Author's Notes: Anyone else spend stupid amounts of time thinking up chapter titles...? I'm running out of ideas now. ;) Heh.

Eclipse

Part 36

Argente and Purple took a platoon of droids ahead and began to set up camp on the edge of the dense forest, near to the sight of the recent battle at Yavin. In a frighteningly short time, General Grievous had settled the brawl, and it had been an all-out victory for the Separatists. No one from the Republic party had left the planet alive.

Young Boba had wondered off, his mind lured to the grave, deathly battlefield like a fish was lured to bait - murder and destruction was in his blood. Argente could not care less what the child did for the time being, so let him go off to satisfy his curiosity, whilst he and Purple got on with the more important tasks at hand. Yavin was theirs, and their flag would fly here tonight.

----

There were men and women in the universe that always thought they knew better. Palpatine liked these people - they always proved to be of great use to him. Magnus Oluf Valdemar Sweyn Veers, who had a name as big as his ego, was one of these people. He was a governor of some small mid-rim district, and his ego was currently making a bit of a racket in front of the Chancellor's desk.

"Do you honestly think this war of yours effective?" the man growled, slamming his fist onto the tabletop and glaring at Palpatine with ire, "Your troops are all over the place and the Separatists are running rings around you! The Jedi Knights are keepers of the damn peace - why then are you sending them out to be soldiers?"

The Chancellor stared at Veers' fist, then up into his eyes, and slowly steepled his fingers before his nose, studying the man for a moment; Veers was a rather tall man with a stocky build. His hair was a dull blond, apart from his thick moustache, which seemed to have a mind of its own and was more of a red, whilst his eyes were a faded grey and his face was what one could only call stern, looking as though sculpted from out of solid rock. He was one of those men who liked a decent fight, and thought war was always good for something. Right now, though, he didn't think the Chancellor was playing the game very well.

"Forgive my ignorance," Palpatine said, with his usual level of infuriating composure, "But what is it that you want to say exactly, sir?"

Magnus' cheeks inflated for a moment and he leant forward, growling in his most patrician of tones, "What I am saying, Supreme Chancellor, is that you have an army out there being led by people ill-qualified to do such."

The Chancellor cocked an eyebrow; "I would like to know how else Keepers of the Peace are expected to maintain this 'Peace'… but then, I am-ill qualified to judge the matter, am I not?" He leant forward now as well. "So, tell me, my good man, what would you have me do instead?"

"Put military-minded people in their places," Magnus stated through clenched teeth, "Bring some sort of order to this joke of a conflict you have instigated."

"I have not willingly instigated anything," Palpatine corrected the man.

Magnus did not look convinced. "Of course not," he drawled, stepping back away from the desk in an all-too-casual manner. "Remember we are on your side, Chancellor. Do not forget the people outside of the Jedi - we do not all need the Force to be worthy of your office."

Palpatine watched the man march out and chewed on his tongue for a second. He then elected for a second opinion, and called Mas Amedda into his office.

"Well, it's clear that the nobles are behind a different course of military leadership," Amedda concluded once he'd heard the Chancellor out, "And, if you will, your Excellency, please remember what I said to you concerning the Jedi…"

"Nobles are only interested in achieving chivalric glory," Palpatine rallied, "And perhaps there is some cash incentive too - I know not, I was not raised that way - but I do recall being told once myself that the Jedi are not soldiers."

"They are ill-suited to the task," Mas concurred.

"But they have done quite a fine job so far…" the Chancellor asserted.

Amedda only conceded with a weak sigh and watched as the Chancellor took it upon himself to pace his office, fingers tapping nervously against his rather prominent chin all the while.

"If I may venture an opinion, your excellency," Amedda then said, opting to try his luck once more, "Military men - men without the Force… well, they would command much more respect from the multitude in the Republic than the Jedi now do. Men - and women, of course - who are 'normal' would key into the psyche of the population as something they can relate to, as something that is like them."

