(no subject)
Try as he might, Revan could not rest after dinner. His anger ate at him more than usual, his hands clenched into fists at his sides all the while he laid in bed, trying to fall back asleep.
Not even meditation had helped to extinguish the annoyance at being incapacitated. If anything, the failed attempts only frustrated him more.
So he needs to work. To set his mind on other things.
He waits, blocked in the Force and feigning rest, until Kira has climbed into bed and fallen asleep - he could do without her nagging at him, his anger says - before he makes his way out of the room.
He grabs the Holocron from off the high shelf and, using every available surface and wall and steady path, finds his way to the Hawk. He's missed her in the days he's been sick, especially the way the ramp creaks as it lowers and the constant hum of the backup power.
This is home. Not some hospital bed.
He sets the Holocron down on the nearest counter before warming up some caf to drink, a long night ahead. Last time he tried to crack this thing, he never even got close. He makes no mistake in thinking he'll be any closer in doing so this time, he only needs to do something.
And that something will be staring at a Sith Holocron into the earlier hours of the morning. Staring, and not opening, because, for some reason, the kriffing thing refuses to allow him access.
He practically slams the metal mug of his caf down on the counter before settling into the nearest chair and pulling the Holocron towards him. It reeks of the Dark Side, a steady flow of darkness, despair, and power emanating from the thing.
Revan used to feel like that: Powerful. Not so much anymore though. He considers himself losing on that front. What was it that Kira told him? Something Kreia said once.
Revan was power. It was like staring into the heart of the Force.
He snorts aloud, yet he shakes his head before the self-pity and deprecation can take hold. He scrubs a hand down his face and huffs out an annoyed breath.
There are ancient letters along the flats of the Holocron, faded and corroded with time, their meaning lost. He feels that way too. It makes him want to throw the thing across the room, and his hand clenches at his side. Maybe he will.
But then a click echoes in the chamber, the tiny mechanical lock whirring as the Holocron suddenly opens and the holograph flickers to life. And then he's staring, watching as Freedon Nadd talks of the Dark Side.
Not even meditation had helped to extinguish the annoyance at being incapacitated. If anything, the failed attempts only frustrated him more.
So he needs to work. To set his mind on other things.
He waits, blocked in the Force and feigning rest, until Kira has climbed into bed and fallen asleep - he could do without her nagging at him, his anger says - before he makes his way out of the room.
He grabs the Holocron from off the high shelf and, using every available surface and wall and steady path, finds his way to the Hawk. He's missed her in the days he's been sick, especially the way the ramp creaks as it lowers and the constant hum of the backup power.
This is home. Not some hospital bed.
He sets the Holocron down on the nearest counter before warming up some caf to drink, a long night ahead. Last time he tried to crack this thing, he never even got close. He makes no mistake in thinking he'll be any closer in doing so this time, he only needs to do something.
And that something will be staring at a Sith Holocron into the earlier hours of the morning. Staring, and not opening, because, for some reason, the kriffing thing refuses to allow him access.
He practically slams the metal mug of his caf down on the counter before settling into the nearest chair and pulling the Holocron towards him. It reeks of the Dark Side, a steady flow of darkness, despair, and power emanating from the thing.
Revan used to feel like that: Powerful. Not so much anymore though. He considers himself losing on that front. What was it that Kira told him? Something Kreia said once.
Revan was power. It was like staring into the heart of the Force.
He snorts aloud, yet he shakes his head before the self-pity and deprecation can take hold. He scrubs a hand down his face and huffs out an annoyed breath.
There are ancient letters along the flats of the Holocron, faded and corroded with time, their meaning lost. He feels that way too. It makes him want to throw the thing across the room, and his hand clenches at his side. Maybe he will.
But then a click echoes in the chamber, the tiny mechanical lock whirring as the Holocron suddenly opens and the holograph flickers to life. And then he's staring, watching as Freedon Nadd talks of the Dark Side.