Kashyyyk was a beautiful world, Spike reminded of that each time he saw it. Trees as far as the eye could see, a sense of peace even in such a hostile environment. As much as it may have lacked the outward ‘sophistication’ of worlds in the core, Spike could think of few worlds that matched its beauty, something he had told Tarhal every time the pair had visited lifetimes ago.
As he walked across the surface of the landing pad, he could see nothing but regret, not stemming from the blood that still stained the floor, but simply from all the memories he would now never have, all the times he and Tarhal would never spend upon the surface of the world. A memory came back as he walked, Spike running beside Tarhal, just the pair of them on the forest floor far below where he now stood. It was after the Exar Kun War, Spikes wings clear upon his back, but it was not too far afterwards, the pair on the hunt for a Terentatek beast.
How simple that had been. They had a mission, they had righteousness on their side, the Terentatek was nothing but a threat to all life, they were here to stop it and they were together. They were good, it was bad, light and dark.
Spike couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the galaxy in anything other than a grey blur.
A thud echoed from behind Spike, the sound of a weapon charging up before a grow split the air.
“Halt, outsider.”
Spike stopped instantly, raising his hands in placation, though he did not turn around.
“I am no outsider,” he responded, slipping into a broken though functional Shyriiwook. He knew the wookies here could understand Galactic Basic, Czerka Corporation had ensured that, but Spike hoped speaking in their native tongue would put some tension at ease. Recently liberated slave worlds were rarely accepting of outsiders, especially ones bearing corpses of their own species.
“Lies, I have never seen you or your kind, you do not belong,” the voice growled again, getting closer, Spike feeling the barrel of a bowcaster pressing into the small of his back.
“I am not from here, but I have visited Kashyyyk across the years with one of your own,” Spike continued. “He was my friend and he and I made a vow should one of us fall. I am here to fulfil that vow and bring him home to rest.”
At this, Spike carefully stood aside and turned to face the Wookie who had appeared behind him, likely having been waiting in the trees above to ambush any outsiders as he had done to Spike. She was young, but she already had more than his fair share of scars, some of which looked extremely fresh, likely gained during the revolution.
“And how do I know you didn’t kill him or name him as slave?” the Wookie asked, eyeing Tarhal’s corpse but advancing on Spike, her bowcaster now held beneath Spike’s jaw.
“Simple,” Spike sighed. “Because I freely admit I killed him with my own claw. We fought, he fell, and I am treating him as the brother he was, not the monster he became.”
The wookie seemed taken aback by this abrupt response, clearly not expecting an admission of guilt instead of muttered excuses, but quickly recovered her senses, bringing the bowcaster up and aiming directly at Spike’s head.
“Give me a reason not to pull the trigger,” she snarled.
“Because Spike is many things, and I do not think highly of him, but I would never accuse him of killing Tarhal unless there was no choice left to him.”
Spike recognised the voice, mentally stealing himself as Zule walked up the ramp towards the landing platform, a Wookie standing beside him.
“Master Jedi,” the bowcaster armed Wookie muttered, glancing at Zule though keeping his aim unwavering. “You know this murderer?”
“Former general and former Jedi Master. Yes, I know him,” Zule nodded, unable or perhaps simply unwilling to hide the contempt from his voice. “Lower your weapon, please. Tarhal had fallen to the Dark Side and fought against the Republic and the Jedi Order, his death is regrettable but alas, it seems unavoidable. Perhaps if a competent...”
“I would suggest you do not finish that statement,” Spike snarled, his anger flaring as he turned on Zule, towering over the human. To his credit, Zule didn’t flinch.
“Surrender your weapons, Spike,” Zule held his hand out, Spike scoffing at the gesture.
“Why? Am I under arrest?”
“You know full well I cannot allow you to leave this place to return to your criminal associates. You will surrender your weapons, we shall put Tarhal to rest, and you shall accompany me back to Coruscant of your own free will, and in return, I shall speak on your behalf and your willingness to come peacefully.”