Palpatine had since frozen and was just glaring at Mas, making not a single sound or movement.

"And, undoubtedly," Amedda went on, feeling it would be better to continue than to suffer silently under that man's gaze, "they would be easier to control, do you not think? They would answer only to you, and there would be no more of this time-wasting nonsense, with the Jedi consulting their 'inner councils' and what-not before they ever consulted you."

The Supreme Chancellor continued to stare fixedly at Mas Amedda, and the aide began to get more than a little uncomfortable beneath those eyes.

Finally, the Chancellor moved, and, with a clap of his hands, said, "I may be convinced, Amedda. I think it's time I used these 'emergency powers' to greater effect. Call in the noble militia - we shall have… 'words'."

Amedda grinned. "Yes, your excellency."

---

Boba walked through a cloud of smoke toward the erect form of General Grievous. The fearsome creature had his claw-like foot clamped tightly about Mace Windu's skull, holding it into the floor as the Jedi, weakened and exhausted, found that his cards were all but spent.

Boba folded his arms and looked up at the white pillar of steel, giving him a nod of approval. "My father would have enjoyed your company," he said.

Grievous' eyes slid across to stare at the young clone child, the one he had examined so closely earlier, and he said, "An honour, I am sure." Boba certainly didn't know which way to take that, though.

The boy reached into a sheath strapped to his leg and withdrew a silver pistol; he twirled it around in his hands, as skilled as his father had been with the weapon, and then aimed its barrel at the trapped Jedi Master.

"He killed my father," Boba said.

Grievous continued to stare, his cloak fluttering about him gently as a desolate wind clawed its way over the battlefield, gasping out its last.

"Let me kill him," Boba went on.

Grievous didn't move for a moment. His eyes returned to Windu's fatigued form and, realising that he had had more than his fair share of killing today, he decided to indulge the strange, human boy and leave this dying specimen to him. His foot unclamped from the Jedi's head and he stepped away; "Be my guest," he hissed.

Boba's eyes lit up with a chilling malevolence, something he shared in common with the inhuman General, and he gave him a nod of thanks.

Grievous just turned his back on the boy, but, before he left, he reached down to the floor and retrieved Mace Windu's lightsabre, claiming it as his own. He hooked it onto his waist, the first of what he hoped would be many trophies added to his belt. Satisfied that that was all he wanted out of the situation, he then skulked away on his skeletal legs, and left the boy to his slaughter.

Things had long since gone dark for Mace Windu. He knew there was a hole through his abdomen, inflicted by the General, which had cut through his right ribcage and lung, but his life had lingered yet. He had been beaten and clouted further by the white beast, despite the mortal wound, and was now left as little better than a quivering pulp on the floor, blood oozing from his mouth and bile clogging his throat. But even now, it would seem, he was not to be allowed to die in peace. Following the masochistic machine came this young, masochistic boy, and it was to him the Jedi Master now had to answer.

Mace coughed, sending saliva, blood and grit across the ground before his face, before he then raised his eyes to meet those of the child coming toward him. He gathered what little resolve he had yet remaining and waited for this next stage of his torture - all his life he had been both brave and courageous, his tenacity the stuff of legend amongst the Jedi Order, yet he knew that it would all soon be over. Even if it all came to nothing, he would not shrink at the last. He would not give this wicked child that pleasure.

Young Boba sauntered before the Jedi Master, and his terrible smile now finally faltered as his eyes emptied of delight and filled with hate - here was the man who had murdered his father, here was the Jedi responsible for Jango Fett's death. Boba felt his breaths quicken and his blood simmer in his veins; he would not waste his breath on words - he would act as his father had acted: quickly, efficiently and without questions asked.

His small hands clasped the silver gun and, slowly, he rose it until the barrel faced straight at the Jedi Master's torso. He saw the bravado in Windu's eyes, saw the last trickles of heroism still shining in his heart, and young Fett narrowed his gaze at such foolish attributes. His finger tightened on the trigger. There was blast as a single shot, perfectly aimed, thundered into Mace's body, and, finally, the Jedi Master felt his life become a sure forfeit to his body…

---

"How did it go, father?"

