Rating: PG?
Summary: Dark. During the Jedi Purge. A Jedi Master and her Padawan are trapped.
Disclaimer: The Jedi are all mine, and I make lots of money from them. I'm also an Olympic gold medal winning, Miss Universe astronaut who keeps her house clean. I can sing, too!
Drip.
The sound was driving Cirrus Harijan crazy. She had tried hard to force herself to imagine the sound was pleasant. It should be, she thought to herself, it was keeping them alive. Barely.
Drip.
She had always liked the sound of water before. Rushing white water. Tumbling waterfalls. Babbling brooks. But, this, this was torture.
Drip.
The irony of the situation was not lost on her. It's driving me insane and I'm causing it. When their water supply began to run dangerously low, she had begun to wring water droplets from the damp air catching them in a metal bowl she had found. At least the container was now half-way full and no longer made that awful ping. That was even worse. At first she had turned the room upside down, looking for something, anything, to catch the water droplets that was not made of metal. She found nothing else suitable. The few literjons that had held their supply of water, now empty, had mouths with too small of a circumference. She was weakening and needed the wide circle the metal bowl provided, lest any of the precious drops missed their mark and dropped to the floor, wasted. So, the metal bowl stayed.
Drip.
Hunger gnawed at her. She wished she could wring food from the thin air as well as water. She looked at her body. Wasting away, she little more than a skin covered skeleton. She ran her hand across her ribcage feeling each and every protruding one. Her stomach rimmed by the sharp edges of her pelvis was as concave as that infernal bowl. Once she had been strong and healthy, tending to put more weight on then was desirable, so she had watched what she had eaten. She wished now for all the second helpings or extra desserts she had turned down in the past.
Drip.
Her Padawan stirred. Cirrus looked over at her pale, rail-thin body laying on the filth-crusted cot. Her small body made all the more tenuous by its emaciation. Tenuous, also, was her hold on life. Her presence in the Force was waning, she wouldn't last much longer.
Drip.
Cirrus had long ago given up hope that the man would return. At first, he came every day like clock-work bringing food, water, and news. But it had been many weeks since his last visit and she feared the worst for him.
Drip.
She had never known his true name, but she had attached the name Chrysoberyl to him for he had worn a necklace hung with a large, fine crystal specimen of it around his neck. She had found him through a friend of a friend, a risky, dangerous chance at best, but everything was full of peril these days and she had little choice.
Drip.
He had led the pair here months ago after Master Yoda had ordered all the Jedi Knights with young apprentices to escape Coruscant and go into hiding. She was loath to leave the Temple, but the deaths had been mounting and he wanted to save the youngest, to survive and to carry on the Jedi order if need be.
Drip.
The smell of the burning bodies still remained with her. At first, the funeral biers were frequent, but soon the the fires were burning almost continuously, and then at the end, they were continuous. Likewise, at first, the bodies were cremated one at a time, then, Masters and Padawans burned together, sent to be one with the Force together. The smoke filled the Temple permeating clothing and hair. The smell was everywhere, inescapable evidence of the fire blazing outside on the plaza.
Drip.
Smell. It also smelled bad in this dank hell-hole. It had once been a break room for a small business, long closed, boarded-up and forgotten. There was this room and a refresher station. There was no power or running water. Therefore, the smell from their own waste began to build as the refresher station was inoperative. That was one small consolation to starving to death, Cirrus thought grimly, at least we're not adding to that awful smell.
Drip.
She recalled the moment when she had realized the tide had turned against them. A search Jedi that had returned empty handed. It was not so much that, but what he had said the child's parents had done. While it was not unusual that parents of Force-sensitive children would refuse to let the child be taken by search Jedi to train at the Temple, but the parents had *hid den* the child saying they did want their child *stolen*.
Drip.
Stolen, she had thought, what had made them think we steal babies?
Drip.
