#willtrainhim

The two Padawans are still scowling at each other, Siri with her arms folded across her chest and chin clenched irritably, and Obi-Wan with his hands on his hips and looking like he was trying to send vibro-blades at her through his eyes, but both of them are cowed by the Jedi Master’s stern reprimand. He should still apologize, Siri thinks angrily, but if he’s going to continue behaving like a spoiled Youngling then at least one of them has to be the bigger Jedi. She tosses her head with a last hmmph in Obi-Wan’s direction, and turns to Qui-Gon apologetically, a little embarrassed that their tiff had been caught by one of their Masters. 

             A dark, weary chuckle tore itself from the korun’s throat, as raw and ragged as his breathing and voice.  The Dark twisted around Qui-Gon like a velvet cloak, and part of Mace - a part he had always kept under firm grasp, a part that had always whispered he would be at home in the shadows - wanted to reach for that darkness.  Wanted to wrap it about himself as a cloak, and find peace (peace, an ideal he clung to in desperation, as the death and the blood and the guilt drove in, day after day).

         “Fear for me, Qui-Gon?  I was under the impression that a Sith did not allow themselves weaknesses like compassion.”

             He could barely stand, blood staining his tunics from…something.  Shrapnel, he thought, a droid falling to bits, maybe.  His voice was as ragged and raw as his breathing, now he had time to step out of the shadows of Vapaad and take stock.  And everything hurt.  Everything ached…How long had he and his men been fighting here, holding this position?  Was it one day, or a week?  And was that exhaustion in his voice, surrender?  Or maybe betrayal.  It all seemed to blur together, mixing in a wash of guilt and rage and exhaustion so deep he thought he might bleed it all.

@willtrainhim

don’t tell obi-wan