Magnus sat down in one of the foyers within the senate building and gave his son, leant up against the wall, a quick glance. "Fine, son, fine. Though whether this blasted Chancellor of ours is going to do anything is another thing altogether."

The son was a pretty good likeness of the father: grey eyes, dull blond hair, just less stocky and sans moustache, and with an air about him that was notably less haughty. One got the impression when they looked into the eyes of Maximilian Veers, son of Magnus, that they were talking to a man on their wavelength, a young man who had brains enough to know when he was out of his depth, foresight enough to know how to keep on peoples' good sides, yet daring enough to speak his mind.

"Did you suggest displacing the Jedi?" Maximilian asked, walking away from the wall and sitting opposite his father as another delegation went off to give the Chancellor a piece of their mind.

"I did," Magnus snorted, "And he'd better do it."

"But what will he do with the Jedi?"

"Who cares? They're an outdated Order, anyway. What we need are men, Maximilian, men like the rest of us! Normal men."

"And women?"

"And women," Magnus conceded, "You know I meant that."

"Sorry, father."

Magnus sat back and cracked his knuckles. "The security of this democracy has gone unchecked long enough. Look at all the piracy and crime that's happening under our noses! Every Chancellor promises to wipe it away, to bring stability, but do we get it? My arse, do we!"

Max sighed, pursing his lips - father's could be fairly embarrassing when they wanted to be.

"And you, lad," father went on, as proud fathers do, "You will be part of this! I'll make sure they give you a fitting place."

The son managed a weak smile. "Thank you, father."

He then received the complimentary, overenthusiastic pat on the shoulder in return; "That's my lad!" Magnus beamed.

---

Obi-Wan's cruiser skidded to a halt at the coordinates of the late battle of Yavin, and he rushed down the ramp onto the terrain below to meet his allies. He soon staggered to a swift halt, however, his clone troopers rallying behind him, for he could do nothing but stare in horror at the devastation that surrounded him. No words could sum up this scene - the ground was completely littered with debris from both ships and from bodies, littered with oil and with blood.

Obi-Wan swallowed and, gathering his resolve, began to pace forward once more; "Come on," he muttered, trying not to look at the slaughter around his feet, "We better find everyone else."

The thing was, the party soon realised, that there was no 'everyone else'. All that was left of everyone was on the ground around them. After a long trek, they finally emerged into the dreadful, gravelly clearing. There was a silence here so deadly it made Kenobi's heart cold. His eyes searched the mist for any signs of life, for any sign of something still of this world. The wind, meanwhile, howled across the listless panorama and pushed thick clouds of smog across the land, making seeing anything further than twenty feet ahead very difficult. It also added to the unearthly feel of the place.

The clone troopers were close behind him all the time; Obi-Wan could hear their feet crunching as they stepped across the bloodied rubble. Apart from that, it was all so quiet. The cliché would be to call it too quiet.

Again, Obi swallowed. He had a really bad feeling about this.

As if in confirmation, there was suddenly a great scream from behind: "ARGH!"

Kenobi wheeled about, lightsabre in hand before a second had elapsed. He looked about for the screaming man, rushing back several paces through the smog to find him; "What is it?" he shouted. He could see nothing.

It was then that Kenobi realised that he could no longer hear his squadron behind him. He felt a sick feeling swell in his stomach and, slowly, he turned around. He had to swallow quickly and clamp a hand over his mouth to prevent himself from retching, though, for his entire squad now lay dead on the uneven floor. Their heads were nowhere to be seen...

Obi shuddered, eyes widening in fear and his legs shaking - he knew he should know no fear, knew he should know no anger, but that scene, that sudden, soundless act of slaughter, had drawn his most primal of human instincts to the surface. And he could not help being human.

