Title: Death Shall Have No Dominion

Title: Death Shall Have No Dominion
Author: The Duchess Of The Dark
Teaser: Alternative scenario of during & after The Phantom Menace

Rating: PG13 – no nasties in here, unless you count Darths Maul & Sideous

Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to The Flannelled One. I own not, you sue my regrettably pear-shaped English arse not. Karis Kavanagh, Lyxandra Nox & all other non-canon characters are mine.

Genre: Action/adventure and hints of more to come. For more dark fiction (not fanfic) visit my page at Illona's Place Vampires www.bloodlust-uk.com/helenmurphyfiction.htm

Archive: Yes, but ask me first, please.
Notes: Loved it? Loathed it? Tell me please... Sixth of many chapters! Unfinished… It all gets a bit mushy here, but hey, great love stories are central to Star Wars, whether it is fanfic or the issue of His Lucasness. Text in italics indicates thought. Text in 'Italics' indicates telepathic conversation or projected thought.

*

Something touched her arm and she was up and fighting before her eyes fully opened. Her fist thudded into firm muscle, elbow knocking against somebody's arm as she blindly drew back to land another punch, her shoulder bumping what felt like a chin. A large hand far stronger than her own firmly fended her off, an arm wrapping around her to stop her thrashing. Heart crashing, her palms encountered a male chest, the tunic soft beneath her fingers.

"It's alright, you're safe." The voice was deep, reassuring, unmistakably Qui-Gon Jinn.

Drawing a deep, cleansing breath, Karis squinted and rubbed her eyes until her vision focussed. Serene as ever, cobalt eyes intent, silver brown hair falling about his broad shoulders, he waited for her to regain her composure. Letting out the same deep breath in a long, shaky exhalation, she resisted a sudden fleeting impulse to sob and bury her head in his chest. Whatever strange quirk of returning memory that had allowed her to be so fearless had passed, leaving her feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable, but grateful to be alive. She hated feeling so out of control, but knew there was little she could do.

"I seem to be doing a lot of that," she commented wryly.

"What?"

"The whole getting knocked out thing. I think I may make a career out of it. I make a good damsel in distress, don't you think?"

Qui-Gon chuckled deep in his chest, studying her expression, judging her emotional state. She looked around, realising she was sitting on a large firm bed, the sheet tangled around her legs due to her instinctive defensive reflex. The room was high and airy with warm biscuit coloured walls, a discreet wardrobe and two doors, one of which led to an en suite bathroom. A square window afforded her an excellent view of ceaseless lines of aerial traffic against a dusky night sky, telling her she was on Coruscant. The simple functionality and décor of the room told her she was in the Jedi Temple.

Unwinding the sheet and blanket from her legs, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, planting her feet on the floor. The room was exceptionally familiar, there was something about the way it smelled that comforted her. She inhaled long and shallow, allowing the distinctive scent to flood her nostrils. The room smelled of Qui-Gon, an individual masculine scent she would know anywhere.

"Where am I?" she asked.

"In my quarters," he answered. "The healers said you were unharmed, but I didn't want to leave you in the guest quarters."

He did not say "not after what happened last time", but Karis knew that was his reason. She felt fuzzy-headed, but not as bad as the last time she had been stunned. Qui-Gon seemed a little tired but relaxed and untroubled. His robe, outer tunic and belt were gone, the latter looped over the back of a chair stood in the corner. Once again, she marvelled at the singular Jedi equanimity that equipped him to confront an enemy he had thought dead, stage a rescue and return home. A thought belatedly occurred to her and she sat up straight, a hand settling on the Jedi Master's arm.

"Are you alright? You're not hurt, are you?" she asked anxiously. "Obi-Wan, is he okay? What happened to Maul, did he get away? How did you find me? Where was I?"

Holding up a hand to dam the flood of questions, he winced as her fingers tightened on his injured arm. Hissing softly in sympathy, she let go and folded her hands in her lap.

"To answer your questions, Obi-Wan and I are fine…" he paused and his expression darkened considerably. "You were still on Coruscant, albeit the other side of the planet. We traced a droid tag embedded in your boot sole… The Sith escaped, but without his arm. He can be dealt with another time, when he doesn't have so many destroyers at his disposal."

Suppressing a shudder as she recalled Maul's tattooed visage twisted with rage and hatred as he fought, a black-robed demon with a double-bladed sword of crimson energy, Karis hugged her arms to herself.

