You saved us, as I remember."

Namenlos grunted, cracking the smallest of smiles himself. The thing he remembered most about that was the mystifying behavior of the fellow rakghoul who helped him and the undeniable intelligence he'd sensed behind those black oval eyes. Thinking on that just reminded him of other painful things, so he turned his thoughts away from them.

"Do you feel like you just want to go back to how things were before?" he asked Mission seriously.

"Yeah," the girl answered. "But we can't ever go back, just forward, I guess. But maybe we can make forward better."

"How do we do that when every part of forward is controlled by someone else?"

Mission wrung her hands. "Well, I don't know. But they can't control you or how you look at it, can they? You're still your own person, right? I know Griff used to say things are always better with a bottle of juma and a good attitude." She frowned. "But that was Griff for ya. I think he was trying to say not to be thinking about all the bad things in life all the time."

"Think about the good things, then?"

"Yeah, something like that. I mean, after all, you're still alive, right? Still alive and still kicking, and that means there's hope."

---

There was a ripple, a wave, an echo of something profound. Juhani sensed it as clear as day even if she couldn't tell what it was. Even shrouded in the Dark Side, deep in the old grove surrounded by ensorcelled beasts that did her bidding, she could still perceive that something fundamental had changed.

Something deadly important was now different.

For her, the Dark Side had not proven to be everything it was supposed to. Rather than feel liberated, she felt only further enslaved. She could never get away from the fact that she'd killed her Master. Juhani hated what Quatra had put her through, but she could no longer tell herself that she should have died just for that. She just didn't understand whatever lesson Quatra had been trying to teach her when she died, and that was the worst of all; knowing only that she'd failed the test, without even knowing what the test was.

Likewise, there could be no escape from the fact that Nemo was dead because of her. She hated that even more, for she'd not asked him to come looking for her, she only wanted to be left alone. The hounds had protected her, only for her to belatedly realize he was no threat to her.

The only threat to her was she herself, for letting the Dark Side take hold of her.

But perhaps that would not always be so. During the weeks of her isolation since exiling herself to the wilderness, she'd become familiar enough with the ethereal currents of energy affected by the unique Force signatures of Dantooine's inhabitants to know that something had changed. If her meditation was like the serenity of a lake in spring, this echo was like someone had tossed a handful of pebbles into its unbroken surface. It was a disruption, a storm, something caused by what could only be a very unique individual.

Even if Juhani couldn't detect the person behind this intriguing Force signature, she could certainly feel its effects. It was an alluring sensation, not quite a promise, but ripe with possibility.

For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, something pierced her shell of numbness, something she would have thought long dead within her.

Longing.