//------------------------------// // A Position of Strength // Story: The Dragon and the Force // by FenrisianBrony //------------------------------// Revan is dead. The words seemed to hang in the air between the pair for an eternity, Spike feeling like he had taken a physical blow to the stomach as his mind tried to process the magnitude of what Zule had just said. “Dead?” he all but whispered. “How? When?” “Recently,” Zule admitted. “Well, recently enough. Some of the Republic higher ups know it now, we don’t think all of the Sith know it yet, but he’s gone. The Jedi organised a strike on Revan’s flagship, led by Bastila Shan...” “Bastila?” Spike asked, the name ringing a bell but no face being forthcoming in his memory.  “A young Jedi Knight skilled in battle meditation,” Zule prompted. “She and her team managed to board the Sith Lord's flagship, but they didn’t kill him. They were sent to capture only. Malak opened fire in the confusion, perhaps he hoped to kill both Revan and Bastila to deny her abilities to the Republic, we’re not sure, but it seems the ways of the Sith run deep within Malak. Betrayal is his nature now, and with Revan gone...” “Malak is in charge,” Spike finished. “This is good, no? Malak is not half the commander Revan was.” “Yes and no,” Zule admitted. “Revan was a better commander but Malak is a butcher with seemingly limitless forces. We’ve already found ourselves pushed back relentlessly since Revan’s death, worlds that Revan never would have attacked are suddenly falling in mere hours.” “The war’s not going well, then?” Spike asked. “Not going well makes it sound far better than it is,” Zule sighed. “Our strategies, they...” Zule trailed off, shaking his head before continuing.  “You are not authorised to know more, but you have the right to know of Revan’s demise. I know you were close once.” With that, Zule turned and followed Katara, leaving Spike alone in still-shocked silence. Death was a part of war, and the death of your enemies was the reality that all soldiers had to strive for, so why did he feel so empty inside at the thought of Revan’s death? “You cared for Tarhal,” Moonstone pointed out, appearing besides Spike. “Is it so much to believe you also cared for Revan?” “It’s not the same,” Spike muttered. “Oh?” Moonstone raised an eyebrow. “You fought together, bled together, Tarhal followed you, you followed Revan. You shared a bond that was torn apart in war and now stand on opposite sides of the divide. The only differences are length and the hand he perished at, semantics at best.” “Maybe you’re right,” Spike nodded. “What’s one more outlived friend?” Moonstone didn’t respond to that, Spike extending his wings and taking to the skies. Below him, he saw Zule look up, calling out something, but he gave it no heed. He didn’t need a guide to reach Tarhal’s village, he’d been there enough times in his youth, and in short order he was touching down once more, a powerful downbeat of his wings ensuring he landed softly, small bits of twig and dust going flying as he touched down. “Too good for walking?” Katara asked dryly. “I want this over with,” Spike admitted, looking down at his former padawan. “It is good to see you though, Katara. Maybe once this is over we can catch up, as friends, not master and apprentice.” “Yeah, right,” Katara snorted. “How’s the weather, get up to anything nice over the weekend, by the way the Jedi still have a warrant out for your arrest so come quietly and don’t resist the manacles?” “Good point,” Spike conceded with a laugh of his own, before his face hardened. “But I do wish this to be done. I’ve been to enough funerals before, I don’t like to drag them out.” “You were happy to stare at flames for an hour,” Katara pointed out. “I was,” Spike nodded, no explanation or defence of his seemingly at-odds actions, walking forward towards the central hut, Katara following behind him.  The two guards at the doorway stood aside, Spike entering the crowded room, the eyes of many of the wookies turning to face him. Scars were seemingly ubiquitous amongst the villagers, every member having at least one, many with far more. Slavery had hit this world hard, collar marks clear even beneath fur, and it seemed the freedom from such slavery had borne just as heavy a price.  “Harrowing, isn’t it?” Katara asked. “It’s not the same as war,” Moonstone mumbled, her eyes darting around the room. “No it’s not,” Katara shook her head. “The Jedi Council does have a good point, every now and again at least. This is what we should be stopping, injustices against the people of the galaxy. Instead we’re being dragged from war to war, our numbers falling daily.” “When did you start speaking for the council?” Spike asked. “I don’t speak for them,” Katara snapped, anger briefly flashing across her face before she regained her composure. “I said they have a point, Spike, not that they are perfect. I know you believe in that as much as they do, peace, prosperity, serenity, all of it.” “War’s won’t let me go,” Spike shrugged. “We tried peace and the council broke that, remember?” “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t strive for it,” Katara pointed out. “Look at you, Spike. What you’re becoming. You’re a Jedi, no matter what the Council says, not a Warlord. I don’t want to see you become that.” “Well someone has to,” Spike felt his temper rising as Katara spoke. “Yes I want peace, I would love to retire and sip on little cocktails on some tropical resort somewhere, but first we have to fight for it, and every day we do that we force ourselves deeper, our hands get a little messier, and after every enemy we strike down another one rises who has to be opposed just as the first one was. Mandalorian, Sith, whoever comes next, they all want to win, and we need to be there to oppose them, always.” “Fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity,” Katara pointed out. “That sounds like one of my lines,” Spike snorted. “It was,” Katara nodded. “Way back, just after you first became my master. You wanted everything to just...end, back then. The war, the death, all of it. You just wanted a peaceful life, remember?”  “I did,” Spike conceded with a sigh, his temper evaporating. She was right of course, he had become jaded. He had his reasons of course, but it didn’t change the outcome. “Spike says thank you,” Moonstone shook her head with a smile. “He needs a good kick into place sometimes.” Spike wanted to protest, but stayed silent, a hush coming over the crowd as Trras stood up from where he had been seated, clearly about to speak. “We are gathered to mourn the passing of yet another loved one,” Trras began, his voice low, wavering as if it may break at any moment. This must have been tearing him apart inside, but he continued, Spike’ respect for the old Wookie only growing. “We are no strangers to violence and lost. I do not know of any who have not been touched by Czerka’s influence upon this world. Slavery, executions, lives lost in the rebellion. Brothers, sisters and friends all.” Trras looked at Spike as he continued, raising his hand and beckoning Spike forward. “Tarhal however is not one of these, he was not lost in the fires of our rebellion, but in the fires of war that grip the galaxy at large. He was our brother, all of us, a member of Tojj Clan taken from us many years ago as a slave, and yet he rose from his chains to stand within the Jedi Order. Tarhal never forgot who he was or where he came from, he returned to our village numerous times, against the wishes of a council who would see him sever those ties, and now, at the end when he has paid the final price, he has been returned to us, his body made one with our home.” Spike reached the front as Trras finished speaking, the Wookie turning and taking hold of an object that was both familiar and unknown to Spike. “This warblade was part of Tarhal’s familial line for generations,” he spoke, holding the blade aloft, allowing Spike to get a good look at it. The weapon was near identical to Tarhal’s lightsaber, a long handle, curved away from the body at either end, a blade stretched between the two protrusions. It was a beautiful weapon, Spike finding himself unable to look away, missing what Trras said next. “Spike, did you hear me?” Trras asked, breaking Spike from his stupor. “I...” Spike began, before shaking his head. “Forgive me, Chieftain, I did not.” Trras nodded, before repeating himself. “By all accounts, both your own and his, you were his closest friend and ally, even if your paths led you against one another by the end, you brought him home and gave him his last request. With his death, Tarhal’s family line comes to a close, his grandparents are both dead, his mother died in slavery, his father in the uprising, no siblings recorded or believed to exist. By tradition, each family has a ceremonial blade, kept by the village to mark their deeds. Normally, as long as one member of the family yet lives, no matter where they stand within the galaxy, the blade remains with us, but in instances where the family is no more, the blade must be removed, entrusted to the