She fisted the sheets, back snapping into an arc as she howled, a terrifying shriek of pain as she tried to stifle the sound with her back molars. Restraints, thin black straps circling her thighs, knees, elbows, forearms, chest, and neck, kept her tightly in place, allowing her to writhe in pain but never to be free of the icy grips. The Force was gone – Qui-Gon was gone. She couldn't feel either of them; there was nothing but an unending, even, constant pain that tore savagely at her left hip and burst into frenzied flames whenever she breathed. The synth-flesh solution had to be applied every hour, for her tortured throes kept upsetting the careful web of artificial skin, masking the horrendous wound beneath it. Injections of bacta were threaded through her forearm, and a patch of bacta was covering the gouged flesh, clouding her thoughts with the sickly sweet scent, cloyingly sweet, invading her mind with sticky fingers of nightmares. Again and again she fell helplessly to the thick shrouds of darkness that accompanied the drugs they gave her, and every time she was forced to take those hated pills, she dreamed. The dreams varied in only two ways – it was either Wathearu falling once again, dying in her arms, or it was Qui-Gon dueling Xanatos. Only, in the latter dream, something horrible always happened. Instead of shooting Xanatos, she would shoot Qui-Gon, and watch as her new Master fell to her own bullet. Those were the worst – without fail, she would awaken with a fresh torrent of screams that disturbed not only herself, but the rest of the patients in the ward. She never cried – just thudded her head against the thin pillow, hoping to stop the random images of everyone she loved dying over and over.
Time and space stretched, elastic, and when she stumbled from the pain-laced fog of drug-induced sleep, she felt someone holding her hand. It wasn't the rough, solid, large hand of Qui-Gon, nor was it the small, wiry, vibrant palm of Wathearu. For what seemed like years, she puzzled over who it could be, and when she managed to crack open an eye, she saw a familiar blue-skinned friend sitting on the edge of her bed. There were words, but they were nonsensical, and her pain-filled brain was unable to translate the gibberish Clah'Diam was saying. So she gave up, allowing the ropes of sleep to tie her once more in a web of her own nightmares, and when she tore out of them again, she woke fully. There was a lingering taste of bacta in her mouth, but her vision was clear, and she saw her gold-eyed friend sitting near her, tracing patterns on the bed sheets. "Clah...Diam...?" Ana croaked, and the Twi'Lek spun around, gold-coin eyes huge and filled with tears.
"Oh, Ana," Clah'Diam said softly, squeezing her hands. "You're back. Oh, thank the Force. We were all doing our best – Master Jinn is worn out. Master Windu had to use some heavy Force-suggestion to even leave your bedside. He's up resting now, but knowing him, he'll be back before long."
Ana's mouth was dry as sandpaper as she tried to move, and found that her head was locked in some sort of mechanical helmet which kept her from moving. "What..." Ana tried to ask, but her voice failed her. "What happened?" She managed to say, in a voice barely above a whisper. Clah'Diam wrung her hands worriedly, and now that she could concentrate, Ana saw that she looked bad. Her normally beautiful, smooth blue complexion was rather pasty and unnaturally pale, and Ana could see the small freckles descending in a V pattern down her thick lekku. Clah'Diam pushed her knuckles into her eyes and sighed.
"Master Jinn wanted to take you back to Coruscant right away, but when he saw your injuries, he stopped at Iridonia to get you immediate medical assistance. Master Jinn did quite a bit to help you recover, but he only had limited supplies and he needed to have professional help. So, he turned you over to the medical staff on Iridonia. Unfortunately, the medical droids were improperly programmed, and they gave you a high amount of H4b, which knocked you out for a long time. For some reason, the sedative had an averse effect on you, and you've been fighting an infection ever since you returned to the Temple." Clah'Diam explained gently. Ana licked her lips and tried to move her head again, and Clah'Diam saw her predicament. With a quick look around to see if any medics were watching, the Twi'Lek's slender blue fingers unlatched and unbuckled the various implements used to keep her in place. "You were struggling quite a bit," Clah'Diam said dryly. "They didn't want you to hurt yourself."
