Author's Note: Time for another weird disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, Jabberwocky (by Lewis Carroll), Zelda, or Chess (the musical)—only my characters are mine. Enjoy.

Beyond the Wall

Now…

"…So now you know why I require you're help." Cilghal sighed and stared down at her hands, still a little embarrassed and ashamed that she had not been able to help Amara alone. She had spent the last fifteen minutes recounting her experience in Amara's mind to Master Skywalker, and now she waited for his response with something like trepidation. What if he says he can't help? But no—he was Luke Skywalker—he wouldn't just give up on someone. Or so she hoped for both their sakes—she snuck a glance at Jonathan Knight who had invited himself to the private Jedi meeting and had now turned his penetrating blue eyes on the Jedi Master. Why do I fear for Master Skywalker's safety?

Luke's mouth twisted up slightly as if he had caught her thought or perhaps just her glance. He straightened in his seat, pushing the long brown sleeves of his robe back in an automatic gesture, and clasped his hands—black glove lacing with white flesh—leaning forward. "Do you think she has Force abilities?"

Cilghal shook her head. "No, just…" she searched for the right words, then shrugged, "an awesome control over her mind." Again her bulbous eyes traveled to where Sgt. Knight was observing the two Jedi carefully—he met her gaze but his eyes were unreadable. "Based on my experience in her mind and the…information I was provided about her, I would say that she's had plenty of time and motivation to create a strong defense."

"But you fear she might try to kill herself if we push to hard?"

"Yes…"

"No," Jonathan broke into the conversation for the first time. Luke turned his calm, detached gaze onto the sergeant; his eyes sparkled with what might have been amusement—or annoyance. Jonathan narrowed his own eyes in response, refusing to be intimidated by this Hero of the Rebellion. "No," he repeated, "Amara wouldn't kill herself. She has too strong a will to live—to triumph." Images from the holovids flashed through his mind—Amara laughing, clawing at the 'doctor,' snapping insult after insult at the men beating her. She's still fighting—she'd go down fighting.

The Jedi Master gave him a small, understanding smile. "Even the Hero, who hangs on infinite seconds longer than those around him, eventually lets go."

"…Unless a helping hand reaches out," Cilghal interjected, feeling the waves of tension emanating from the sergeant. He was not naïve—people died, some by there own hand, quite a few by his—but she could tell he wasn't a man who failed often (or ever). Amara's death would be a cruel blow after he had rescued her. The operation was successful but the patient died, she mused, wondering where that expression had come from.

"So you'll help her," Sgt. Knight said.

Luke nodded his sandy-haired head. Sometimes he still looks a farm boy—until you look in his eyes. Cilghal smiled at her Master, noticing the fine lines around his eyes and mouth. He didn't return her smile. Instead he sighed and said solemnly, "She can still refuse the proffered hand." He directed this statement toward Jonathan, who had begun to look hopeful, but Cilghal felt a light nudge in the Force that told her he wanted her to listen well. "I've never fought someone's mind while inside their mind—not like Cilghal describes it anyways. She has complete control over what happens. Our job will be to get her to trust us, to open up, and see that we mean no harm. That said it will be hard to convince her we are trying to help if we have to fight her…defenses."

Jonathan was giving him a look that clearly said: Yeah, and…?

"We can only give her the choice. I won't promise anything more," Luke finished.

Jonathan's shoulders slumped, but he nodded his head in acceptance. He hadn't really expected much more. And though he wanted the Jedi to succeed in waking Amara, he secretly hoped as the trio moved to the girl's room, that she would give them hell.

Icy tendrils of mist twined around her as Cilghal once again found herself on the endless black plain under the starless, moonless black sky. But the wall on the horizon seemed closer, and the plain was not bare—three wooden signs, painted white with red lettering, stood in front of her:

'THIS SPACE FOR RENT'

'DO NOT READ THIS SIGN'

'DON'T STEP ON THE MOME RATHS'

"She has a sense of humor, I see," Luke said, grinning as he appeared from the mists and joined her in front of the signs. He looked around—Cilghal could feel the Force tingle around her as he stretched out, searching. "What an amazing place," he said at last.

"Yes," she replied. She eyed the signs warily; the memory of a cute, fluffy, deadly bunny flashed into her mind. "What are mome raths?"

"I've been wondering that myself, but I suggest we don't step on them." The oddity of the place was loosening him up. "I don't sense anything though—we're alone."