Then the rumors started that the Jedi were *killing* the children in some arcane ritual. This was beyond her comprehension that anyone could believe this. The Jedi order *protected* life.
Drip.
She looked again at her sleeping Padawan. Force-sensitive children were rare. Very rare and precious. Sworn to protect and guide the girl, she had done everything she could to avoid letting any harm come to her. *She* was not killing her apprentice, she thought, *they* were.
Drip.
The child opened her eyes.
Drip.
"I had the most wonderful dream, Mistress."
Cirrus winced inside, Jedi do not dream, not normally, not when connected to the Force. "Tell me about it, Padawan."
"We had food. Lots of food. The most delicious food you could imagine and we ate and ate. It smelled wonderful and tasted even better."
Cirrus fought back tears.
Drip.
Cirrus rose to retrieve the water she had been collecting. “Here, Padawan, drink," she said as she lifted the girl's head.
"Thank you, Mistress." Her small voice was weak and faint, but she drank several thirsty swallows. Cirrus put the metal bowl back down and ran a hand over the girl's short hair. "I just wish I could make your dream come true."
Drip.
"Now, go back to sleep, it's still dark," Cirrus lied, or didn't, for she hadn't a clue for the room had no windows and had lost all sense of time long ago. The only light was a single glowlamp. At the beginning, she would sent tendrils out in the Force to the outside to glean what time of day it was. Weakened, it was all she could do now to keep that torturous . . .
Drip.
. . . going. It had also helped that the man had been punctual, arriving each day at the same time. There was hope then. He was to arrange transport for them, send them somewhere, anywhere, just away from Coruscant and the Emperor.
Drip.
Cirrus drained the rest of water from the metal bowl, past her parched lips and throat and into her empty stomach.
Ping.
But, then, just a few days after he had hidden them here, in this decaying corpse of a room, he had arrived with a look on his face that ran ice through her veins. His words would have also, if they had not already frozen as solid as Hoth. His plans had fallen through somehow and he was having great difficultly making other arrangements. Aiding and abetting Jedi was a capital offense and the price for smuggling them out had sky-rocketed to become a king's ransom.
Ping.
Yes, he had said, he knew that she had given him all the credits she had been given to make her escape. He had stood there for awhile, thinking, trying to make a decision. He kept looking at her Padawan. Finally, he had said that they shouldn't worry, he would come up with the needed credits.
Ping.
She had wondered where he would come up with such a large sum. He didn't look like he was wealthy, the cut and fabric of his clothes and his mannerisms suggested he was a man of modest means. The only sign of anything that suggested he had anything of value was the chrysoberyl hanging at his neck and that certainly wouldn't bribe a smuggler, not to get a Jedi and her Padawan off Coruscant. He hadn't answered her when she asked what he had in mind.
Ping.
Pent up in here, she had plenty of time to wonder and think. Eons of time. She had tried to keep up with her training of her apprentice. No lightsaber practice, of course, they had left *those* behind. The signature weapon of a Jedi, carrying a lightsaber would have been foolish.
Ping.
She missed her lightsaber. She, once, *always* had it with her. If it wasn't in her hand, it had been hanging from her belt at her hip. She pictured it in her mind. It was a beautiful black and silver cylinder that ignited with amber-yellow shaft of light, not at all like the first one she had made. That was a disaster. The other apprentices had made sure she didn't live that mistake down. Hazardous Harijan, they called her. Still, after all these months she wasn´t used to its absence, as she kept finding herself placing her hand where it *should* be, but wasn't. She felt naked without it.
Ping.
She missed her robes, too. She had worn them all her life and they were like a second skin to her. Shedding the robes of the order had also been necessary, lest they became their funeral shrouds also. While not physically difficult, it had been mentally strenuous. It meant that they were *hiding* t he fact that they were Jedi. Humility was what the Jedi order strived for, however, she never had thought that she would have to conceal the fact that she was a Jedi.
Ping.
