Chapter Text
The information Van had stolen takes them out into the dunes two days later, though it doesn't take long for it to become clear that whatever data had been on the chit might not have been worth it.
It had been encrypted. Van had spent most of an evening hunched over a terminal attempting to break through its firewalls, and the handful of data it had spit out looked promising. Something about weapons manufacturing and research. Then the chip had seemingly bricked itself and the terminal, and Van had had to go to Czerka headquarters and spin a yarn about how they'd come by it and what it's worth to them.
It has been a long few days out on the dunes. Van initially hadn't asked him to come - still sore over his scolding - but when Van and their chosen companions had headed out through the bay doors, they found Canderous suited up and waiting for them.
Unfortunately, Van's efforts may have been wholly fruitless. They have information, and an idea of where it might lead, but the gaps between them are too great a span to currently cross. Czerka is a barrier again . Tension with the Raider tribes out on the dunes that they can't solve themselves for whatever reason. The Star Map trail is at a frightening dead end with no leads in sight. The weapons manufacturing hint from the data chip had been interesting, but with half the information corrupted and a great deal still encrypted, it's useless to them now.
On the third night out in the wastes, Van seems ready to throw in the towel. The sun has long since set, Tatooine's lonely moon hanging in the sky and turning the vast landscape to silver. The group of them have taken shelter in the shadow of one of the great dunes to rest for a few hours before they begin the trek back to the Ebon Hawke to regroup and resupply. To the south, Anchorhead rests on the horizon, a glowing point of golden light. They'll be moving again before the sun has risen to avoid the worst of the heat.
Not long after setting up camp, Van had trudged up the slope of the dune, dropping to a meditative pose to stare out over the wastes. The last rays of the setting suns had cast their long shadow down the slope, a black scar against the ruddy sand. It had been some hours since then, and they hadn't come down. Bastila and Carth are asleep, tucked beneath thin blankets to catch what meager sleep they can.
Canderous had slept a little, but the whistling of the wind across the sand unsettles him. It sounds too much like voices on the edges of his awareness, preventing him from fully dropping off. Something feels off. As he lies there in the dark, Canderous catalogues his body in an attempt to locate it. All the little aches seem fiercer in the dark. Patches of skin on his heels have been worn raw by the sand stuck in his boots. Though the suns had set hours ago, he still feels overwarm. There's a burn on his wrist where the metal of his bracer, searing from the sun, had laid against his bare skin.
It's none of those things. Or, rather, it's all of those things, but he's well versed in dealing with discomfort. This time of night, he's usually caught up in the workshop with Van. Talking about nothing, or simply sitting in companionable silence. The part of him that he's been trying to ignore, the part that twinges whenever he's in Van's quiet company, is aching. It is that ache he is unaccustomed to, and a difficult one to ignore.
With a sigh, Canderous sits up. He runs a hand down his face, scratching at the stubble that's had days to thicken on his jaw. On the ridge above, Van is barely silhouetted against the night sky, a quiet sentinel against the endless dark. Out this far into the desert, the stars above are clear. Distant satellites blink across the sky, ships in orbit.
He pushes to his feet. Sand shivers from his clothes. Neither Carth nor Bastila stir as Canderous passes them. It's a bit of a slog to climb the dune where Van is sitting. His feet sink ankle deep in places, and Canderous grimaces at the thought of finding more sand in his boots tomorrow.
Van doesn't move as he approaches, their eyes closed. One hand rests on their crossed legs, and the other sits palm up on their opposite knee. In their palm, orbiting each other like little planets, are the crystals from their lightsabers.
Dropping beside them, Canderous leans forward and braces his elbows on his knees. Van doesn't speak, but their breathing sharpens. Canderous turns his gaze out to the desert, surveying the landscape. The desert is easier to admire at night, when the heat isn't making him so miserable. Silver white sand ripples like water out beyond their quiet ridge. Wind skates along the dunes and a whirlwind of sand spins in a lazy circle down at the foot of the plain. Far off in the distance, mountains smudge the horizon. The air smells like dust.
“You should be sleeping.” Van's voice is rough with disuse.
“So should you,” Canderous counters.
“Mm.” Van's fingers close around the crystals. Their eyes open, red ringed and tired. The shadows beneath them look more pronounced. Canderous wonders when the last time they slept was. Glancing at him, Van offers a tiny smile. “I don't sleep much. I have dreams.”
That surprises him. Van has always been sparing on personal details - Canderous doesn't even know their last name. It's like Van had simply sprung to life for the Council's sake. In retrospect, it makes sense. Van is often up when Canderous himself finds sleep eluding him, and their nights often last well into the small hours. They had never let on that anything plagued the shadows of their mind, though Canderous knows after leaving him to his own devices, they often wander the darkened corridors of the Ebon Hawke.