He swung his 'sabre around right then left, looking for the murderer with his eyes and his senses. Yet he could find none. He knew that the wounds inflicted so upon his squad, the decapitation he had seen there, with the necks left as cauterised stumps, could only be dealt by a protagonist with a lightsabre. He also knew that a warrior using a lightsabre should leave some kind of trace in the fabric of the Force, like a ripple that a boat leaves across the water in its wake, yet he could find nothing. This scared him more than anything: never had he faced a being who was capable of such swift murder and who was immune to his senses. Was this mysterious brute able to hide himself like a ship hides from a radar with a cloaking device…? Or was he of another world altogether?

"Where are you?!" Obi found himself shouting, the fog clouding thickly all around and leaving him lost in a void of whiteness.

His voice echoed across the land of the dead, coming back to him undisturbed: 'Where are you? Where are you?'

"Show yourself!!" he added, lightsabre swinging first here then there, searching for the phantom warrior.

'Show yourself! Show yourself!'

He stepped slowly back, and back again, feeling things other than stones pass beneath his feet, things he'd rather not look at…

Then he stumbled on a body and, turning, his eyes met those of Master Windu's; "Mace!" he shouted, dropping to his side and lifting the Jedi Master's head into his lap, "Force, Mace, I thought I'd never find you."

Windu looked incredibly weak - it was amazing that he had managed to hang on for so long - and yet he still managed to give Obi-Wan one of his trademark smiles, albeit both faint and tremulous. "I am glad you are come," Mace muttered quietly, raising his hand to Obi's shoulder and clutching it weakly, "Please… please be on your guard, Master Kenobi."

Obi took in a deep breath - it was only now, as the elation of finding Mace alive faded, that he saw the true state his friend was in. A lightsabre had borne a fatal channel through his breast, whilst a blaster had hewn another near his heart. Kenobi felt that trickle of cold rage again, the one he'd felt years ago when, trapped behind the red gateway, he had watched in agony as his Master was run through, whilst he could do nothing. He couldn't help but feel this anger - it would more be a sin to feel nothing at all, would it not?

"Obi-Wan," Mace went on, taking a hold of the Jedi Knight's tunic and drawing his attention back to him, "There is a creature here of the likes you have never seen before…" He swallowed, drawing upon his final reserves of energy, "He is a droid General. Please, be careful."

The air shifted behind Obi-Wan in that unobtrusive way where you know, nevertheless, that there is now someone stood behind you. He stared ahead, laying Master Windu down gently on the ground, before he rose to his feet and turned.

And there he was - the assassin of his men and of his friend. Here was the ghost who had added yet more grief to his life. Here was the latest card played by Count Dooku.

Obi felt his fists clench as he and this droid stared at one another: Yes, he was a 'droid' general, yet there was something living about him - and not just in the animate sense of all droids, but in the flesh and blood sense of a natural creature. The focal point of this 'living' essence was his feral eyes, livid yellow eyes that glared at Obi-Wan through the fog with little or no pity, and with little or no remorse. And it was this that told Kenobi that, whatever this thing was made up of, it was no natural creature, for nothing born and raised naturally could conceivably exist without conscience…

The wind hissed and murmured around them, knocking their hanging robes about their rigid forms.

"Master Kenobi," the creature said, nodding its head, "I have heard much about you."

Obi-Wan studied the creature as it spoke, its ghostly voice penetrating every empty void in the landscape and making it its own.

"I am touched," Obi replied darkly.

"I am General Grievous," the droid said, "And I have been told about you. You are highly regarded by our leader."

"Am I?"

The General snickered, strange eyelids sliding down and over his eyes as he blinked. "Yes, Master Kenobi. I know more about you than you do."

Obi-Wan frowned, disturbed by this creature who seemed to take such an interest in his life; "What do you mean?"

The General sniggered again. "It is not my place to tell you."