As hard as disguising herself had been, it had been harder on her apprentice. For while there was nothing they could have done about her hair, cut short and even, except hide it under a hat, her Padawan braid was another matter. It had to be cut off.
Ping.
The braid would have given away as to the girl's status as a Jedi Padawan. The tradition among the Jedi was, once an apprentice passed the trials, his master would cut off the braid, grown almost since birth, and hand it to the new Jedi Knight releasing him from his apprenticeship. The new Knight would then present the braid back to his master, as a gift, a token of appreciation of the training and teaching his master had given him.
Ping.
Her Padawan hadn't fully understood why it had to be cut. Crying, she had asked, no, begged, Cirrus to tell her what she had done wrong. Cirrus had to assure her young Padawan that, no, *she*, hadn´t done anything wrong, * other* people were doing wrong. Deadly, serious wrong.
Ping.
Yet, her apprentice hadn't understood. What she did know that there was only two ways your braid was cut. One, you passed the trials and you were now a Jedi Knight or two, you had done some grievous wrong and you were being dismissed from the Temple. It had almost broken Cirrus' heart when her apprentice had asked her once the deed had been done, where she was to go now that she wasn't Cirrus' Padawan.
Ping.
The small girl had tried to keep herself calm, as she had been trained, but she hadn't had much success. Her face betrayed her terror and shame. Cirrus had hugged the girl trying to comfort her with her body as she assured her with her words. She had told the girl that, *yes*, she was still her apprentice and *wherever* she went the girl was to come, too.
Drip.
It now apparent to Cirrus Harijan, Jedi Master, that the wherever was now death.
She awoke with a start. Something was wrong.
Something was missing. What? What?
Think, Cirrus, think. What was missing?
No, feel, she commanded herself, feel for the Force. It was slipping away, just as she was. The Force - that was it.
Drip.
Funny, she mused, at one time the sound of that damned drip would have kept me awake. Now, its absence was keeping me from sleeping.
Drip.
She was losing it, she thought, was I asleep or passed out? And at this point did it matter? Yes, it did matter. It mattered very much. She was *n ot* going to die, she had vowed, before her Padawan and leave the girl all alone.
Drip.
She called on the Force to strengthen her, and as always, it came, nourishing her as no amount of food could. Food. If they only had some food, but Chrysoberyl no longer came.
Drip.
After that last time, when the man had said his plans had fallen apart, while he still came everyday, he arrived at varying times. Back then, she hadn't been hungry for food since he had brought plenty. While not sumptuous, as he had to bring whatever he could hide in his pockets and such, but it had been sufficient. He even managed to bring fresh fruit occasionally.
Drip.
Yes, *then* she hadn´t been hungry for food, but hungry for news and company. Once, she asked him what he did for a living. Usually tight-lipped, he had opened up a bit. He said he had been a gem cutter, but was now out of work. She had asked him why he was out of work, didn't the Empire need gem cutters? Yes, he had replied, but not his speciality, lightsaber gemstones. She knew they had to be cut not only more precisely then other gems, but also differently. It was a unique cut that anyone remotely familiar with lightsabers or lapidary could identify immediately. She wondered if he had cut the facets in the amber-yellow gem of her lightsaber.
Drip.
That was why, he had said, he was arriving at odd times now. After he had been let go from his employment and his equipment seized by the Empire, he had been using the facilities and tools of friends and associates whenever he could.
Drip.
Why? she had asked. For her, he had said pointing to Cirrus' apprentice, and you. I don't believe the lies they are spreading, he had continued, I know the Jedi and they've always been good and kind. And the galaxy needs you.
Drip.
She had asked what new lies were being spread. He told her she didn't want to know. Cirrus knew that he was sparing her Padawan, for everything he said she could hear as the room was extremely small.
Drip.
She looked around the room. She didn't know why. Nothing in here had changed and by now she had memorized every crack, every stain, every spot of mold in the room. She even knew how many tiles there were in the ceiling. 127. Or was 126? Do you count the one with half missing or not? 126 1/2? Yes, that's it 126 1/2.
