I'm not quite sure how to start this; I haven't really written much in my lifetime. I guess I haven't really had the need to as of yet. But, I suppose it's never too late to start something if you really want to. Of course, I'm not sure if I really want to write this or not for myself, so, I'll be addressing it to you since you were the one who told me to it.

Last night, I woke up from yet another nightmare, drenched in sweat. As usual, you woke up too, and you were rubbing my back in an attempt to calm me down. You asked me what the dream was about, and as usual, I couldn't bring myself to tell you. You sighed and kissed my shoulder before curling up around me. I could feel your disappointment, but I knew that I would never really be able to be able to express any of the memories aloud. I just can't form the words.

I told you that, and you smiled at me before leaning over to kiss my temple. "Maybe you should just write it down then," you said. I sighed in frustration and scooted over to the other side of the bed, pulling the blankets up to cover myself. I heard you groan, but ignored you. I didn't think that you understood. If I couldn't string the words together when I spoke, what in the seven hells made you think that I could string them together to write?

I guess you understood what I was thinking. Then again, you always manage to do that. It gets pretty annoying at times, I must say. You told me that whenever something was bothering you, whenever you were hurt or scared or had a nightmare you couldn't shake yourself of, you wrote it down and somehow, it eased the burden. To prove it, you got up off of the bed and opened a drawer that was filled to the brim with datapads. It made me laugh, I'll give you that.

I told you that I'd think about it, and I allowed you to pull me back into your arms. You rested your head on my shoulder, and then you were out. I'd give a lot to be able to fall asleep that fast, mister. You should be grateful to whatever it is that makes you that way.

Anyway, it wasn't too long after you were out that I decided I'd give the whole writing thing a try. Right now I just feel awkward and stupid, even stupider than you look right now sprawled on your back snoring. I don't understand why you won't take that snoring medication I bought you the other day. I sure would make my life a whole lot easier. It might even help me fall asleep too.

I'll admit it, I'm just stalling. I'm not quite sure how to continue into my story; I've attempted to block most of my past from my mind since you took me away from that gods-awful place. But… who knows? Maybe if I get it all out, the nightmares won't be as intense. Or at least if I give this to you you'll understand what it is that wakes me up at night.

I suppose I should start at the beginning. I was the youngest of four children when I was born, but you know that. I had three brothers, each at least two decades older than me… sweet boys, the lot of them. So, Iliario drank a bit too much, Heath gambled away more than he earned and Oded had his own entourage of female companions. They had hearts of gold, I swear it. They also treated me like I was a princess when they were home. But, I've told you all about them too, haven't I?

My mother was beautiful- you've seen her picture. I'm afraid I have a bit too much of my father's looks in me. And don't you dare say anything in the contrary when you read this. Both of us know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'm not pretty. Anyways, Mother was quiet too, in all aspects. She spoke rarely, and when she did you knew to listen. She was demure and tranquil, although the smallest hint of sadness touched her eyes. She never would talk about what had hurt her so. Of course, the last time that I saw her I was a small child; maybe she would have told me later on in life.

Father was sharp, cold and stern. He said Iliario was worthless, that Heath was a plague and that Oded was a blight to the family name. He didn't speak much about me though. As a matter of fact, he never spoke to me much. He never wanted a girl, Gods know he beat mother badly enough after she had me. He always said that we were too expensive and good for nothing. However, he gave me everything a child could possibly wish for… mostly to keep up his image as a generous, upstanding man in society.

But he wasn't what his image made him out to be. He hated my mother. He beat her in secret, often within my earshot. There was talk amongst the servants that she had been unfaithful to him in the early days of their marriage, and that's why he hated her so much… but he was unfaithful too. There was a man in our household…Marne was his name. He was father's lover. I was young, so I couldn't fully grasp the meaning of the word then, but I heard the servants speaking of it in hushed tones when they thought that I was playing with my dolls. Its seems that I was underestimated even then. Anyway, Marne was one of the family's many dirty little secrets, secrets too numerous to count.

But Marne had his own dirty little secret. He liked little girls. Here is where the telling of the story gets difficult. I suppose I could leave it at this and let you draw your own conclusions, but I understand what you mean about writing now. I have to get the rest of it out.