Mace had been listening all this time from the ground, his chest rising and falling more laboriously as each moment passed. He eyed Grievous uncertainly, pondering what his game was, and yet nervous that he was going to let something slip…

Obi wasn't to be easily distracted, though; he brought his lightsabre forth before him and challenged the white spectre; "And you think this will stop me fighting you?"

Grievous' hands moved faster than Obi thought was possible and he soon had two lightsabres in his grasp, activated and ready by his sides. "I had hoped to discourage you from taking on such a foolish enterprise."

Obi's heart hardened as he caught a glimpse of Mace's 'sabre hilt at Grievous' hip. He licked his lip and glared with resolve at the General's bland, skull-like face. Then he charged - through the fog, through the mist - and swung at the droid. He was fortunate that he didn't have to rely on his eyes alone, for the General was too fast even for that. Kenobi had to give himself up to the Force and allow it to guide him, for he could otherwise have no notion of where the General would strike. As Kenobi swung at the droid's neck, his shot was parried and the General's other blade was coming down on his legs. Told to jump by his senses, Kenobi did so, only to be told, at the same moment, to block a shot incoming at his head.

This mad battle went on for what seemed like an age. When the General was forced to flip onto more stable ground, he exchanged one lightsabre from his hand to his foot, and continued to battle that way until he felt inclined to place it back in his hand again. The sweat that beaded on Obi-Wan's brow did not bead upon Grievous' white mantle; the fatigue that embraced Kenobi's muscles did no such thing to Grievous' metallic limbs. Obi knew he was fighting a losing battle, yet he kept going.

Mace watched all the while, forcing himself to hold on, clutching to that ever-thinning thread of life as his friend battled on against all the odds.

Grievous crossed his two lightsabres and caught Obi's incoming blade between them, holding it there for a moment so that he could stare straight into Kenobi's azure gaze; "You are resolute and dogged," he growled, "Like he who gave you life."

This peculiar statement made the tired and weary Jedi hesitate for a second too long, and, with a sharp kick, the General sent Kenobi flying across the terrain, until he thudded into the smouldering wreckage of a ship with a graceless clang. Obi groaned, feeling blood swell in the gash on his chest, just now inflicted by the Generals' clawed foot.

Gliding across the hazy terrain, which furthermore made him seem like a creature of the netherworld, Grievous stalked up upon Obi-Wan and gave him the most conceited look that his feral eyes could manage. Obi glared back up at him, breathing hard and summoning his waylaid lightsabre back to his outstretched palm. Before it reached his hand, however, Grievous slammed his foot down onto the Jedi's wrist. There was a crunch as the bones snapped and Obi-Wan cried out in pain.

The General bent low and looked again into Obi-Wan's eyes; "You are fortunate," he hissed, "For he does not want you dead."

Kenobi found his voice amidst the pain; "Who doesn't?" he quavered.

Grievous stared long and hard, his faint snicker again emerging from beneath his skull-like head; "He doesn't. Not yet, anyhow. You are lucky."

Obi cringed, pain beginning to claw its way up his arm from his fractured bones.

Slowly, the General drew away. "Remember this, Jedi, for I may choose not to regard my leader's desire next time." And, with that, he faded into the background, pacing away until the swirls of smoke and fog had swallowed him up. Obi sighed deeply and, taking his lightsabre up with his other hand, got to his feet.

Cradling the wounded wrist, the weary Jedi now returned to Mace's side.

---

Waking up in her dreary, grey dorm, Padmé wiped her eyes and peeled herself away from the mattress, sliding off the bed and onto her feet. Tidying herself up a little, she suddenly had the urge to stay where she was forever. Memories of what she had almost done yesterday evening came back to haunt her like the hazy memories of a night on the town, and she wanted to just bury her head in the sand and forget they had ever happened. Yet she knew, in truth, that sitting around all day regretting something that hadn't even occured was a sorry state to be in, so she soon ventured out into the corridor beyond and went off in search of the Count to see if she could find what was on the menu today.