"I thought he was dead," she said softly, voice barely audible. "How did he survive the melting pit?"
Qui-Gon shook his head, shoulders lifting in a minimal shrug. Nobody had thought to check the melting pit. The superheated plasma vents instantly vaporised anything caught in their time-delayed bursts. The time between Lyxandra's death, the victory over the Neimodian droid army and the arrival of the Jedi Council had passed in a nightmarish twilight world where he saw little and cared less. While Karis was sleeping off the effects of the stun blast, he had contacted Theed and requested a layout of the entire power generator complex. There were several subsidary conduits off the main shaft used by maintenance droids. Somebody with Jedi training could theoretically have broken their fall using Force telekinesis and crawled into one. He frowned, gaze returning to the moment he and Obi-Wan had rounded the corner and come face to face with Darth Maul, whom they had last seen plummeting through nothingness with a wound that should have been fatal. It appeared that the Sith's abilities had once again been underestimated.

"I'm sorry."

He turned to her, hearing the barely-controlled emotion in her voice. She shook with guilt and shame, emerald eyes murky, bottom lip crunched to stop it trembling. In the light her short hair was a rich brown black dusted with ruby lights more deeply coloured than the artificial streaks, skin translucent and faintly opaline. Brow pleated with distress, hands white-knuckled in her lap, she looked to him for forgiveness for an imagined wrongdoing.

"For what?" he said gently. "You were not at fault."

"I was!" she burst out. "The terrible things he told me," she broke off, eyes squeezing shut. "I nearly believed him… It would've been better if he'd hurt me, I could deal with that, but he did worse than hurt me. He made me think… m-made me think you'd… you'd…"

She shuddered violently, cradling her elbows in her hands, Maul's deceptive silken purr whispering seductively in her memory, weaving plausible lies. Qui-Gon saw her fists clench in her lap in an effort to ward off impending tears. Deeply upset, she was nonetheless visibly determined not to cry, resolute she would not display any weakness open to exploitation. Something twisted in the Jedi Master as he felt her pain, and he reached out. She resisted at first, unwilling to be touched or comforted, but soon acquiesced and allowed him to guide her into his arms.

"Let it out," he said quietly. "Let it go, it doesn't matter. Don't let it poison you."

Karis closed her eyes, face buried against his shoulder, arms locked around his back. She had not cried in front of anyone since she was a child and did not want to now. Fighting the tears she knew would come eventually, trying to stave them off until she was alone, she made a conscious effort to control herself.

"Even Jedi cry," Qui-Gon murmured. "But you know that."

Clearly seeing him kneeling, face wet and anguished, Lyxandra dying in his arms, broke the fragile barrier holding back her tears. She wept openly and unashamedly, great sobs shaking her frame until she thought she would break apart. Qui-Gon held her silently, a conduit for her negative emotion, drawing it out of her where it could do no more harm. She wept until she was completely exhausted, all the anger, fear and guilt cried away. Limp as a wrung-out washcloth, she was boneless in his arms, cheek resting on the salty wet patch on his shoulder.

"Better?"

She nodded wordlessly, tear-spiked lashes flickering. Strangely, she did not feel ashamed for crying all over him, felt no embarrassment, just a growing sense of peace. Understanding the healing, restorative properties of weeping, he had actively encouraged her to cry on his shoulder. Sleepy now, she lifted her head, self-consciously scraping a strand of tear-soaked hair from her cheek. Blue eyes warm and soft, Qui-Gon turned back the blanket and gestured to the pillows.

"Sleep is best after a good cry," he observed gently, waving a hand to dismiss her protests. "I will sleep in Obi-Wan's old room."

Realising there was to be no debate on the matter, Karis slid beneath the covers, resting her tear-muzzy head on the pillows. The bed was comfortable, with a slight, almost undetectable indent in the mattress where Qui-Gon slept. Unconsciously shifting position until she lay in it, her eyes slipped shut and she drifted towards sleep, feeling at peace and secure. Staying at the bedside until her breathing altered to the regular, relaxed exhalations of slumber, the Jedi Master quietly stole away, satisfied she would sleep the entire night.