"My leg..." Ana said hoarsely. "It burns..."
"Ana..." Clah'Diam said, and squeezed her hand in a fierce grip. "You have to be strong."
Ana opened one dark green eye and Clah'Diam saw the raw panic. "What?" Ana rasped.
"Your leg is very bad," Clah'Diam said, her gold-coin eyes spilling over with delicate tears. "They...They did the best they could. You have some machinery, but it's not bad. Honestly."
Ana didn't hear another word her friend said. Her trembling, questing fingers pushed aside the thin blanket, intent on finding the source of her pain, which was slicing through her leg like a hot brand. When she had exposed her left hip to the warm air of the infirmary, she willed herself to look at it.
Clah'Diam had been truthful – there was some machinery. It was hidden under the patch of synth-flesh, but Ana could feel the unnatural fluidity in her joint, the smooth lump on her hipbone, and she forced herself to look at it again. Pink skin was beneath a layer of ugly dead scabs, and Ana could see that there would be a scar – not a long scar, but a deep one. Perhaps three or four inches across, just an unnatural ridge where her hip should be. But the pain – kriff, the pain was monstrous. She let her head fall back against the pillow and closed her eyes, automatically reaching out to the Force. She felt it swallow her mind, and she almost blacked out, her vision curtaining with gray for a moment. When she came to, she saw that a medic was hovering over her and Clah'Diam was standing next to her. "You shouldn't have seen it," The medic said firmly. She was an older Jedi, with blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun. "I'm sorry, Padawan Shaddem. Your leg will be functioning normally, but there will be pain associated with movement for a very long time."
Ana said nothing. Because she was thinking one thing: What use is a crippled Jedi?. As if reading her mind, Clah'Diam jumped in. "You're lucky you didn't lose the leg," She said hurriedly. "Force only knows what kept the lightsaber from passing straight through your body and cutting it off entirely. You escaped with just a scorch mark and a replaced joint. You're very, very lucky. And who knows? The Force may alleviate some of the pain if you are calm."
She didn't feel lucky. She knew why Xanatos hadn't cut off her leg. Because that pain would have faded. She could have dealt with that scar. But constant pain? Forever? Nothing to abate it except the Force? For the first time in her life, Ana doubted the Force. How could something she couldn't see take away this mind-hazing pain which consumed her? Ana closed her eyes, focusing on the smooth, slippery web of emotions around her, reaching out a mental hand to the comforting presence of the Force. It pulled at her hip, as if snagging on something, and the pain seemed to intensify rather than heal. She yelped aloud and lost her tentative grip on the Force entirely while she tried to gather herself. The medic sat down on one side of her bed, Clah'Diam on the other. Ana locked her jaw and pushed herself up a few inches, dealing with the bolt of pain that shot up her side, and adjusted her position. When she felt as though she had moderately recovered, she looked at Clah'Diam, her forest green eyes glossy with pain. "Qui-Gon," she panted. "I need Qui-Gon."
If Clah'Diam had any surprise about Ana addressing her Master without his title, she didn't show it. Instead, the medic got to her feet and left silently, leaving the two friends alone. Ana leaned back, feeling a sick sweat sheen her brow. "I can't do this, Clah'Diam," Ana whispered. "This is ... crazy."
"Yes, you can," Clah'Diam said, gripping her friend's hand hard. "You're the strongest, bravest person I know. You can push through this. Trust the Force. Reach out again, and try and let go of the pain."
Twice more she tried, and each time there was that peculiar snagging sensation, like a fishing line tangled in a log, before another knife of pain dug into her hip, greater than before. After the second try, she gave up the fight and blacked out momentarily, trying to skim the edge off her pain. When she clawed her way from the icy grips of unconsciousness, Clah'Diam was gone and Qui-Gon was there. He was dressed in a loose gray tunic, belted at the waist, and brown leggings. His outer cloak was missing, but his lightsaber hung at his hip as usual. Those beautiful blue eyes, trimmed with a smoky gray near the iris, locked onto hers and provided an anchor which she snatched onto greedily. But his face was drawn, the light lines around his eyes deepened from the stress of the past few days, and Ana felt his big, solid hands cradle her small, soft one. He stroked her temple with his knuckle, brushing the curve of her jaw, smoothing the shock of ebony hair away from her face, pushing back the spikes of blue-black out of her eyes. "Ana," He said, his baritone voice a deep, rich growl, granite wrapped with a silken bow. "Ana, look at me."