The halls were as empty as they had ever been, and her heavy footsteps resounded through them like thunder claps as she again made her way to Dooku's office. When she pushed open the door, the man was sat behind his desk as though he had never left it. In fact, as she stepped inside, she could tell that he hadn't slept at all, so it was highly likely he'd been there most of the night. He looked suddenly pale and unnaturally tense, though - so unlike a few hours earlier - as if something had been playing heavily on his mind.

Spying her out of the corner of his eyes, the Count shot to his feet and gave her a bow. "Good morning," he said, "I gather you slept well?"

Padmé nodded lethargically, rubbing more sleep from her eyes. "Haven't you slept?" she asked.

He shook his head quickly, pacing around the desk.

"Is something wrong?" Padmé added.

He continued to pace for a moment before, halting suddenly, he stared at her intensely. "I've been thinking," he said.

"Me too," Padmé added, almost against her will.

His brow rose, as though he had not expected it. "Indeed? And would you like to talk about it?"

She squirmed a little under his gaze - it felt too early for any of his 'big talks'; "I… well…" she dithered.

"The thing is," he interposed, "that I don't have much time to talk."

She blinked, eyes narrowing all the while; "What do you mean?"

He began pacing again. "I have to leave."

Her eyes followed him, her head moving to-and-fro as he marched back and forth. "Since when? she asked, wondering what conversation she'd missed since yesterday, "I thought we were going to Alderaan? You said we were going to --"

"I know what I damn well said!" he barked, turning to her squarely with burning eyes. He rose his hand and pointed a harsh finger at her. "You, my dear, still are going to Alderaan."

Padmé's brow knotted as her eyes focused on the pointing finger, taking it as a personal offence. "And where are you going?" she queried.

"Just do as I say. Please."

She shook her head. "I don't understand."

"You don't need to," he replied, taking several large paces right up to her. Looking down on her, he lowered his tone and pleaded, "Please, just go. You'll have little problem talking to Bail. He likes you, he'll listen to you. I have faith in that."

Padmé hadn't seemed to be listening to him, however. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what it is you've suddenly got to jet off and do."

"Just go," he repeated.

"Why don't you send your General instead?"

"Because he's gone away already."

Padmé relaxed a little at hearing this - finally, that thing was gone; "Thank the Force for that," she said aside.

Serenn heard her anyway, "You really don't like him, do you?"

"I have no reason to like him."

"He doesn't like you much himself, you know."

"Good."

A dry smirk pricked up at the corners of his mouth. "Obstinate woman," he said.

"What is he, anyway?" she had to ask out of morbid curiosity, "I've never seen anything like him."

Serenn had to ponder on this for a moment. "I'm not sure myself," he eventually resolved, "He's part droid and part… well, one might say 'part man'. He's part something, there's no doubt about that."

Padmé swallowed. "How can anything be part machine and man?"

"Quite easily, it would seem."

"It makes me sick."

"Pity. Your Anakin has a fine metal limb now, doesn't he?"

Her gaze hardened on him. "That's --"

"Different?" he asked as her voice faded away. He shook his head, "No, it isn't."

She gave him a scowl and opted to remain quiet.

"Speaking of Anakin," Dooku continued, "our spies have heard reports that the boy has… gone missing."

"'Missing'?" she murmured.

"Some say he's dead."

"What?!"

The Count placed a hand on her shoulder. "Calm down," he said firmly, "I know he's not dead…"

Padmé realised that her heart was suddenly pumping very fast; the shock of hearing those words had hit her with an unprecedented force, and she suddenly felt very guilty at her recent state of contentment. She'd been thinking too much of herself lately, and forgetting her poor, misguided Anakin.

"He may have been better off dead of course," Serenn added, rather unwisely.

Padmé's eyes darted back onto him and she slapped his hand away from her with great force, looking set to storm out of the room.

As she reached the door, though, Serenn's commanding tone drew her back; "Are we finished talking?" he barked after her, moving his hands to his hips and arching his brow.

