Impossible

by Grayson's Redoubt

Jedi are encouraged to love selflessly, to give of themselves for the greater good. They are not supposed to get attached, not supposed to get involved romantically with others-let alone another Jedi. [Series of one-shots and short stories relating to the mirialan Jedi Shamara Drayen, and the togruta Jedi Nirah Ternas]

3. Home

She smelled like sweat and smoke, the lingering stink of ozone and tibanna gas. Her dark hair was dishevelled and stringy, hanging down over her eyes and face, though the look in her blue eyes was hard and challenging, a stark contrast to her state of being. Blood trickled from a cut in her forehead, but the mirialan Jedi didn't so much as acknowledge it.

The hunter in Nirah warned to stay aware, spoke of a lethal predator whose appearance belied abilities. The rest of Nirah, the person she was.. recognized her lover, furious and exhausted, but alive and (for the most part) unharmed. Lightsabers leave orange hands, lazily arcing over to where Shamara stood-and the ragged figure springs into motion, strong legs propelling her into the air as her compact figure spins, hands scooping the weapons out of the air with practiced ease.

Boots hit the ground with a finality that spoke of Shamara, that spoke of the necessity of letting her do this alone. Two blue-black blades snap-hiss into life, one held reversely. A moment of shocked silence, and she spins into movement, taking that silence to her advantage.

Shamara moves like water, pliable and fluid, but striking hard. Where she struck, no one stood back up. People broke where she struck, and those strikes were precise, disabling.

Bodies fall faster than anyone could've guessed, pieces of blasters falling to the ground with their severed edges still glowing red-orange.

She stands still for a long moment, waiting, watching, daring-daring them to stand back up and challenge her again. Daring them to try to take her captive again. When none move, when they remain down out of fear, only then do her lightsabers' blades disappear, vanishing within cylindrical hilts.

Blood dripped from knuckles, from a gash on Shamara's forehead, from a split lip. Sweat stained the ragged garb in which the lightsaber hilts disappear into the clothing, the tiny mirialan crossing the space between them.

Before Nirah can think to react, Shamara is wrapping arms around the togruta's form, embracing the Jedi Knight. It's good to be home.