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The hand of a nearby clock finally ticked half-past twelve as the second hand twirled and twirled along its face in an endless looping spiral. It was a guide for the inevitable march of time, it was reliable in periods of unrest. It was a quiet, steady sound truer than a heartbeat within the dim lighting of Revan’s bedroom.
Revan sucked in a sharp inhale, glancing toward the clock and seeing their reflection in the glass of its face. Their surroundings blurred and warped as the shadows crept ever closer with their whisperings, their murmuring pleas, but once again the sussurus choir was mentally brushed aside like dust on a shelf. Revan had no time to turn toward the darkness and watch them flee, not when they could follow the spiral of the clock with their darting eyes. It was predictable, endless, looping. A spiral. A spiral. A mirror.
The chair Revan was previously rocking themself in creaked as they stood and treaded slowly and carefully toward the clock, watching their reflection grow larger as they approached. They exhaled slowly, listening to the sound coil through the air much like the tendrils of the coals and cinders that followed each bloody battle. How large was the death toll? The toll the toll…
Revan had forgotten what their face looked like beneath their helmet, their barrier to the atrocities they bred… The second hand ticked further and further ‘round the clock, around its spiral. Spiral. Was that of the clock, or did the spiral belong to the reflection on its glass face? Face… did Revan even have one anymore? They ran their fingers along the skin of their cheek, parting their lips slightly as they felt a cold, shadow hand trace along their neck and whisper in their ear, though Revan paid no mind. They knew they were logically alone for no Jedi ghost would visit one such as them. One that led men to guaranteed death under their endless marching guide. Barbaric.
The second hand ticked around the clock again and again, around and around, in its endless, reliable cycle. Revan blinked, watching the ticking carefully. It was hypnotic, distracting, maybe even comforting if they still remember what that felt like…
Revan did not notice the added company entering their room, for he was stealthy despite his size, and the clock was plenty loud. It was almost mocking them, and their sickly reflection, ticking on and on about how every endless tick could never compare to the constant death beneath Revan’s hand. They felt their chest lurch.
Someone had said something, his voice harmonizing with the ticking. Revan was in no state to decipher at the moment, though they really had no choice the second time around.
“It is close to one. Did you need to count the ticks?” Malak asked. He was louder than the shadows, and especially the clock.
Revan sucked in another inhale through their teeth, slowly turning to face Malak. He was war-torn. Maybe they were too.
“No…” they mumbled. Revan took a step forward, slowly wrapping their arms around Malak’s midsection. They leaned into his chest, exhaling softly as he hugged back. He was stiff, not quite rigor mortis, but if Revan had one more outburst, he would meet that chilled fate. Outbursts were not the issue now, though. The clock ticked steadily as they remembered a time when hugs were respite, when their faces were sunburnt from Dantooine’s summer months, and the two would spend hours giggling and smearing aloe vera on the other’s cheeks.
Malak pulled away after a few seconds. The hug wasn’t warm at all, and Revan’s face was ashen, hidden from the sun since they were twenty. Malak’s eyes were sunken and cold as he tried to stuff away a lick of fear upon contact with Revan.
“The Mandalorian is asleep, our pilot has us en route to Dantooine. We are locating what we need and departing just as fast as we arrived.” Malak avoided Revan’s eye, fearing the misguided gold replacing their previous green.
Revan’s stomach turned at the mention of their childhood home. If the Jedi found them, would they face a falsely stable trial? Would the seconds blur as the council separates them from their one pillar of stability? Would they rot in prison? Would they be watched and chained for the rest of their days? How does the council define justice? Genocide. Clearly. Criminal or not, Revan is certain of their heroism truer than the ticking of the clock, regardless of the war ending with a deadly pyrrhic victory. Sacrifices are necessary for victory.
Their reflection shifted on the clock's face as Revan’s eyes darted to another crawling, whispering shadow.
“Revan,” Malak reminded.
“You don’t care.”
Malak’s expression hardened. It was a new contortion to see upon his face, for usually it was soft, and a mirror to theirs beneath the summer suns. His eyes crinkled as his cheeks were framed in the grass they laid in back then. Revan couldn’t remember the last time he smiled. Maybe the grassy, secretive date was the last time.
“If I did not, I would not run things while you go mad within a darkened room,” he said coolly.
It felt as if their skull clenched around their brain. Revan’s gut didn’t turn; it lurched through their silent mental tear. Their lips twitched as Revan looked back at the clock. “I was meditating.”
“Surely,” Malak spat. Revan almost felt the venom he spat out. “Get to bed soon, it has been days now since you slept. I worry for you greatly, Revan, watching you spiral into this state.”
Revan didn’t respond, at least not immediately. They glanced at the floor, watching the shadow rats scurry around their ankles, steps in sync with the seconds of the clock the longer they watched. They recalled a time when they weren’t Revan, when they were a child with a human name who worried about victories in Dejarik instead of death counts following narrowly won battles.
“I need a Death Stick,” they mumbled, “and my helmet.”
“You promised you’d quit.”
“I don’t care.”
Their thoughts still spiraled within a loop, much like that of the clock. The pressure rose from disconnected melancholy to poorly masked stress and anger. Revan’s chest tightened as they remembered the Mandalorian child they stole, her fear, and the death toll. Of course they remembered the death toll, it was triple their estimate, and they were glad to see it happen only to move on and pick of the Mandalorians that survived. The slaughter wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy them now, but the war was won, and they were due to abandon the child with the family she was robbed from before the Jedi discover her masked Force sensitivity and enslave her, despite her age. Revan’s ribs constricted tighter around their rotting heart.
“I do.”
They frowned. “I need sleep…”
Malak shifted, bending down and scooping up the hero of the Mandalorian wars and carrying them to their bed. It was like when they were teenagers, when he would carry them back to their room when their exhaustion hit miles away from the enclave, but Malak was cold and stiff. Revan could feel the hurt in the ripple of his muscles. Where was the comfort from years ago…? Would it return? Would it return if they called upon their vivacious memory?
“I’m glad you finally agree,” Malak said softly, setting them down and covering them with their blanket. He stroked Revan’s hair back, then hesitated. Revan glanced back at the steady ticking of the clock, recoiling from his touch.
Malak let out a slow exhale, chewing and deciding the words caught in his mouth. “I will stay awake and keep an eye on the child.” Revan detected mild disdain as he spoke, which only made them sicker. Then they sighed, pulling their blanket higher and turning away from Malak. Their chest was cold from grief they couldn’t quite name before ultimately deciding it was for their sanity, not the lack of connection with their lover and stability.
“I love you.” The statement was forced and sickening, like cradling a cadaver. Even lies sounded better when spoken.
“I love you too.” The words sounded equally forced from Malak. He left Revan swiftly, not even looking back as the clock slowly guided them into another rhythmic spiral.