Van is young, and had claimed not to have been much of a soldier before their career with the Republic, so Canderous had never considered that Van could have their own demons lurking in the dark. Maybe Van had come to him because they'd sensed his own. An unacknowledged camaraderie between two people with more scars than flesh, and the memories that went along with them.
He surprises himself again by saying, “Me too.”
Van glances at him sidelong. “What about?”
Canderous rubs at his jaw again. He hitches a shoulder. “War.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Sometimes.”
Van hums. Their attention returns to the desert as if searching for something in the endless silver. “I dream about dying,” they say softly. One hand presses to their chest where the worst of the scarring starts. It would have been - should have been - a killing blow. “Someone else is wearing my face. Things I shouldn't know.” Van makes a noise that could be amusement. “Some Jedi can have prophetic dreams, you know. Maybe I'm seeing my future.”
Canderous finds he doesn't like entertaining that thought. He knows better than to make promises, but he says, “You aren't going to die, Van.”
Van makes a noise of wry amusement. “Everyone dies, Canderous,” they say softly. “It's just a matter of when.”
“I mean you aren't going to die here,” Canderous says. “On this mission for the Star Maps.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Because,” Canderous says. “I won't let you.”
A real smile finally cracks Van's somber expression. Above them in the heavens, the river of starlight is reflected in their eyes. The thing Canderous will not acknowledge shudders in response. “I believe you.”
“I can't say I envy your position, though,” Canderous says. “I don't care for the Council's methods. They're still handling this situation like it isn't a war, just like they did with the Mandalorians.” Van lifts a curious eyebrow. They always did like a war story.
Canderous continues, “Their victory was a near thing. They had a chance, and would have let it go. If Revan hadn't disobeyed orders, they would have lost.”
“Revan,” Van muses. The name sounds odd in their mouth.
Canderous nods. “Revan saw the truth of it, but the Council didn't. The Jedi are never willing to make sacrifices, but that's necessary in war. Revan saw that. They led the Republic to victory, and the Council punished them for it. It was a coward's move.”
“You sound like you admire Revan.”
“I did,” Canderous says. “Revan almost single handedly kept the Republic from defeat. Any Mandalorian would honor such a foe.”
“And yet you're here,” Van says curiously. “Working for the Council.”
“No.” Canderous looks at them sidelong. “I'm working with you.”
Van's expression softens. “What would you do, then?”
“About the Council?”
“About any of it,” Van says. “People die if I do nothing, people die if I do, and the Council gets to sit in judgement as if their hands aren't bloody by association.”
“Is this a moral quandary?”
“No,” Van says. “Just a zero-sum game.”
“That's war,” Canderous says. “Nobody makes the right choices. You can strategize and still lose without luck on your side.”
“You believe in luck?”
“Luck. The Force. Call it what you like. You'd be surprised how many successful operations rely on it.”
“I don't feel like luck is on my side at the moment,” Van admits, looking up to the stars. They push a hand through their hair, the dark strands catching in their fingers. “I can't help but feel like I'm missing a piece of the puzzle,” they admit. “Like the middle of the picture is gone and I can only see the edges. The Star Maps, the Sith. Mine and Bastila's place in it. It's all connected, I just can't figure out how.”
“So fill in the gaps yourself,” Canderous says. “Nobody goes into a fight having all the information. You improvise.”
“I've been improvising,” Van mutters. “What I'm worried about is what that will mean when I finally know what's missing.”
“It won't change anything,” Canderous says. “You finish the mission. When it's over, you reassess.”
“You sound so sure of yourself.”
“I've done it a time or two.”
“You're very wise,” Van says. It doesn't sound like a joke.
“I'm just old,” Canderous corrects.
Between them, something shifts. Van is looking at him, eyes shadowed. Some of the weight is gone from their shoulders. Their gaze trails across his face, down his throat, to the gap between their bodies. That gap that seems insurmountable. Van has crossed it time and again, and yet now they hesitate. Van seems to want something - he can see it in their eyes and the way they watch him - but Canderous doesn't know if he wants them to ask.
He doesn't know what he'd do with it. He might have known, once. When he was younger, when he'd had the promise of a future ahead. He'd had it once, what he thinks Van will ask for, and he'd left it behind far easier than he should have been able to. Wanting is a young man's game, and Canderous is far from that now. Van's lips part, a small breath escaping. Canderous’ fingers grip involuntarily at the fabric of his pants. Then their expression hardens, like shutters slamming closed.
“I've been thinking about the Force,” Van says. The change in subject feels abrupt. They look out into the sea of sand again. Canderous lets out a breath and follows their gaze. Spreading their fingers, Van reveals the two crystals lying in their palm. One yellow, one red. “The Jedi strive for balance in all things. They teach us to let go of attachments and find peace. But I don't think there can be a balance in overwhelming light. Do you?”