"For now," Cilghal muttered, and then louder: "Things…people, memories…just appear out of the fog—we won't get any warning."

Luke nodded, his face immediately settling back into his impassive, Jedi-cool mask. He approached the signs, and Cilghal followed a step behind, but as soon as they got within a few feet of the 'space for rent' sign, all three disappeared, briefly leaving behind holes in the fog. The two Jedi glanced at each other but continued on toward the wall.

As they passed over where the signs had been, whispers filled the darkness:

"Have you done your homework?"

"…did gyre and gimble in the wabe…"

"If you could go back in time, would you kill Hitler?"

"…all mimsy were the borogroves…"

"Why?"

"…and the mome raths outgrabe."

"Why? Why? WHY!" The whispers became screams: "WHY! WHY! WHY!"

Cilghal winced at the unanswerable question. Luke's face didn't change—he was projecting calm and protection—but she could tell that the horrors of this place were beginning to dawn on him. "It won't help," she said, laying a hand on her master's arm, "In fact, it might provoke her. We have to press on—we have to get to the wall."

They walked on. The screams abruptly ceased, replaced by an eerie silence that was even worse. It pressed in on them—suffocating them with the lack of sound. Even their footsteps made no noise.

Something tapped her shoulder, and Cilghal stifled a shriek. She whirled around, only vaguely aware that Luke had also turned at her sudden movement, and came face to face with a young woman with short brown hair and wide, child-like brown eyes.

"I'm Amy," the girl said without preamble and held out her hand.

Cilghal shook it. Luke came to stand beside her and shook Amy's hand as well. It can't be that easy, Cilghal thought, no—it is never that easy.

"I'm lost," Amy said, her voice trembling. "Are you lost?"

"Yes," Luke answered. "But we're heading for that wall" He nodded to the looming mass on the horizon.

"I can show you the way."

"Lead on."

Amy beamed at them and skipped ahead. They went on like that in silence for a while, but then Amy stopped and seemed confused—as if she couldn't remember why she was there.

Luke stood behind her, waiting patiently.

"No…no," Amy mumbled to someone only she could see, "I'm sorry—so sorry, Amara.

Please forgive me…I forgive you—forgive me…"

"Do you know Amara?" Cilghal asked without thinking.

Tears filled Amy's eyes and slid silently down her face. Cilghal reached out to her with the Force. Luke laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "It's all right," he whispered, "We want to help her."

Amy's face hardened. "Why?"

"Because we care about her—she needs to wake up. She's safe," Luke continued, but Cilghal could feel Amy's Force signature changing, drifting away. (She's not real, Cilghal scolded herself, You can't forget that.)

"You're liars!" Amy hissed and backed away. "Liars!" She spun and ran, but she didn't get far. A hot blaster bolt seared through the fog and struck Amy in the back. A flash—and she was gone. But her childish voice echoed around them, singing:

"No one in your life is with you constantly

No one is completely on your side…"

The last note hung in the air like a sob, and then the fog was rushing around them, and they were flying forward.

Luke was the first to recover when the fog stopped and cleared a little, revealing an immense glassy lake like a mirror. In the center of the lake stood a lone island with a single, twisted and leafless tree. He helped Cilghal to her feet—she still felt woozy and disoriented.

"We're supposed to cross," he said.

Cilghal could only nod; her head ached. During the sudden transportation, she had felt someone trying to pry into her mind and had to fight them off. She could still feel the sharp needles piercing her skull.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes—I will be in a second," she wrapped herself in the Force's comforting embrace, "You say we have to cross?" She peered skeptically at the lake stretching into the distance, its edges lost in the ever-present mist. No telling how deep it was—nothing disturbed the surface that reflected a room that wasn't there. She leaned over the lake, taking in the lovely blue room with an intricately tiled ceiling depicting horned white horses prancing around a fountain.

"Only one way to find out," Luke said, answering her mental question. He stepped into the water, sending out a shockwave of ripples. She heard Luke let out a sigh—the water was only an inch deep. He walked farther out, but the water didn't get any deeper. The ripples caused by his footsteps glimmered with silver light. Cilghal drew in a steadying breath and joined the Jedi Master. She looked down—her reflection, standing in the blue room, looked up (or was it down?) at her.

"Come on," Luke called. He was already standing on the velvety black swell of the island. Cilghal trotted up onto its spongy slope and laid a tentative hand on the tree's ebony bark. It was cold—like durasteel after being in the vacuum of space.