“Oh thank you so much,” Spike simpered sarcastically. “I informed you of this because I wished you to be present, I am not further bismerching Tarhal’s memory with the idea of fighting over his corpse. We will bring this up afterwards, not now.”
“I believe we can accept that, master,” another voice this time, Spike’s eyes widening as he turned to see Katara, a smile spreading across his face despite himself.
“It is good to see you,” Spike nodded, “though I am no one's master.”
“I know, Spike,” Katara looked a little embarrassed as she spoke, Spike’s heart sinking as he realised who Katara had been speaking to.
“You’re her master now, Zule?”
“Someone had to step in after your abandonment,” Zule nodded.
Spike snarled, though he managed to keep it to a minimum, before turning to the Wookies.
“I humbly request entrance into the Shadowlands, Tarhal requested to be buried at the based of the Wroshyr-tree that holds aloft the Tojj Clan village.”
“It is dangerous,” the Wookie who had accompanied Zule spoke, his fur flecked with grey, clearly marking him as an elder. “But I suspect you are capable of handling it. I am Trras, Chieftain of the Tojj clan. Zule told me of your coming, the village mourns but there are none who remain to mourn Tarhal himself. If you wish to bury him, you shall do so alone, but once you are done, please meet me in my village, I will instruct our guards to guide you. I would speak with you then, but for now, I have no further words, Bewlall will lead you to the lift into the Shadowlands.”
The other wookiee, Bewlall, nodded at this, slinging her bowcaster and indicating for the others to follow, Spike following her without a word, the hovering stretcher bearing Tarhal’s corpse floating alongside him.
For a time they walked in silence, Bewlall in front, Zule and Katara bringing up the rear, Spike noting that while Katara walked with ease coupled with a slight awkwardness at the situation, Zule’s dominant hand was forever still, hovering by his lightsaber, clearly ready to spring into action the moment Spike tried something. The lack of trust his one time comrade now had for him was telling, part of Spike lamenting that so much had happened to drive them to this.
“The galaxy is a complex place where two clan members only come together to mourn the death of a fallen brother,” Spike spoke, his voice a low rumble.
“There’s nothing complex about it,” Zule said dismissively. “One us remained true to our order, you and Tarhal did not.”
“The order did not stay true either,” Spike pointed out. “The defenders of the Republic stopped defending it, the keepers of the peace turned their back on a threat to it, and the Jedi arrayed themselves against those who would defend us. Were they right? Were they wrong? The Mandalorian Wars bred Revan and Malak...”
“And you,” Zule pointed out.
“And me,” Spike conceded the point. “It was responsible for our current war, and yet had we not fought, would the Republic still stand? And if it did not, would the surviving Jedi be able to tear the galaxy apart against our own?The galaxy is complex, and I wish it wasn’t so.”
Spike wasn’t sure if Zule was going to respond, but eventually he spoke, his words surprising Spike.
“As do I, Spike. I do not relish the fact we stand apart, so distant from where we once were. I still remember the days before Coruscant. There were five of us, life was easy, there was no war. Not until Exar Kun. Even then, we had peace for two decades and now...peace is distant.”
“I haven’t known it for most of my life,” Katara joined in. “The Mandalorians came when I was a child and I met Spike as a result. Forgive me for saying so, but I wouldn’t change anything, because who knows what else would replace the future? Mandalorians ruling the galaxy, only for the Hutts to rise up? Who’s to say what such changes would bring.”
“Definitely complex when Katara makes the best out of all of us,” Spike laughed, even Zule letting out a chuckle.
“Guess it was too much to hope you’d changed,” Katara rolled her eyes.
“Never going to, you know that,” Spike smirked.
“If you’re quite finished,” Bewlall cut in, annoyance clear in her voice. “We’re here.”
