Author's Notes: This one is shorter...needed to get this out of the way so I could tie this up in the next one. You know they need to talk.!
DISCLAIMER: Star Wars and all publicly recognisable characters, names and references, etc are the sole property of George Lucas, Lucasfilm Ltd, Lucasarts Inc and 20th Century Fox. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.
The pain attacks your torso like a lion on its prey – relentlessly. You gasp as you struggle to draw a breath. Through the haze of pain, reddened and blurred, you see Qui-Gon increasing the strength of his grip on his lightsaber. The emerald glow casts a weathered copper color to his skin. His brown hair gleams in the brilliance; drivels of sweat cascade down his naked chest, charting territory as they trek across the area. In the dim light, his muscles bunch and tense, their lines framed by shadow. That chin- that wonderful, hard chin- is set. His blue eyes, always the color of a summer sky, are points of sharp shards in the dim. They sweep the area, testing the air. His face is a study in calm, not a muscle twitches.
You see the part of this man, you have never seen before.
The warrior.
Even naked, Qui-Gon demands a presence. In fact, without his clothes, standing as he does with his blade lit and ready for battle, he reminds you of the ancient Alderaani tribes. In the time before the Great Peace on your planet, ancient Alderaani fought long, hard and often. Still holos of them still grace the walls of institutions of learning: their giant naked bodies covered in mud and blood, and their eyes aglow with the heat of battle. The man you love, glorious in his strength, his stance…
And yet against all that you live for and stand in favor of.
A second glow erupts in the room. This one is a deep blue-violet, and extends from another Jedi Master’s hand. Mace Windu’s arm extends into the hovel from the door. His strong hand grips the hilt, drawing it up into a salute as he clears the flap of skin at the door.
It is the arrival of the second Jedi that throws the already tenuous situation into havoc.
Men jump from various places on the furs. The air is filled with the screams of women, the rasp of honed metal blades drawn from sheaths. Your eyes are blinded as you are assaulted as firelight reflects off of the blades. A man near you pulls on his blade, pulling it from its sheath. The smell of blood emanates from the blade and you see the dried evidence of a lost battle there.
As the man stands, turning to see you, you realize that he is looking at you as prey. You struggle to stand, but find that your cracked ribs fire pain lasers through your very being. You can feel it in your soul. Tears of pain break on your face, coursing down in tandem from both eyes. You can barely draw a breath.
“Grab her, Qui-Gon!”
Mace’s voice sounds muffled in the shouts that fill the tent. His blade sweeps through the first man that reaches him. The blade cuts the man neatly in half. Blood soaks the furs below, his scream of anguish cut off abruptly. The smell of death fills the air with this first strike. Your eyes widen as the Jedi Master, his cloak billowing in the air, begins his Grand Dance. His blade slashes through the air, deflecting, cutting, and slicing.
Qui-Gon moves toward you, his bare feet falling against the packed dirt. His blade swings through the air and although he does not watch where it swings, he intercepts, parries and slices with accuracy and power. He approaches you, leaning down with one arm to gather you to him.
A hand grabs your hair and yanks before he can reach you. The growl that alights on your ear shell is so low that it causes ripples in your psyche. “A war, Jedi! Over a woman!”
“Over my love!” Qui-Gon returns, his face impassive. “You were warned, warrior. Touch her and lose the hand.”
The tension on your hair is released suddenly. You feel a warmth cover your face, like honey poured on fruit, sticky and coating. It is warm like the womb, and smells of metal and life. You hear a whimper and realize that it is coming from your mouth. The man’s scream of terror overtakes your soundings and climbs in level.
His voice, shrill and pain filled is cut off suddenly, as you see the emerald green of the blade sweep dangerously close to your head. Your eyes center on Qui-Gon, and you see the splash pattern of lifeblood, deep crimson against gold. His skin is tarnished with war, claimed by the god of war himself and sanctified with the spill of blood. You shiver. His eyes never waver; his expression never changes. He is the picture of calm, covered in the blood of a man that he killed.
Qui-Gon’s arm reaches down. His blade, still lit, shines on the furs around you. “Reach up, love!” he shouts, trying to make himself heard over the screams of those around you. “I know you are in pain! But I need you to…”
You reach up with one arm, painfully, gasping for breath, and through the intense tendrils of pain you anchor to his neck. You feel the pull, the stretch of your muscles, the shifting of a broken bone that makes your toes curl and your teeth grind. He grunts, lowering his arm to gather your body to his chest by cupping your buttocks. You yipe was your breasts are crushed against his solid chest. Furs are caught with his arms, and carried with you. As you are lifted away from the ground, you feel something grasping at your hair. It loosens suddenly, and you turn your head to look at the offender.
A hand.
A disembodied hand, laying amidst a pool of crimson, steaming blood.
Qui-Gon turns and bodily pushes his way through the remaining persons in the tent. Most are women, wailing and weeping over their fallen men. You can barely keep your head upright, as the pain sweeps across you like the tide. Sounds grow. Sabers hum and spit in the dimness, the fire crackles. Qui-Gon grunts as he pushes the last being out of the way, his saber dancing in front of the two of you.
Mace appears out of the corner of your vision. He is a sight to see. His baldhead shines in the firelight, his eyes sparkling, almost black. His cloak billows as he turns to cut the last man down. Saluting suddenly, he douses his flame and bends to grab two more furs. “Go!”
Qui-Gon does not argue and presses forward, through the flap and into the snow. You can hear his naked feet slapping against the crystals of night crusted ice. The surface of the snow has been pounded by the winds and made strong enough to hold his weight and yours. Mace flies behind you, his booted feet barely touching the ground as he flies along.
Neither Jedi says a word out loud. Qui-Gon is grunting as the ice below them burns his feet. The furs gathered around you protect you somewhat from the biting of the wind as the two men stumble over a drift and into the flat expanse beyond the camp. You can tell the men are having a conversation. The knits of the brows and the silence are a dead give away.
Suddenly, Qui-Gon’s eyes turn to you. He centers on your chattering teeth and your eyes and whispers. “Yes. Yes, Mace, it was worth it. And I would do it again, and face the Council if need be.”
“A war!” Mace emphasizes, moving along side Qui-Gon, matching the taller man’s strides.
“Is worth it. They over stepped their bounds, Mace. She was not part of the Jedi constituent. They could have been brought up on kidnap charges and would have had to face a Senate tribunal. And she was under our protection. Two reasons not to mess with her.” Qui-Gon’s chin sets.
“A war?” you croak.