Jedi.

What do you picture?

Tan robes and a dark cloak, I'm sure. But what else?

The warrior: Lightsaber burning plasma blue, raised in defiance of the enemy. Glory and fighting. That's how most people see us now that we have been called to defend the Republic from the Separatists.

That's not me. That was never me. Even now, I do not fight.

I was never very good with a lightsaber. I never had the aggressiveness that a fighter needs. Yes, even Jedi fighters feel the passion of battle. They're just better at taming it than most.

The diplomat, the mediator, the negotiator: Calm, composed, with an almost mystical stillness and grace. Able to sense the truth or lie in every word. Mysterious, knowing. Speaking great wisdom in every utterance.

I was never like that, either.

I couldn't manage the calm stillness. I like to be moving, keeping my hands busy, doing little things. I couldn't manage the all-knowing air. I've never been good at understanding people.

So how do I call myself a Jedi, you ask? I have the Force. It is strong with me, but only in the right way.

Plants.

I can sense every green and growing thing on this planet – and believe me, there aren't a great many, here on Coruscant where the buildings soar into the sky and the ground beneath is lost. Those that survive are either preciously maintained, in private gardens by those rich enough to afford them; or weak, stunted things struggling to survive in a crack in a wall where a seed has somehow fallen.

It doesn't matter to me. Each life is precious, and to my mind, the Force shines with their presence.

The centre of my world is the Temple, with its lush beauty. I tend the gardens, keeping the flow of the Force serene, so my brothers and sisters can relax in their beauty.

This is my life. This is how it has always been, and I am content.

I do not look like the Jedi you picture, with my soil-stained clothes and hands. With my lack of elegance or presence. With my constant restlessness; reaching out, touching a leaf here, a stem there. But I am a Jedi.

There is chaos. There is pain. There is fire. There is blood.

The Clones have turned against us, so they say, but I do not know why.

I can hear the younglings screaming, the electric screech of blaster bolts, the hum of lightsaber blades.

They have not yet reached us, here in my garden.

I have a youngling with me. Well, not really a youngling. She's only a year off being a padawan, if she can find a Master to take her.

If she lives.

A dark shape enters. Not a clone. The Force swirls with darkness, but no particular warning.

I know that shape. I have seen it before.

Skywalker?

The child smile tentatively. She knows I cannot fight – everyone knows, and I am not offended because it is true – but Skywalker will surely protect them.

I frown. I'm not good with people, I never have been. They're far more complicated than my plants, with conflicting thoughts and emotions and desires. But even I can sense that something is wrong –

wrong –

WRONG!

I scramble for my lightsaber. It hangs awkwardly from my hip, barely used, but I snatch it up as Skywalker wills his to life. The youngling screams and runs, and I find myself face-to-face with one of the greatest swordsmen our Order has ever produced.

I know I will die. But if just one child gets away, I will have done my duty as a Jedi.

Skywalker laughs. He knows me. He would visit my gardens as a child, marvelling at the life and beauty around him. He is different now.

"You think you can fight me?" he sounds mocking, incredulous.

"No. But I know I must."

His smile falters. There's a flicker in the sickly yellow of his eyes. "Why?"

"To protect the child."

Another flicker – do I see blue? He all but whispers, "The child..."

And then it is as if a window in his mind slams closed.

He made my death quick. As my lifeless body crumpled to the floor at his feet, he stared for a moment, then turned and left.

A/N: A very unexpected plot bunny. Written at 2am and unbetaed, so let me know if there are any mistakes.