Bewlall stopped before a small wooden platform, a series of thick vines suspending it above the forest floor. On any other world, Spike wouldn’t have trusted such a contraption in the slightest, its primitive design looking utterly unsuited for anything more than the smallest of descents, but on Kashyyyk, such was the norm, and Spike had trusted these before he had sprouted wings.
“Thank you, Bewlall,” Zule nodded. “We will attend Chieftain Trras nce our business has concluded.”
“I will wait for you,” Bewlall growled, before bending her knees and jumping forward, burning herself onto the neighbouring tree and clambering upwards with ease. Within seconds, she was gone from sight, leaving the trio alone as they clambered onto the lift, Tarhal’s ever-present corpse floating beside them.
The descent took a considerable amount of time, the creak of vines and wood acting as a backdrop to the sporadic small talk that cropped up between Spike and the others. What Spike had said was true, nothing was simple, and that was especially true in attempting to break the awkward silence that had sprung up now Bewlall had disappeared. How did you make lighthearted conversation with someone who was either blinded by dogma and wanted to see you locked away once more, a savage killer who deserved to be imprisoned, or a student who answered to two masters on opposite sides of a gulf, depending on which body you stood as.
Mercifully, the lift soon touched down on the forest floor, the shadowlands more than earning their name as an pervasive darkness surrounded them, Spike struggling to see before Zule let out a soft whistle, a small spherical droid floating out of the folds of his robe, a spotlight stabbing out against the darkness.
Finally, after yet more awkward small talk, they reached their destination, a huge tree sprouting up before them, its base larger than many of the tower blocks that littered the upper levels of Coruscant. Spike was always struck dumb by the sheer size of the Wroshyr, nothing that large having any reason to be living, not made by sentient species.
“We should not linger,” Zule murmured. “I do not wish to rush the proceedings, but the Shadowlands are not a place we should remain for longer than required. Who knows if the Great Hunt truly purged these depths.
“Agreed,” Spike nodded, turning to deftly lift Tarhal’s body from where it rested, laying it deftly at the base of the tree as Zule and Katara moved to gather fallen branches, an easy task that quickly bore fruit.
In short order, Tarhal’s body was no longer visible, an intricate latticework of branches now encasing his form, grassy roots interlaced between the branches. With each branch placed, Spike felt like a nail was being driven into a coffin, a finality that was starting to crush down upon him, and as the final piece was slid into place, tears were rolling freely down his face.
“You knew him best, Spike,” Zule murmured. “By right, you must speak first.”
Spike nodded, rubbing an arm across his face in an ineffectual attempt to dry his tears.
“Tarhal was a great warrior in his life, a luminous being exemplifying the Jedi way. He was a brave warrior, fearless in his drive to protect others...and a good friend.”
Yet more tears were falling down Spike’s face now, Spike giving up trying to dry them.
“Tarhal was my oldest friend, the one closest to me in Nexu, the one I fought and bled alongside more than any other. We shared a bond, sometimes I think the force kept bringing us back together for a reason, but I don’t know how much I believe in all that. He saved my life more than once...but when it mattered...I couldn’t save him.”
Spike was sobbing now, his words interspersed with pauses for tears.
“If I hadn’t abandoned him...abandoned the war, he would never have followed Reven, never have gone into the unknown regions, never have fallen for the lies of the Sith. If I had been a better friend...none of us would be here today. I’m sorry, Tarhal. I’m sorry for everything, for all my failures that led us here today, and I swear on everything I have ever held sacred that I will do better. I will make amends for my wrongs, and every action will clear your name, the debt you incurred will be wiped clean, on my honour as a dragon.”
Spike’s voice broke as he spoke the last words, Zule standing beside him and placing a hand on one shoulder, Katara doing the same on his other side.