care of those closest to the family. Given your closeness with Tarhal, will you take up this tradition, and carry his blade forth?” Spike was stunned for an instant but forced himself to react, nodding solemnly and bowing his head. “If this is the way of your village, then I shall honour it, I shall honour this blade, and all of Tarhal’s line.” Trras smiled, laying a paw on Spike’s lowered head. “Then go, Spike, walk from this village with this blade in hand and know that from this day until your final day, you are a friend of the Tojj, our hearth is your hearth, your story part of ours, and when you also follow Tarhal in death, you shall have earned your place in the Shadowlands amongst the ancestors of your friend.” Tears sprang to Spike’s eyes as Trras spoke, the other Wookies following their Chieftain’s example, laying a single paw upon Spike, before turning and leaving, soon only Trras, Spike and Moonstone remaining, Katara and Zule having exited alongside the wookies. “I know what Tarhal became at the end,” Trras whispered, stooping down and raising Spike’s head to look at him, Spike drying his eyes as he looked gazes with the chieftain. “I was old when Tarhal was but a boy, I have seen what the Sith can do, and as such I praise you for putting an end to him while continuing to remember the true Tarhal. But I offer you this wisdom, freely and without cost, only that you take it to heart. Do not allow yourself to become possessed by the same grave spirits that claimed Tarhals mind, for the pathway he took is paved with good intentions. The lesser of two evils is still an evil, and you must always treat it that way, never lie to yourself that because one evil is lesser, it makes it good.” With that, Trras pressed the warblade into Spike’s hand, resting a final hand on his shoulder, before standing and striding from the room. Spike looked down at the blade as Trras left, feeling miniscule in comparison to it, the heritage he now held weighing far more heavily than it’s wood and metal construction ever could match. “You’ve been given a heavy burden,” Moonstone murmured. “What else is new,” Spike murmured back. “I’ve been given history, Moonstone, plain and simple. I’ll do right by this sword, for Tarhal, and for Tojj. We need to leave.” “Zule and Katara aren’t here,” Moonstone noted, Spike nodding in agreement. “They’ll either be outside or on the landing platform. Now the funeral’s over, Zule won’t just leave and let me go.” “Agreed. If he’s been foolish, he’ll be waiting outside and we can fly to the landing pad before he gets there.” “Which is why he’ll be at the landing pad already. Lets see if we can beat him there, otherwise, we’ll improvise.” “Joy,” Moonstone said dryly, before vanishing, Spike breaking into a run, leaping from the walkway and streaking towards the shuttle that had taken them from the ship to the world's surface.  *** Spike landed heavily on the landing pad, Zule, Katara and a squad of Republic special forces standing at the entry-ramp to the shuttle. As he touched down, an unspoken command saw each of the soldiers bring their rifles up, each one pointed squarely at Spike. Their forms drew Spikes attention more than they should, his lips curling into a grimace at the hypocrisy he was looking at. “Disruptor Rifles are outlawed across the Republic, even in wartime,” he pointed out, fixing Zule with a glare. “Desperate times, Spike,” Zule retorted. “You are a dangerous fugitive, and you are known to be resilient to standard blaster rounds. Steps have been taken as a result.” “Oh so the Council can break Republic Law for the greater good and no one will bat an eye, but I put the collective above the few and I’m a wanted fugitive.” “Spike...” Zule began. “At least admit your hypocrisy!” Spike roared suddenly, his anger rising. “Admit that you are a hypocrite, Zule, admit that hypocrisy runs from the top of the Jedi Order, just say it.” “Spike...” Zule attempted again. “You can’t can you,” it was Moonstone who stepped in this time, materialising beside Spike, several of the soldiers glancing at her, then each other, though their rifles never waved them.  “Spike, Moonstone,” Katara this time, stepping forward and raising her hands as a show of peace. “This doesn’t have to be violent, but you cannot be allowed to leave. The Council and the Republic won’t allow it. We have ships in orbit, they will block any attempt to leave the system if they haven’t already detained the ship you arrived on. I’m sorry, Spike, I truly am, but you have exhausted all other options. Please come quietly, I will beg mercy on your behalf.” “Do not beg, not to the council,” Spike looked at her, ensuring it was not accompanied by a scowl or a concealed threat. “Begging does no good against them, and there will be no mercy, Katara. You know that. There was barely any when I was imprisoned the first time, and my crimes are far worse now.” “So you do admit it,” Zule cut in, stepping forward, his Lightsaber flying into his hand, Spike calling Elusive into his in response, his finger hovering over the activation switch, Tarhal’s war-blade held tightly in his other hand, Spike gauging the weight of the new weapon. “I don’t want my first act with a ceremonial weapon to be to draw blood,” Spike forced his voice to retain some level of civility, Trras’s words ringing in his ears. “I am not trying to seek a fight here, I don’t want to hurt any of you, any who serve the Republic, even those who deserve it.” He glared at Zule pointedly before continuing. “And yes, I admit it. I admit my crimes may seem monstrous to those who look upon them with blinkered eyes, seeing only the actions, not the ripples those actions will have. There is such a thing as the greater good and I will defend that and the needs of the many until my dying breath if I need to.” Zule looked like he wanted to speak, but Spike ploughed on regardless, taking a step forward as he did so. “You hate me, I know that, maybe I even deserve that, but like it or not, you need me. You need the wolves and the pirates to fight for you, not against you, in this war and in all wars yet to come because the alternative is they fight against you, and the Republic is stretched enough as it is. Such forces only respond to power and fear, the power to keep their pockets filled, and the fear that keeps them in line should they fail. I don’t know what’s coming, I don’t know if the Republic will win this war, but if they do, we will be weakened, and if the forces I command are not kept under thumb and bred to work alongside the Republic, not against them, then the Republic will be torn apart as it stands bloodied and battered from victory.” Spike was almost on top of Zule now, fire burning bright in his eyes as he still continued. “So stop me if you must, if you truly believe that to be in the best interests of the Republic rather than to soothe the pride of a few. If I’m wrong then you’ll have let a pirate go and you’ll have to begin your hunt again. If you’re wrong, then even in victory could the Republic die. Those are not equal choices and you know it.” With that, Spike brushed past Zule, heading for the special forces who were now exchanging glances with each other. He managed a few steps before he heard the tell-tale sound of a lightsaber igniting, whirling round and drawing his own weapon, the white blade flaring into existence, held defensively as he prepared to parry Zule’s strike. None came, Zule had not moved, instead Katara was holding her lightsaber in both hands, the blue blade held in her characteristic high guard stance. She looked determined, though had not yet moved to attack, seemingly waiting for a signal from Zule. Zule however had not moved, his lightsaber still in his hand but lying dormant. Spike could see a war being waged in his mind over his next course of action, between his duty to the Jedi Council, to the Republic, and to the possibility that what Spike said was true. Finally, the storm seemed to settle, Zule letting out a small breath, his shoulders relaxing as he placed his lightsaber back upon his hip, his other hand gesturing for both Katara and the soldiers to lower their own weapons. “The possibility that you’re right outweighs the small-term gains of arresting you now,” he murmured. “I will order my forces in orbit to stand down and report back to the council of what happened here today. I doubt they will be pleased, but they will come around.” Spike nodded, turning and heading for the shuttle entrance, the soldiers moving from his path as he did so, hushed murmurs coming from their helmets. Spike paused only briefly as he climbed the ramp, half turning to look at Zule, a small smile crossing his face. For all the animosity Spike held for him and he for Spike, no matter their differences, they still served the same cause, and though they stood at odds, Spike took comfort in that fact. Taking one last glance at both Zule and katara, Spike stepped fully inside the shuttle, the door sliding closed on his old friend and his student.  Had he known what the future would hold, he may have spent longer looking upon them both.