*

3 Months Later

Jumping out of the shower cubicle, shaking water from herself like a dog, Karis snatched up a towel and began vigorously drying herself off. Invigorated by the steaming water, she hummed to herself, ducking her head to attack her wet hair with the towel. It was early morning, the new sun hesitantly peeping over the horizon to gild the silver magnificence of the Temple with rich gold. Dragging a comb through her hair, she carefully replaited her short Padawan braid, still scarcely able to believe the Council had allowed Qui-Gon to take her as his apprentice. It seemed her display of Jedi abilities in adversity had swayed even Master Yoda.

Reaching out through her training bond, she knew Qui-Gon was awake and similarly engaged in his morning shower. Silently, she wished him good morning and was gratified when he responded in kind. She had expected the bond to feel strange, having someone else privy to her thoughts, but it had turned out to be the most natural thing in the world. She likened it to having a personal radio station that could be tuned into at any time, but with the added bonus of being able to stop the broadcast when something needed to remain wholly private.

Grabbing various items of clothing, her underwear, creamy beige pants and tunic, she caught sight of herself in the misted mirror and stopped. Never one to unecessarily primp or preen, she had had little time since taking up the demanding schedule of a Padawan learner. She had not paused to examine her reflection in more than a month. Wiping the condensation from the mirror, she pushed back a bang of hair over her ear, tracing a finger around its long delicate point, seeing for the first time how it had grown without her noticing.

The bathroom light danced across her skin, which was flawlessly pearlescent, every soft brown freckle of her human Caucasian ancestry gone. Her old self was there in the sarcastically humorous glint to her eyes, the tilt to her mouth that suggested a lurking smile or a pout of temper, the way she walked, but her physiology had almost completely altered to Valuxan. Her strength, stamina and resistance to the elements had increased dramatically, as had her sense of smell and hearing. She had discovered quite by accident that her nails had thickened and were now retractable like feline claws.

Mentally chiding herself for admiring her slimmer, fitter physique, reminding herself that vanity was not one of her vices, she quickly dressed. Her training was progressing quickly as she remembered more and more things. Qui-Gon quizzed her regularly with a detailed set of questions designed to test her memory of her life on Earth, and though it now seemed to have happened in the distant past, she had not lost any of her memories.

Emerging from the bathroom into her new bedroom, formerly Obi-Wan's, she stopped to pick up a sheaf of drawings. Though most information was stored on datapads, paper, or its synthetic equivalent, was still available. She had wasted no time in equipping herself with a great ream of paper and various drawing implements. It had taken her a while to find suitable equivalents to ink pens, coloured pencils and normal drawing pencils, but she had triumphed through persistence and her newfound status as a Padawan. Coruscant shopkeepers always benefitted from boasting Jedi as patrons.

Returning to her art college roots, she had numerous studies of people she had seen about the temple; two Corellian healers, a Malastarian Jedi Master with three eyes, a sketch of Anakin grinning as he played tag with other young Padawans in the Gardens. Dotted amongst the snippets of Temple life were illustrations of Earth done at Qui-Gon's request; cars, houses, famous landmarks, her family. Feeling a sharp pang of separation as she looked at the black and white pencil drawing of her mother and sister, she bit back a sigh, unable to help wondering what they were going through. She thought of her family often, comparing her new life as a Padawan with her old life on Earth. Being a Padawan was demanding and sometimes difficult, but she found it rewarding. Despite this, she sometimes woke with a start in the night, momentarily wondering why she was in an unfamiliar bed with skycabs and transports visible through the window.

Collecting herself, she replaced the drawings on the small cabinet by the bed. Before breakfast she and Qui-Gon would engage in their daily meditation, a ritual she had found useful in combating surges of homesickness. Pushing her damp hair behind her ear, she strode into the main room to find Qui-Gon already kneeling in the centre of the floor. He was unnaturally awake for such an early hour. Stifling a yawn, glaring at the Jedi Master's back, she walked around and knelt facing him.

"Envy is the path to the Dark Side," he murmured without opening his eyes, a small smile curling the corners of his mouth.

"I thought you'd have learnt by now I'm not a morning person," she grumbled with feigned indignation. "I haven't had my coffee yet."

This had become a morning ritual in its own right. She would complain about being up before the birds, despite being reminded that the vast majority of birds on Coruscant were in specially preserved habitats or lived at the lower levels of the city. He would subtly tease her and they would settle to their meditation. By all standards theirs was an unusal Master-Padawan relationship. She was the eldest Padawan in the Temple, and after three months had learnt, or recalled, a great deal of her training. Qui-Gon was a patient, but strict teacher, who bore her occasional colourful curses of frustration with remarkable placidity. He did not expect her to address him as 'Master', but she did so out of respect.