"What do you make of this?" she asked.

Luke just shook his head before looking over his shoulder. The wall was so close, just on the other side of the lake—the water practically touched its gray visage. "Stay alert," he whispered as he stepped off the other side of the island into the water. Cilghal followed him, and it took her a few steps before she realized something was wrong: Luke's reflection was gone. She stared down into the water beneath her feet—her reflection was missing as well. The blue room was empty.

"Luke," she hissed, not daring to speak above a whisper as if her voice would shatter the mirror they stood on. He turned and immediately saw what was missing—astonishment and apprehension flitted across his face as he met her frightened eyes. Then his eyes widened at something over her shoulder. Everything in Cilghal fought against turning to look, but she did. She had too.

Two figures crouched beneath the twisted ebony tree. The figures raised their heads and rose as if they were being pulled up by strings. Cilghal gasped—they were copies of her and Luke, but darker somehow as if no light could escape them: they swallowed it.

"Do not give in to fear, Cilghal."

She jumped at Luke's voice in her head, but then did what he said—she slowed her frantically beating heart and opened herself completely to the dispassion of the Force. Lightsabers split the darkness, hummed in the silence—the reflections had both ignited violet blades. Luke's own green one lanced forward. Dimly wondering if you could die in someone's mind, Cilghal drew her lightsaber; the blue blade made her pink skin look purple. She joined the fray, fighting her own reflection as Luke fought his.

She slashed again and again at her reflection, threw out blasts of force, and wished that she had practiced fighting more because her reflection expertly dodged or blocked every blow—almost as if it knew what she was going to do before she did it. Cilghal wasn't consoled by the fact that Luke was having as hard a time against his reflection. She snapped her attention back to her own battle almost too late—her reflection's purple blade skimmed her arm.

Jonathan's mouth thinned into a grim line as he watched as the two Jedi bending over Amara trembled. They were already soaked with sweat, and for the past half hour he knew they'd been fighting an intense battle. The smell of burnt flesh permeated the room. Both Jedi (the Mon Calamarian more than Luke) were covered with shallow slashes that had bled briefly before being cauterized. Jonathan recognized them as glancing lightsaber wounds—he was just glad neither of them had lost a limb yet. How is Amara doing this? He stood and moved beside the bed, careful not to touch the Jedi.

"You have to let them help you, Amara," he whispered, lacing his fingers through her own and giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "You don't have to fight anymore. Let them help you…I won't let anything happen to you—I promise…just wake up."

Her reflection froze, its blade inches from her bullet-shaped head. Cilghal, panting, wondered what to do—she felt that cutting down her enemy now would somehow be wrong.

"I won't let anything happen to you—I promise…" Jonathan's voice blew across the water, scattering the fog and sending it swirling in graceful pirouettes. For a moment, the plain didn't seem so black, so dark and cold. But as quickly as the warmth appeared it was gone, and her reflection was once again turning menacing eyes on Cilghal's fallen form. But before her reflection could strike, Cilghal cut her opponent cleanly in half. The image dissolved, and when she looked down, her reflection was once again below her in the blue room. She glanced around her, searching for Luke and caught sight of him just as his green blade plunged through his reflection's chest—and then his reflection was once again safely below his feet. The lake dried up, sinking into the plain. The tree and island vanished.

Luke walked over to Cilghal and helped her to her feet. They both winced as their wounds stretched painfully. He looked about to say something, but there were no words to describe…that battle with themselves.

Cilghal kept telling herself it wasn't real, but it had been real—painfully real. Some of her wounds were beginning to bleed again. They walked in silence to the wall. She laid a hand on the hard gray surface, pressed against it with the Force, and felt Luke doing the same, but the wall stood firm. There was no door, no crack—Cilghal felt like they were being laughed at.

And then they were—a cackling, evil laugh lashed against her back. She saw Luke stiffen behind her, recognition flickering across his face followed swiftly by horror. But the emotions were gone so quickly that she wondered if she had imagined them as she turned to face this new threat.

But only a lone stormtrooper stood before her, his hand resting easily on the blaster at his hip. "Don't hurt her," he said, his voice mechanical, but Cilghal sensed the deeper feeling behind his words—it wasn't love, not romantic love at least, but it was close.

"We won't," Luke insisted.

The stormtrooper's hand clenched the blaster's grip, drawing it slightly from its holster. "Don't hurt her."