Padmé shuddered to a halt by the doorway, hanging through the doorframe and thinking on whether or not she should leave. She drew in a deep breath to calm herself, and knew that there were yet things to be said, so she turned back to listen. She could not erase the indignation she felt toward his imprudent snub of Anakin, though.

"I'm not going to Alderaan until you tell me what you're up to," she told him straight off.

"I'm not up to anything," he assured her.

She hadn't moved away from the doorframe yet, so she leant into it and imitated him by cocking an eyebrow. "Aren't you?" she asked.

He didn't seem impressed by the impersonation; "No," he rallied.

"You won't mind me coming with you, then?"

His brow fell heavily over his eyes. "I most certainly will mind. You shall go to Alderaan, my dear."

"No I will not. I will go with you."

His face contorted in frustration, and Padmé suddenly felt the flaring of that small spark within her, the spark of power that she held over Serenn, and she admitted - but only to that small, dark facet of her soul, that she kept caged deep within - that she actually liked this power.

"For the Force's sake!" the Count bellowed, unable to resort to anything but language, "I finally offer you some freedom, a chance to get away from me, and you damn well ask to stay!"

"Then tell me what you're planning to do," she countered, "and I might be persuaded otherwise!"

"Don't you trust me?" he asked.

"No!"

He heaved a great sigh. "I told Grievous you didn't…" he murmured to himself, clicking his tongue and folding his arms.

"Tell me what's going on," Padmé said after another moment's silence, "I could have gone home before, I could have stayed on Naboo and had my freedom, but I know my place is --" Her voice faltered and she stared at her feet, trying to conjure a recovery.

"That your place is here?" Serenn interposed softly on her behalf.

She opened her mouth to reply but settled just for nodding her assent.

He smiled sadly. "Please, I am begging you to go to Alderaan."

She shook her head. "No."

"Please."

"No."

"Don't make me get down on my knees…" he went on.

Padmé could see she was winding him up, tighter and tighter. He wasn't in control anymore and it pained him. But she didn't care whether it was his or her interests he had at heart right now - she was blinded by this power she held over him, and just revelled in it. "Get on your knees," she dared him, "It won't do any good."

He might have laughed if the situation wasn't so serious; "You just don't understand…"

"Enlighten me, then!"

He stared at her, long and hard. "I don't want you to get hurt any more," he said plainly, "Can't you see that?"

She shook her head again slowly. "I don't see that. I don't see anything, because you're not telling me anything."

"I am begging --" he repeated, a forceful growl now beginning to froth at the edge of his words.

"Well don't!" she snapped, cutting him short, "I am not helpless or weak, no matter what you may think! It doesn't matter what you've put me through, or how much you regret things - I didn't need your protection before and I damn well don't need it now - I can protect myself!"

"And don't I know it," he concurred quietly, "But --"

She closed the gap between them and dared to go as far as to prod him in the chest; "I'm coming with you then," she more or less affirmed.

"No!" he snarled, shaking his head all the more forcefully, "You bloody well are not!"

She was bristling as much as he was, her eyes as intense as his, her true passionate nature burning beneath them as hot as his own helpless rage; "Don't lock me out!" she shouted.

His shoulders shook as he glared into those defiant eyes and he let himself fall, beyond his better judgement, back into that dark pit, the one from which he had climbed so far out of as of late. As he tumbled, his thoughts were obscured by the fierce, domineering power that had haunted his mind for too many a year now, and he saw things through a blurred haze. Padmé had seen the change in his eyes before he had even noticed it, and he saw her expression fade from anger to anxiety - but he had fallen too far to recognise this by now, though, and, stepping forward, he grasped her auburn tresses tightly in his hand and yanked her hair down, behind her back. He heard her cry out, but did not heed it, and just glared down into her eyes as she could do nothing but look up into his face. He could feel her hands clawing at his arm, could see the desperation and terror in her eyes, yet it still did not register - the dark force had control, and he was momentarily consumed by that unchecked anger that haunted his every living minute and threatened his very existence.