“Tarhal was a great Jedi,” Zule spoke now, his voice strong and carrying across the clearing. “He was a proud member of Clan Nexu, a hero of our order, and a good friend. I do not agree with many of his actions, I still maintain he was wrong in the Mandalorian Wars, but I choose to remember him as the warrior he was, the great keeper of the peace who ended the Kalixian Blockade with naught but words, who broke the slaving ring of Herank Kalia...”
Spike internally winced at the name, keeping his mind far from the fact he had freed her.
“...and captured its queen alive. He was one of the greatest of our kind, a Jedi with few his equal, and now, the galaxy is darker for his passing.”
Zule finished, bowing his head as he did so, the sounds of the forest engulfing the three, before Katara’s soft voice cut through.
“I never truly knew Tarhal,” she began, pausing as if waiting for someone to cut her off before continuing when she realised no one was going to. “By the time I joined the order, he had already marched to war, and by the time I stood as a Padawan beneath Spike, we were no longer on its frontlines. But I do remember the stories, the tales that Spike wove of his greatest friend. Even allowing for hyperbole, if even half of those stories are half true, then I regret that I shall never get to truly know him until I too am one with the force.”
Spike smiled down at his one time padawan, before looking at Zule, the man nodding before bowing his head once more.
With a soft exhale, Spike let out a small tongue of fire, the flames licking at the branches that surrounded Tarhal and instantly setting them ablaze. The floor around the pyre was damp, and the great Wroshyr tree itself would never succumb to something as petty as fire, even that of a dragon, and so even as the fire grew, it did not spread, the pyre soon burning from end to end.
Both Zule and Katara had retreated at this point, the heat of the flames threatening to singe eyebrows or light their own robes, Katara being far quicker to jump away, clearly remembering her own brush with a far larger inferno years earlier. Spike was left alone, the fire little more than a warmth to him. He resolved to watch until the final ember had died out, placing a hand lightly upon the pyre, right above where Tarhal’s head was resting. No more words were said aloud, everything that needed to be spoken had now been spoken. It took hours for the fires to die, Zule and Katara moving further away, sitting and meditating on the forest floor, leaving Spike to his mourning, but finally, the flames died, a pile of ashes all that now remained of the pyre and the warrior it had borne to the afterlife.
“Come on,” Spike muttered, turning to look at the others, a subtle push of magic sending the ash flying across the clearing, scattering it to the four winds.
Once more they walked in silence to the lift, ascending from the darkness of the Shadowlands to the walkway above once more, Bewlall waiting as she said she would, jumping down from the canopy cover as they stepped from the lift.
“It is done?” she asked, cocking her head.
“It is,” Zule nodded, answering before Spike could speak. “Please, lead on to your village. Katara will walk with you, I will follow with Spike, there is something I must speak of with him for his ears alone.”
Bewlall scowled at this, clearly not enjoying the idea of taking what could be equated to an order, but she did not take action beyond that, turning and setting off along the wooden walkways, Katara walking alongside her, glancing back at Spike and Zule as they waited, ensuring they were out of earshot. Once they had both gotten far enough away, Zule only moving to check that the locator beacon Katara carried was working correctly, he turned to look at Spike fully.
“So is this where you try and arrest me?” Spike asked warily.
“I wouldn’t have sent Katara away for that,” Zule pointed out. “We still have Trras to attend upon, he will be expecting us as part of the finalisation of the ceremony we have begun. Afterwards, I shall be taking you into custody, but not now.”
Spike rolled his eyes at the sanctimonious speel coming from Zule, before continuing.
“Then what? Can’t be a war secret then can it?”
“Not a war secret, no,” Zule admitted. “Republic strategy is a different matter. No, this is an order secret, one you have a right to know, but one you must keep silent, on your word. I trust I can still lay faith in that, Spike?”
“My word is my bond, I’ll agree to keep it if this is that important,” Spike nodded. “So, what’s happened? Has to be big for you to tell me.”
“It is,” Zule seemed to brace himself, looking around to ensure they were not being overheard before finally giving voice to what was weighing on him.
“Revan is dead.”