"Look out!" Cilghal shouted as hundreds of red bolts flew from the darkness. The stormtrooper turned, and the bolts smashed into his chest, ripping through his armor. He disintegrated before their eyes; his mangled body fell at their feet. The horrible raspy laughter hammered in her ears, and thousands of stormtroopers stepped from the fog, ringing them in.

And then Cilghal needed every ounce of the Force to keep her standing—two black figures stepped through the white line of stormtroopers. One was a bent old man in a long black cloak—he was the one laughing. The other towered above everyone else, his mechanical breathing chilled her to the bone. "Vader…"

Darth Vader approached the stormtrooper's corpse; his cape fluttered behind him. "I find your lack of faith disturbing," he said, nudging the body with one black boot, hands on hips. The Emperor laughed harder. Luke looked like he had seen a ghost—in a way he had. "But not," Vader continued, looking up at the two Jedi, "as disturbing as that." Vader stood aside, revealing the Emperor wearing only a tiny, hot pink thong and prancing around in a facsimile of ballet.

Cilghal realized how tired she was at that moment—and how sick of this…world, ridiculous world. She wanted to throw up as the Emperor went through a series of leaps. She looked at Luke instead—the lines on his face were deeper, more pronounced. He was starring at Darth Vader.

"You've come far, Dr. Rave," Vader said, "But you will go no farther."

"Get out get out get out getoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetout…" the wind hissed, and suddenly only Vader, his red lightsaber humming and sparking, stood before them. The Emperor, the stormtroopers were gone. The black plain stretched into the fog—the wall was cold and solid against their backs. Luke took a step forward, reaching out as if in a dream, "Father…"

Vader's mask actually registered surprise—the Sith hesitated. "Who are you?" he asked.

Luke shook his head; his eyes lost their dreamy quality. "Luke Skywalker." A gasp rose up from the plain. Cilghal felt the wall trembling behind her—a crack split the air, but the wall did not break.

"Who?" Vader was shrinking, morphing into a small, black-cloaked figure. The cloak's hood hid the person's face, but it was a girl's voice that spoke, desperate, disbelieving: "Who?"

Jonathan's voice fell from the black sky again: "…I'll protect you…you can trust them…" The crack in the wall grew.

The cloaked girl was shaking. "Who are you? Tell me!"

"Luke Skywalker—I'm here to help. I'm a Jedi."

Cilghal stepped forward. "I'm also a Jedi—I'm Cilghal."

"…you're safe…" Jonathan whispered. Cilghal silently thanked the sergeant for disobeying the Jedi's order that he was not to interfere—the girl trusted him.

"Skywalker?" the girl muttered, pressing a thin white hand against her hidden head. She recognized the name.

"…wake up…Amara…" The girl looked up at the starless sky as if Jonathan's voice was rain falling onto a barren desert.

"Amara," Cilghal ventured—the girl's gaze locked on the Mon Cal.

"I am Number 314," she sneered, "314." She looked back up at the sky. "Do you hear me? 314!" she screamed. "314! 314!"

"…Amara…" The wall was crumbling.

"I'm 314," she sobbed; her hands clenched at her sides. Cilghal was overwhelmed by the girl's anguish.

"…Amara…"

The wall fell—a blinding white light pierced the darkness, flooding the plain and evaporating the fog. The blast knocked both Luke and Cilghal off their feet. When Cilghal looked up, she saw that the girl's hood had fallen back. She had long, wavy brown hair that tumble past her waist and her gray-green eyes sparkled in her heart-shaped face. She flashed Cilghal a half-smile that did not reach her eyes. There was still darkness and rubble and fog just beyond the light, threatening. Amara turned and helped Luke to his feet, giving him a genuine smile, and giggling, "Luke, I am your father."

Cilghal's vision blurred and went dark…

She opened her eyes to see Luke grinning at her. With a relieved sigh, she removed her fin-like hands from Amara's head. Jonathan was at her side.

"Did it work—is she all right?" he asked, gazing down at Amara's face. She looked relaxed now—like she was sleeping dreamlessly.

"Yes," Luke said, "with your help."

"My…help?"

"You talked to her—interfered just like we told you not to."

"But she's going to be fine now, right?" He needed to hear Luke say it. He was still grasping Amara's small hand, worried she might slip away. He leaned over her, reaching out to stroke her cheek…

…And Amara opened her eyes.

"No one in your life is with you constantly…" from I Know Him So Well, Chess (and if you haven't heard any of the music from Chess you should)