"Everywhere the human soul stands between a hemisphere of light and another of darkness; on the confines of the two everlasting empires, necessity and free will." - Thomas Carlyle

"A fight is never a goal in itself. Sometimes it is simply a distraction." - Obi-wan Kenobi

19 BBY, 0247 Hours Centaxday – Jedi Temple, Coruscant.

The heat. He could feel it in his skin, his blood, in the very beating of his heart. He could breathe it in the air, that long familiar stench stuck in his nostrils now swept in to set his lungs aflame. Feet touching the cold embers as they found their way through the still smouldering coals, burning. The heat against his face, in his lungs, in his veins. He always knew, and unlike so many of his brothers and sisters he understood, but this day had brought new meaning to comprehension.

A man stepped through the large, shredded wooden doors to enter the room that was meant to serve as a reminder of nature, what the universe was; the serene value that the Force gave to all. Lies, all of it. Where his feet touched the dancing red flower sprouted in place of all the gifts of thanks, given once upon a time to the Jedi Order and planted at the foundations of the Jedi Temple. Waterfalls and rivers and a thousand stone and pottery fountains providing the lifesource for the flora of over a thousand worlds, as the false ceiling hanging above gave the illusion of the outside world. The decorum of metaphor.

The red flowers at his feet touched the ground, and were given a life of their own as they fed on all that already had grown, had lived; now licking the dirtied clothing of those there before him. The price has been paid, overfull. Ahead his eyes found the cloaked man, the shadowed storm, a dozen white armoured machines standing between them, and all that remained of the white-haired Battlemaster. Only the people matter.

Orange fire sprouted in his left hand, moments later to be followed by the red flower streaking to life across the room, marking his path as the twelve white armoured machines fell to the heat of his weapon; his fire.

The black storm turned to see flames begin to engulf the room, enshrouding Cahal Meyrick as he came to a stop on one knee above the shredded limbs of a pair of soldiers that had been a part of the most dependable army in the galaxy, from birth to death. One should die as one lived. The storm looked to the fire, and smiled. "I knew you would not disappoint me, old friend."

Old. They were both still very much young, yet to have lived even a half of their lifespans, and still, he had felt old, until the fire burning his veins convinced him otherwise. They had seen so much in their few meagre years, and now here they were, at the climax of their lives, so much gone undone. So much gone unsaid.

With the flames burning to four feet behind him he stared into the black storm, and saw it hesitate. "It ends here Anakin. There's no one else left."

"Good, saves me the trouble of hunting you down."

"You'd never manage it anyway."

"I'm not a kid anymore."

"Were we ever?"

He stood before the storm, the heat at his back, orange flame in his left hand, green in his right, scarlet and deep leaf green coming to life before him. Flames stretching, reaching across the ground, spreading heat and light beneath the dark clouds created by the false ceiling above. A symbol of the delusion of perfection. Could it ever end any differently? There were no tears left in him. No time for them anyway.

"Feels good, doesn't it? The hate?"

No more answers either. "No Anakin. This isn't about hate. And I pity the creature whose so simple to think so." The questions drive us, but in the end are insignificant.

"Then explain it to me. You always seemed to enjoy doing that."

Cahal stepped forward, closing the gap on his friend, his brother. "You've helped me realise that I want something is all."

"Really? Greed? From a Jedi Master. I must say, I wasn't expecting that." He came to a stop, just a meter separating them now. "That's two from three. But flames burn out eventually."

Three. So simplistic. "Greed, anger, fear. But what about hope, compassion, love? The will to see it done? All mere aspects of the experience of life. To feel none is to be dead."

"Gonna spout more nonsense before you die?"

The flames surged, and leapt at the shadow. "No. I'm done with you."

Cahal pumped the Force into himself, striking again and again, twisting and throwing Anakin this way and that, cutting the heavy cloak over and over as the younger man only just eluded him. With a quick dash he repositioned himself as Anakin tried to match him, and with a crack and a shove he twisted Anakin around, creating the room for another crack which took the hilt of green lightsaber in Anakin's right hand, along with the little finger of his machine parts.