Grinning a little, Karis closed her eyes and concentrated on clearing her mind of all distractions. Almost immediately, she felt the Force flowing around and through her, the intangible power that bound all life together. It was like listening to vibrant colour, seeing a harmonious note of music, it was all things and peculiarly individual. Its infinite size and strength was awe-inspiring and reassuring, the source of a Jedi's supernatural abilities. Slowing her breathing, deepening each inhalation and exhalation, she allowed her mind to leave the sparsely-furnished quarters.

Half an hour later, her eyes leisurely opened a milisecond after Qui-Gon's. She felt energised, serene and ready for whatever the day held. Rising to her feet, she stretched, ruffling a hand through her drying hair.

"Breakfast," she announced. "Black coffee and cigarettes."

"What is this obsession with caffiene products?" Qui-Gon asked quizzically, accepting the generous glass of red orange fruit juice she handed him.

She chuckled and shook her head, selecting two blue-rinded fruit from a bowl in the 'fridge'. The storage unit for perishable food remained a mystery to her; it kept things fresh but the temperature inside seemed no different to the surrounding room. They ate their breakfast in companionable silence until Qui-Gon began outlining the timetable for the day. The Jedi Master had discovered many lessons were superfluous, as no sooner had he begun to teach them when she sheepishly demonstrated she already knew the technique or discipline.

As yet, they had not been sent on any missions, which had surprised Karis. She knew that except in the very earliest stages of training, Padawan and Master would be sent to solve problems the galaxy over, experience providing invaluable lessons. When she did make mistakes or miss the point of a lesson, Qui-Gon would patiently explain, or find an illustrative task or example to help her. He never lectured or berated, but sometimes she caught a glimpse of amusement in his eyes when she swore or laughed with delighted triumph.

Despite her initial fears, they got on well. She had not told him that Maul had nearly caused her to believe he had killed Lyxandra, but she knew he could sense it. She also knew he would never ask her about it, but would listen if she chose to tell him. On rare occasions, usually after they had talked at length about things she remembered, he would reach out to touch her face, then check himself. She would find herself acting similarly. The week before she had returned to their shared quarters to find him studying a datapad and before she realised had slipped an arm around his shoulders and leaned forward to see what he was reading. It was becoming increasingly harder to deny the attraction between them. Karis did not know if it was remembered or new, only that she felt it in the most intricate whorl of her brain, the deepest chamber of her heart, as organic as it was spiritual.

We're going to have to do something about this soon, she thought to herself. Before we drive each other to distraction pretending our little 'slips' didn't happen.

"Karis," Qui-Gon's voice broke in on her thoughts, mildly reproving. "I don't think your focus is where it should be."

"Hmm? Oh, sorry," she apologised dutifully, beginning to clear the dishes from the table.

Seeing her stepping across the kitchen on long, lithe legs, the Jedi Master gave an inner sigh as he found himself watching her move, the effortless slide of her limbs beneath her loose tunic and pants. Quickly, she began to load the dirty dishes into the washer. The task complete in moments, she returned to the main room and clipped her lightsabre to her belt. She looked questioningly at him, a smile slipping across her mouth that caused a familiar tightening in his stomach.

I don't think my focus is where it should be, either.

*

The loud slapping smack of a body hitting a padded mat rang across the otherwise empty training hall. Grunting as the air was knocked from her lungs, Karis lay spreadeagled on her stomach. Aware she was vulnerable in her current position, she blew her hair out of her eyes, the edge of the mat looming large in her field of vision. Drawing in her knees, she levered herself up. Wiggling her shoulders, she planted her bare feet hip distance apart and adopted a defensive posture; back straight, legs slightly braced, fists clenched, leading with the right.

"That was good," Qui-Gon commented from across the mat, serene in his white gi. "But you can do better. You're not concentrating."

Toning down her scowl to a slight frown, she tightened the wide belt on her own gi, feeling a damp trickle of perspiration down her back. In over an hour of hand-to-hand combat training, she had been thrown about like a rag doll belonging to a boisterous, particularly energetic child. In all that time she had not once succeeded in throwing Qui-Gon.

"Yeah? Well you weigh at least twice as much as I do."

"Weight is not a factor, Padawan." There was veiled humour in the Jedi Master's tone as he regarded her, blue eyes twinkling.