Marne wouldn't let my father take him to his rooms for a while, claiming to be sick. But my mother knew otherwise. Looking back, I realize that she understood what was happening… that whenever Marne happened to catch me alone it wasn't simply by accident…that his touches weren't innocent. She kept me by her side always, leaving me only to go to her own rooms to sleep. I continued to laugh and smile through it all; I even played childhood games with the man. I didn't understand; I was so young. How could I?

Then came the day when Marne told my father the truth… that he wanted me. He threatened that he would never go to my father's rooms again if he was refused. It wasn't surprising that Father agreed. After all, I was my mother's favorite child, and he hated my mother with a strength that rivaled his passion for Marne.

They say a woman never forgets her first time, and I'm no exception. I remember my room exactly how it was that night. Pink and lace were the staples of the room, whether on the comforter or on the canopy; stuffed animals lined the shelves and surrounded me on my bed; my doll Li snuggled into the crook of my arm. There was a party, I remember. I could hear traces of the music from the ballroom flit through my open window. It was the Deralian Waltz, to be precise.

I was daydreaming about the day that I would put on one of the beautiful gowns that the ladies wore. I was planning mine out, whispering the details of the dress to Li. It would be pink, of course, poofy and lacy, and it would swirl around my ankles when I turned. The sleeves would be made of lace, with little pearls sewn in. Of course, it would be covered in chip sized diamonds and crystals so that I would sparkle from all the way across the room. I would wear a beautiful strand of Deralian pearls around my neck, just like the ones that my mother wore, and have two huge pearl earrings in my ears. My headpiece was going to be made of Telonisian pink diamonds and Deralian pearls, and I decided that I would be the belle of the ball. Looking back, my vision of a gown was absolutely garish, but then again, most little girl's dream dresses are.

Then Marne came in. He reeked of cigarras and alcohol, and he was laughing. At first, I wasn't all that worried. He'd been in my room with me before when Mother was with me, so I wasn't too scared. But then I heard the door lock behind him. I had never been locked in my room before, and I felt my heart begin to race. He then went to the window and shut it, blocking out the sound of the music. I began to panic, and squeezed Li close to my chest. And then the footsteps… I swear he walked so slowly and so deliberately simply to make me too terrified to move.

I heard someone pounding on the locked door, sobbing. The noise made my heart stick in my throat as I wondered what was wrong. And then he was over me. I was frozen; I couldn't move even when his hands ventured into my clothing, down my belly, and into places that I hadn't even known existed before. When he undressed himself, I just laid there, unable to move or scream or cry. I just… I don't know. When he pushed himself into me though, the spell was broken. I felt pain as I had never felt pain before, and then I screamed. Oh, how I screamed. I thrashed around, begging him to let go of me. But he just laughed, and then he hit me. But the pain from the blow wasn't nearly as intense as the one between my legs. The pain got worse and worse, and then he just collapsed.

He didn't stay. In fact, he left as soon as he was able to. I curled up into a ball and just cried for a long time. And then my mother's arms were around me, and she was crying too, much harder than I was. She begged me to forgive her, that she'd tried to help me but she couldn't get the door to open.

I was five years old.

The same scene repeated over and over again, and after a year, I learned my lesson effectively. Men were not trusted. All they did was hurt you. And then came the day that I could no longer take it anymore. When I was six, I slipped a knife from the kitchen into the folds of my dress, and then hid it beneath my pillow. I knew instinctively that if what hung between Marne's legs was gone, he would no longer be able to hurt me. And so that night, when he came into my room, I yanked out the knife and cut it off before he had the chance to hurt me again.

This time it was his screams that echoed down the hallway, his blood that stained my bed. Father was drawn in by the commotion, pushing my mother aside and entering my room. When he saw what I had done to his lover, he yanked me off of my bed and threw me into a wall. My mother raced in and gathered me into her arms before fleeing the room. She told me that she was going to take me to a place where no one would ever be able to hurt me again.

I had my eyes closed tight against her shoulder as she ran, my hands balled up into fists as I tried to control my tears. Then, I heard a speeder pulling up behind us. I know that Mother heard it too by the way that her breathing changed. I could feel her tears on my cheeks as she ran faster, and it was then that I realized running was futile. Marne had Father on his side, and Father would always be able to find us.