Anakin stepped back, falling out of Jar'kai and into his far more favoured Djem-so, yet still unable to fight as he was accustomed to as Cahal swept forward, driving Anakin onto the back foot where he stumbled in his defence; stunted footwork slowing him as he backtracked. Cahal could see that he was shaky at how to deal with the weight of his attack.

In frustration, or desperation, Cahal didn't know, but it was then that Anakin threw the Force at him, trying to turn his own receptiveness to telepathy against him. He lost a step as the dark washed over him, but even with the multitude of images raining on his mind, a step was all he gave. He saw all the dead, all those he had left, all those he had failed to save. Mace Windu, charred and mangled and missing a hand. Cin Drallig, gunned down protecting his students. Shaak Ti, crushed in an explosion that destroyed a hallway. Kit Fisto and Agen Kolar, cut to pieces. Serra. Even Yuki was among the hundreds that dripped by. Just a step, then he shrugged it off, ignoring it, and Anakin, instead of taking the initiative, balked.

Flanked by towering flames, he assaulted Anakin, resurgent; the flames swirling into a vortex about them as Anakin started to rise to the onslaught. "You think the shadows are your ally?" The flames that followed in his wake chased the darkness that fervently urged itself on, striving fiercely to keep up. "I knew their gifts before you were sucking at your mother's teat." Protection, concealment, comforting illusion.

Bars of plasma flashing and crashing about them. The burning. "We all want something. It pulls us, drives us on." Anakin finally found a moment to step forward and counter, "You know what I want. But what about you?" Cahal blocked and locked all three glowing beams of light, pushing them down and away.

"I want my family back you black-hearted fatherless schutta." Too late. Then noise, shock, ringing in his ears to accompany the wave that slammed into his back; a rush of air and a crash as he was blasted into and ricocheted off Anakin.

He rolled across the dirt and grass, head shaking as he opened his eyes. Hands empty, one went to his head as the other to his side, toward a numbed pain, shards of it in his back. A grenade. His fingers followed it to find a large piece of metal beneath his left ribs, liquid fire pouring out around it. Move!

He rolled over to see Anakin, free of his shreds with the scarlet glow of his weapon driving at him. Reactively he wrapped his left hand in the Force and swung it out, connecting with and deflecting the red plasma. He scrambled to his feet, now Anakin advancing, hammering his weapon at Cahal whose arm was growing increasingly numb with every successive crash. Then Anakin sidestepped and flashed by him, knocking his arm up and to the side as he went, Cahal dropping to one knee as he felt the parting of flesh along his ribs.

With a groan he turned to see a determined smile on Anakin's face as he held his Jedi weapon in his right, machine hand, and in his left was a Republic soldier's knife; dripping a darker red than that of his lightsaber.

The fire in his side, the burning in his veins. Flames poured light and heat on everything nearby, but softer now, dimming in their struggle for life. "What has the great, Cahal Meyrick, got left?" The strain in his voice was as evident as that in his own lungs. Anakin flashed by him once more, again cutting him with the knife. "Huh, Jedi Master?"

Intent on only inflicting pain. Anakin darted again, and he was ready. Cahal caught Anakin's left wrist as he caught the plasma of his lightsaber, holding Anakin in place. Before Anakin could see what was happening a trickle of the Force removed the restraints on the resistors and conductors of the weapon, with a fairly rudimentary understanding of Tutaminis and Vaapad doing the rest. "Didn't your father ever teach you to go for the killing strike?" Anakin looked at him, hate trying it's best to burn into him and doing absolutely nothing. Nothing like a good distraction. The plasma was already twice it's functional girth. "Oh, I guess he didn't." Anakin struggled in his grip, trying to throw him off. Too late, old friend.

An explosion of electrical and Force energy blew the two of them apart, Cahal dropped to a knee as he righted himself, looking at Anakin who hit the deck and rolled to a stop, flames disappearing where he touched, right arm ending just above what was the wrist; now a tangled mess of circuits and pins and wiring.