She did so.
She would never question him when he looked at her like that.
"Don't reach out to the Force. Reach out to me." He commanded, and Ana swallowed hard. The memory of the pain still lingered, but she was willing to try. Anything to get rid of the hateful pain. So she touched the thrumming hive of energy surrounding him like a golden halo, the peaks of the Force rippling around him. She connected with him perfectly, the two mental connections smoothing the snarled mess in her mind into a clean, crisp blankness. But when she felt his Force-signature pull a little at the pain around her hip, she let out a shriek of pain and gripped a handful of the sheets again, burying her teeth into her bottom lip. It was worse, now – the pain was cemented onto her mind, a branded, searing impression. This time, she did black out, fully and truly, and she drifted.
She remembered her last thought, however.
I'm useless.
Mace Windu had seen Qui-Gon broken before.
Just once.
The day he had returned from Telos IV, the day after his Padawan had betrayed him, he had seen the big, strong Jedi reduced to a shaking, storming, bitter, horrified mess. There had been tears then – and yes, there were tears now, but not for long. He had seen Qui-Gon's circle break once before, and he would rather be stampeded by a herd of wild Banthas than see his circle break again. Because a circle can only be broken so many times before the pieces can never reconnect, before the shattered scars overwhelm the once dutiful circle which was etched in his heart. And now, watching Qui-Gon sit beneath the tree, he realized that his circle was teetering again, on the verge of being completed, on the verge of being crushed.
Because Mace Windu knew something Qui-Gon didn't.
And he couldn't deny that gave him a small amount of satisfaction.
But it gave him no small amount of pity, as well.
For how many ways are there to tell a friend that he is in love? In denial, but still in love. That's what made it hurt so very much – because love, even when blocked, is stronger than hate run wild. It is the lowest, most driving, most painful of all emotions, the only single feeling which can save a life, kill a person, and entice a war all in one smoldering glare. The most base of all feelings, sensuality, protectiveness, fear, all wrapped up in a ever-changing quilt of textured emotions, love. Love, the conqueror. Love, the hated. Love, the feared. Love, the wonderful, beautiful, amazing, all-encompassing feeling which drove even the most calm, dedicated men and women out of their very souls and minds.
The very reason it was so important for a Jedi never to feel it.
And if Mace Windu had seen the signs before, he would have tried to stop it. Because you can't love without being loved, without some quid quo pro, without some give and take. And you can't love without being hurt. Just as a forest must be burned, a field must be scoured, a heart must be torn before any new growth can emerge. And the first seedlings had been sown when Qui-Gon had sparred with that girl, the two of them dueling for themselves, for their lost loved ones, for their own hatred of the Code and themselves.
"A circle broken, it is." Said a familiar voice near Mace's elbow. He looked down to see to wizened old form of Yoda, the withered green alien resting two gnarled paws on his gimer stick. "Become whole, two halves must. A Jedi and Padawan."
"It is forbidden," Mace said coldly. "They both know better. And with the Padawan's injuries and her blatant disobedience to both the Code and most of her orders, she would be wise to withdraw from her Master."
"Over distance, love grows, it does," Yoda said sagely. "A bad idea, I think, to leave one's Master. Trust, they have."
"Then what is to be done?" Mace asked, his cool gray eyes looking at the large Jedi sitting a good distance away.
"One thing to be done, I think." Yoda said calmly.
Far away in the infirmary, Ana was contemplating the same thing at the exact same time. Mouthing the words to herself.
Leave the Order.
A/N: Thoughts? (wicked grin)