"Don't make me hurt you, Padmé," his voice growled, his words curdled with fire and blood. Even though he said the words, though, his voice felt disembodied, separate from his self.

"Let go of me!" she yelled.

Padmé's voice came to him as though from another plain of existence; still, nothing seemed quite real… it was like a dream, a complete and utter hallucination.

/Lover or Abuser?/

And suddenly, memory kicked in and the sinister screen shattered. A cascade of water fell over the smouldering inferno and cooled it in one fell swoop. The red haze settled and his vision cleared.

/Lover or Abuser?/

"Qui-Gon…" the Count muttered, before he recoiled rapidly from Padmé. He looked at his hands as if they were soiled with the sins of the universe and breathed rapidly. "What am I doing?" he questioned himself, "Why can't I control myself?" He panted, eyes panic-stricken, before he looked at Padmé and saw the tears of pain in her own eyes. As bad as that was, the mistrust there was worse. She looked at him all over again as if she didn't know him, all over again as if he was some feral monster, needing caging.

She wiped the tears from her cheeks and rubbed her sore neck, backing away from him slowly into the wall.

He stood and stared at her, trying to communicate in some way what had just overcome him, to tell her that it wasn't his intention to hurt her, that he never meant to do this… but he couldn't, because he knew there was no excuse. "Padmé, I --" he stammered.

"What are you?" she asked. Her voice was quiet, but so grave that it touched him to his core. "Not who, but what are you, Count Dooku?" she continued.

He tried to find the words to express himself, but he could not. He was voiceless. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

"You keep saying that now," she whispered, almost pitifully, "But it doesn't change things. It doesn't compensate for anything."

He shook his head. "No… it doesn't," he agreed, looking downward for a moment before he continued in a hushed tone, "Try to understand. I am at my wit's end as to how to get you to go on to Alderaan. If you would just go to Alderaan…"

"Then tell me why."

He met her eyes and shook his head. "I cannot."

She gave him an angry glare. "No surprise there, then…" she muttered, and turned to go.

He took two large strides across the room and grasped her arm, pulling her back. "When you do know, one day when you do, you will understand why I kept you in ignorance," he told her in earnest, "I am trying to save you… If you come with me now --"

"I've come this far," she said, "There's no use stopping now."

He watched her. "Meaning what?"

"That you are not going on without me."

He blinked, then stared, then blinked and stared some more. "You're a strange creature, Padmé," he muttered, raising his hand and running it down her face, then round the curve of her neck. "So very strange… Strong, hot-blooded, yet --" He shook his head, thinking for a second; "You are as passionate a fool as I was - as I am - if nothing else."

She watched him silently, leaning back against the wall.

"Why won't you let me save you?" he asked.

"You can't save me," she whispered.

He wasn't sure they were even talking about the same thing now, but he didn't pursue the conversation. "I can't make you listen to me," he admitted, "And it angers me when you are in as much danger as you are now and you run headlong into it."

"What danger? Who from?"

"I can feel it splashing at your feet like an incoming tide," he went on mystically, "trying to swallow you whole."

Padmé looked at her feet as he said this, then glanced uneasily at his face; he had closed his eyes now and was rubbing his thumb against her skin where he held her wrist; "I can't let that happen," he went on, "I won't let it happen."

She shook her head. "You can't stop the tide, though. It comes and goes how it pleases. You can't stop it."

He opened his eyes and regarded her again for a moment; "Yes, you are wise," he murmured, "But even fools can be wise." He leant in as though to kiss her on the forehead, but then thought better of it and, releasing her, stepped away; "Say you'll do as I ask, this one final time?" he again implored.

She leant against the metallic wall and stared at the floor; "If you come with me to Alderaan first, then I may let you go…"

He sighed, defeated. "It might be too late for both of us by then."

He met her eyes and she smiled, slightly at first, then earnestly; "Then come what may," she whispered.

TBC…