Fire burns. Taking a deep breath, ignoring the pain searing his side, the boiling of his blood, scalding his muscles, Cahal pushed himself to his feet. Food to grow, oxygen to breathe. He looked up to see Anakin also taking his time in pushing himself up, broken mechanical arm planted on the ground and knife ready in his hand. Gifts light and warmth, battling the cold as the shadows flee it's reach. The flames now little more than embers about them, having raced over everything, soaring up into the heights of the room to set the false ceiling ablaze. Uncontrolled, it will burn itself to death.

The two men stepped toward each other as one through the ashen floor, both careful, wary, focused. The fires above made the whole room glow, the darkness threatening to return at a moments notice to overwhelm the dying flames below. And there, in the glowing embers of the flora of over a thousand worlds, the two men began their final dance. There were no great gusts of wind, no more grand displays of power, no beautiful and mystical elements or technological weaponry. Sweat from the heat and effort poured off them as they stepped back and to the side, jostling for the position to strike while struggling to avoid.

The knife struck as the one without leaned away and countered, connecting with the face, but Cahal Meyrick; not as fast as he should have been, muscles tight from exertion, scorching from his boiling blood, didn't pull back in time, and he was sliced open from wrist to elbow around the forearm as Anakin Skywalker fell back from the blow.

Wetness covered his arm, the small of his back, doing nothing to douse the burning he was immersed in, drowning. He looked at his arm, his hand, rapidly becoming soaked with the red slickness of his blood. He looked to Anakin to find him waiting, gathering himself for what he clearly was hoping would be the last exchange. Their eyes met, and neither of them said a word. They knew. There was nothing to be said anymore. Not anymore. They'd said their words, they'd spoken their damage. And now, their time was at an end.

They each took measured, sure steps forward, to move any faster would have been a fatal error. They inched to just outside arm's reach, and began their frugal dance for what they knew would be the last time. Each staggering and shuffling around the other, the knife in Anakin's hand threatening to end it at any moment, running millimeters close to Cahal's skin as he urged himself to get out of it's path.

Then Anakin got too close, and Cahal had to hold his ground and he rushed to catch Anakin's hand at the wrist, knife stopping just short of his belly. He dragged Anakin's arm around to the side and had to let go with his left hand to block a kick before he struck with his own, slamming into Anakin under his left ribs, connecting so hard that his right hand lost it's slippery grip and Anakin fell to the side, stumbling but managing to stay on his feet.

But Cahal didn't waste his chance, joints aching, muscles threatening to burst into flames he urged himself forward, left hand going behind him as he shifted just to the right. But he wasn't as fast as he was accustomed to; wasn't even as fast as he should have been, exhaustion taking it's toll on him, and Anakin just managed to recover and strike to try and stop him; knife slicing through the air to get at his throat.

As his left hand came forward, pulling a five inch piece of shrapnel with it, the knife pierced his throat. Left side, almost at the bone, cleaving him apart from front to back. But the deed was done, and before the knife left his throat he gripped the metal tight and shoved it with everything he had left, up between the ribs and through a lung, forcing it in until the palm of his hand was against Anakin's chest and feeling the outward burst of blood.

The two men hit each other and bounced to the side, turning and rolling as they both hit the dead floor, black ash soaring into the air about them as their burning red liquids seeped out to pool around them.

Neither of them moved as the last of the fires burned around them, falling from the cloth ceiling high above to land on the floor, somehow not quite burnt out. But Cahal didn't have eyes for any of that, they were already far away, heat still alive despite the cold. But he still did see, through the Force he saw a being come to him. A hundred different faces, a hundred different names, on over a thousand different worlds. Calling to him. A gentle voice. Welcoming.

And in the back of his head, that little bubble that pointed him like a compass was still beating with life. And getting farther away by the moment. Only the people matter. And Cahal Meyrick smiled.