"Yes, Master," she muttered, realising he was testing her patience, seeing how much punishment she could take before she became frustrated. "I think you're enjoying this a bit too much, d'you get your kicks beating up poor defenceless women?"

Qui-Gon chuckled. "You're hardly defenceless, Karis. The last time you fought Obi-Wan you threw him twice. You just can't seem to focus today."

She frowned again, thinking back to when Obi-Wan had gallantly offered to be her sparring partner. The look of surprise slackening his features when he found himself sprawled on his back had sent Anakin into a helpless fit of the giggles. The young Padawan had laughed until his stomach ached and tears ran down his chubby round cheeks. His Master had taken being the source of his amusement with good grace and laughed with him.

'No shit, Sherlock,' she thought. It's your fault I can't concentrate.

Standing still and contemplative, hands loose at his sides, the last of the evening sun filtering through the skylights burnished the silver in his hair, picked out the line of his broad shoulders. Drawing her attention away from the enticing bare triangle of chest visible at the neck of his gi, Karis gave herself an inner kick and launched herself at him, reversing the roles of aggressor and defender. Upper torso snapping to one side, he avoided her first right-handed driving punch and blocked the follow-through with the left. Dropping to a squat so his flat-handed chop swept the air above her head instead of her solar plexus, she drove the heel of her hand into his stomach, only to strike nothingness as he anticipated the move.

Leaping up, taking advantage of her new stronger, more responsive Valuxan muscles, she whirled into a sweeping roundhouse kick. Catching her by the calf, he thrust her away, but instead of falling, she twisted into a neat somersault and landed on her feet. Diving beneath his guard, supple as a green willow switch, she spun about, planted her back into his chest, clamped onto his arm and threw him over her shoulder. Qui-Gon hit the mat squarely, arms flung above his head with the impact.

"Yes! Gotcha!" she crowed.

Her triumph was short-lived as he grabbed her ankles and hauled her legs from beneath her, rolling on top to lightly pin her with his weight.

Defeated, but exhilarated by her momentary victory, breathing hard with exertion, Karis found he had not moved to allow her up. Separated only by the softly woven fabric of their gi, his body was firm against hers, years of Jedi life maintaining the musculature of his youth. Fallen strands of his hair ticked at her neck, obscuring her peripheral vision, shining in the light. Cobalt eyes dark with conflicting passions, he dipped his head and kissed her. Arms looped around his neck, she pulled him closer, infusing the moment with months of suppressed desire.

Pulling back, caressing her cheek with his thumb, a faint flush sheening her skin, adding sparkling lights to her jewel eyes, Qui-Gon knew they could not deny their feelings any longer. Her lips curved in a lazily playful smile, short red black hair a dishevelled halo against the mat. Long slender fingers tangling in his hair, she pulled his mouth to hers, her other hand moving across his chest and into his gi, fingertips grazing a nipple.

"We'd better stop," he murmured, lips brushing her forehead.

"Why?" she asked innocently, palm sliding over his chest caressingly, eyes never leaving his.

"Because otherwise those Padawans' eyes are going to pop out."

Turning her head, Karis saw a gaggle of five teenage apprentices clad in creaseless white gi near the open door, three humans, a Chalactan and a Rodian. All five had comically matching expressions of astonishment. Biting back a burst of laughter at their round shocked eyes and furtive whispers, she returned her attention to Qui-Gon.

"Oh. I see what you mean…" She looked back at the Padawans, a wicked gleam in her eyes. "I suppose we'd better move before the poor things die of embarrassment."

Standing, the Jedi Master extended a hand and pulled her to her feet, unruffled. His expression was composed, but a tiny quirk of the outermost corners of his mouth betrayed his amusement. Struggling not to roar with laughter as the Padawans shuffled away from the door as a single entity at their approach, Karis bit the inside of her cheeks, clutching the cuffs of her gi with effort. The moment the matt beige door swung shut behind them, jabbering voices exploded from the silence. Leaning against the wall, shaking with soundless mirth, she wiped her eyes. Qui-Gon was laughing, the first time she had heard him do so, a rich, resonant sound filled with unselfconscious good humour. The multi-purpose Jedi mask was gone, the man beneath showing through. Catching her hands, he pulled her to him.

"I have just one question," he said, rubbing her Padawan braid between thumb and forefinger. "Who is Sherlock?"

*