Then someone was pulling me out of my mother's arms. We both started to scream, and gripped each other tighter. Another person grabbed my mother from behind, and the pair attempted to pull us apart. Words can't describe the terror that I felt as my hands dug into the fabric of her shirt, as she gripped my arms so tightly that bruises appeared. They grabbed her by her hair, but still, she wouldn't let go of me. When a second pair of hands started to drag me away from my mother, I wrapped my legs around her waist tighter, burying my head into the crook of her neck. But our efforts were futile, and I was soon dragged away, pulled into the speeder, and she was miles behind us.

Father was in the speeder, but I knew that the moment I heard it pull up behind us. He didn't even look at me when I was thrown in beside him. He just turned his head away and looked out the window. I don't remember much of that trip; I was very young, after all. But I do remember that we arrived at a small ship, much smaller than Father's private yacht. Father had me thrown into the cargo hold, and the doors were shut. It was dark in there, and I was terrified.

After a few hours of nothing but darkness, my father walked into the room, the men that had been with him strangely absent. There was blood on his clothes, I remember. He knelt in front of me, and I forced myself to meet his eyes; to make him think that I was strong. My ruse worked, and he drew back in surprise. But then he looked down at me coldly. "You are no longer my daughter," he told me, glancing straight into my eyes. "As of right now, you have no name."

I remember that my resolve to stay strong had faltered, and I had nearly lost my nerve. I didn't understand what he meant. How could I have no name? He looked over me again, and smirked. "Call yourself whatever you want, anything but the name you were born with," he told me. I remember, I just stared, wondering how he could do this to me. "If I find out you use your name at any time, I will kill your mother," he threatened, and my breath hitched in my throat. He knew me so well… so damn well. I obeyed.

And then he brought me to where you and Doran found me…to a brothel on Nar Shadaa. I've spoken with you about what happened there, how at such a young age I was able to harden myself to what happened, the guilt and anguish and self hatred. I've dragged you through all of that before; I don't want to make you experience it again.

Its early morning now, and you're still in the same position that I left you. Much as I hate to admit it, you were right. Getting this out… it was good for me. I'm not sure whether or not I'll give this to you, but its nice knowing that its here…just in case.

------------------------------------------------------------

This is Aminta Jae's (from my story Of Love War) past, when she was known as Tasya Desloncres.

After her father dumped her off at the brothel, she gave no name, nothing about her true self. The owner named her Aminta. That was that. She was there for one year, but that year was long enough to psychologically damage her for the rest of her life.

There was a young girl there, the only other Deralian besides herself, named Revan. She was young too, younger than Aminta was, in fact. But she didn't have the will and strength of mind that Aminta did. The two girls became close friends, almost like sisters, despite their difference. Revan was beaten to death.

A little under a month after Revan was murdered; two Jedi came for Aminta- Master Doran Jin of the Coruscant Jedi temple, and his apprentice, Kael Jae. They purchased her from the owner of the brothel, and brought her back to Coruscant with them to train as a Jedi.

When asked her name, she didn't respond for a few minutes, and then thought of her poor Deralian friend. And so she gave them a name, though it was not hers- Revan.

Doran thought that the country would be a better place for Revan, and so shortly after the girl was accepted for training on Coruscant, he brought her to Dantooine. He and his apprentice would visit the girl once or twice a year and they often spoke via comm unit.

When Revan was seventeen, she and Kael went against all traditions of the Jedi and were wed in secret. The story above was written to Kael when Revan was twenty, when they were in the Mandalorian Wars together, before she fell to the dark side.

Not long after the above piece was written, Kael was killed in battle. Revan endured an emotional spiral downwards, turning to the Dark side, and eventually becoming Darth Revan.

Revan was captured by Bastila, and the woman re-programmed all of Revan's memories. Revan's mind wasn't as damaged as Bastila led the council to believe. The woman let Aminta keep all of her memories, but adjusted them in a way so that the Jedi order would vanish from the woman's mind.

Bastila gave Revan the identity of a defiant smuggler with a dry sense of humor, with a personality that matched that of Revan's before her fall. The woman allowed Revan to keep all of the memories of her childhood before Nar Shadaa, but altered all of the ones afterward.

Bastila gave Revan the name Aminta Jae- a name with no family ties, no traceable identity, and set the woman loose in the galaxy. Bastila made sure that Aminta would be watched over by a soldier, Trask, and a fellow Jedi, Leoma.

Aminta Jae's story picks up from this point is my story, Of Love and War.