The crystals rise above Van's palm. They shudder slightly as if in response to Van's manipulations. The yellow one is long and slender, polished smooth. It winks in the starlight, light refracting through an interior lattice of crystalline structures. The other is jagged. A dull red, it looks the way an old wound feels. It bears the same fractured light as the yellow one, but the exterior is splintered and cracked.
“I asked that question once while training with the Council on Dantooine. It was a mistake. The instructor talked for hours about the dangers of the dark side and how I mustn't let myself be seduced .” Van's lip curls. “They wouldn't say Revan's name, but I knew they were thinking it. How many young Jedi fled to the dark side following Revan's lead? They couldn't have me taking the same path.”
The derision in Van's voice is evident. “But the Sith are as much of a farce as the Jedi. Kill a man with a lightsaber, and you've done a righteous deed. Kill a man with the Force and you've fallen to disgrace. The Sith believe strength lies in harassing civilians, but there's no honor in killing an opponent who has no hope of defending themselves. Both of them deride the other for supposed weakness. Another zero sum game - chaining myself to a flawed philosophy of light or dark. How does one win?”
Canderous hums. “Analyze the situation and decide which losses are more acceptable,” he says. “Some losses are advantageous. If not, work the problem until it is.”
“Spoken like a soldier.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“I have a point,” Van assures him. Pointing out across the desert, they say, “Look there. What do you see?”
Canderous squints. The desert is ever shifting, inscrutable. “I don't see anything,” he admits. “Desert. Sky. Sand.”
“Between that.”
“The horizon?”
Van inclines their head. “The thin barrier between land and sky,” they say. Their hand stretches out, fingers splayed as if attempting to grasp it. “Light and dark. Where each one falls away from itself and they become one. I believe that is the truth of the Force. The Jedi and the Sith are playing a game with no outcome, trapped in philosophies of their own making, unable to grasp the true depth of the universe.”
None of it makes any sense to Canderous. He says as much. “You said the Force is in everything, but this conflict of light and dark crap only exists in you Jedi. There are good people and there are bad people, but mostly they're just people.”
Van laughs softly. “That's my point,” they say. “The Force is in every living thing. Even those who are deaf to it are influenced by it in some way. The Jedi strive to eradicate evil just as they wish to eradicate the dark, but it's a pointless endeavor. Evil surely exists, but so goes good, because they cannot exist without each other.”
Van's voice is rhythmic. Soft, but subtly powerful. It doesn't sound like a passing thought, but rather something they've spent their long hours in solitude contemplating. “The Jedi and the Sith are in tune with the extremes of the Force. Neither one is balanced.” Their voice takes on a distant quality, as if they're musing to themselves. “Perhaps Revan and Malak did fail when they fell to the dark. Any taste of the dark side must be overwhelming after an eternity in the light. It must be why the fallen Jedi seem so mad…”
Van's voice trails off. Canderous says, “Except for you.”
“Except for me.” An odd glint catches in their eye. “Odd, isn't it?”
“Your Force philosophy might land better with Jolee or Juhani,” Canderous admits. “It sounds like a bunch of crap to me.”
Van snorts. “Juhani doesn't like to talk about it with me,” they say. “I remind her too much of her own indiscretions. The Jedi teach us fear will lead us astray, but they fear the dark side. I make her uncomfortable. Same with Bastila.”
“Why bring it up to me, then?”
“Because I think you'd understand.” Van shifts. “I'm sure I'm not the first Jedi who has thought these things. Maybe I'm arrogant to think that I'll be the first one to tread the delicate balance between light and dark.”
“What if you are?”
“If I am, then there will be no place for me among the Jedi,” Van says. “Nor among the Sith. I will be my own thing entirely. I'll find some far corner of the galaxy untouched by the Jedi's petty squabbles and simply… be, I suppose.”
“You might be looking for some time,” Canderous says with some amusement.
Van blinks up at him. “Would you come with me?” They ask softly. The strangeness of the request makes something in Canderous’ throat catch. “If you aren't tired of me by then, at any rate.”
“I-” Canderous swallows. “I think I'll be fresh out of employment when that happens. No obligations.”
“That's not a yes.”
“I follow you, Van,” he says. “Where that leads is up to you.”
Van relaxes, eyes slipping closed. Slowly, they lean to the side until their shoulder hits his. Van's head drops, hair falling over their face. Slowly, Canderous’ hand comes up to rest on Van's shoulder. They press a little closer, as if seeking warmth in the cool desert air.
He lets them lie there until their breathing tapers off to sleep.