Drip.
So had asked about news about the Temple. He said he didn't know anything except that the funeral pyres had stopped burning. Her heart sank. This had *not* meant that the killing had stopped. It just meant there was no one left at the Temple left to burn the bodies of the dead Jedi.
Drip.
The burning bodies of dead Jedi. Thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands . . . Stop it! she commanded herself, stop thinking about it. But she couldn't. For burned in her brain, seared there as if with a branding iron pulled from the flames of those fires were those words . . . those words.
Drip.
He was an ordinary-looking man, nothing special about him that would cause someone to remember him if you had passed him on the street. But remember him she did because of what he had said.
Drip.
And pass him on the street she had. On her way here.
Drip.
He hadn't been talking to her, not in particular. Or to anyone else in particular for that matter. He just said it out loud for anyone within earshot to hear as if he was commenting on the weather.
Drip.
He had breathed deep first. She remembered that. A large, lung-filling draught savoring the scent in the air as if it was the most delicious aroma he had ever smelled.
Drip.
"Roasted Jedi."
Drip.
Chrysoberyl had seen the look of despair on her face. He revealed what he was doing at is friends' shops to give her hope.
Drip.
He was nearing retirement. *Had* been nearing retirement. Over the years, he had saved a few credits, here and there, and bought rough stones when the price was good. On his own time, he had cut these into lightsaber gemstones. He had planned to sell them, as needed, when he retired.
Drip.
Now, he had continued, there was no market for them as they were illegal. So, even though it would, or rather would have before, diminish their value, he was recutting them.
Drip.
She hadn't known what to say. The man was not only putting his life on the line by what he was already doing, but *somehow*, this, his life savings, was asking too much of him. She had felt strange. Refusing his gift of his life's work would seem to demean his actual life. Yet, oddly, she had felt this gift was of more value to him.
Drip.
She looked over at her Padawan. Valuable.
Drip.
Cirrus thought of her own daughter. She wondered how she was faring with her Padawan. Cirrus could not bring herself to believe that anything other than they were alive and well to cross her mind. Trust in the Force, she told herself just as she had told Nimbus many times.
Drip.
Nimbus. Nimbus Harijan. She had named her daughter Nimbus to keep with the family tradition. Funny, she thought, I named my daughter after a rain cloud and here I am wringing water from the air and I'm named after thin, wispy clouds made of ice crystals. I guess at least, now, I look like my namesake.
Drip.
She remembered back when her daughter was an infant, so tiny and small. Not anymore, Cirrus thought, she towers over me. But, then, nestled in her arms, she felt so fragile, Cirrus thought she might break her. And she had smelled so good. Cirrus remembered how she would often take deep breaths of the fragrant scent of her hair. The soft, suckling noises her daughter had made when feeding at her breast, taking nourishment from her own body. The sweet taste of kissing her. Yes, Nimbus had been a delightful sensation.
Drip.
Cirrus wondered if she would ever see her again. She wished she could hold her in her arms once again. Just once. That's all she asked.
Drip.
Her Padawan asked for little now. She was a good apprentice and rarely complained about anything. But, when the food had run out she began to ask to leave, to go out to search for food. In her ten-year-old mind, she had come up with the idea that if she was fast enough, she could grab some food and hurry back before anyone caught her. She knew about those devices. Those infernal, damned *machines*. Sorry, CeeJay, I didn't mean any offense to you, wherever you are. But, then, I never really considered you a machine. Neither did you, come to think of it.
Drip.
Those devices. That was one of the reasons they were trapped. If I just could have *one* minute with their inventor, why he'd learn some *new* things that his machine could do. Stop it! she told herself, that's not thinking like a Jedi. But, that's the problem, isn't it? I *am* a Jedi and that's what those devices can reveal. Apparently, they could, for she actually had never seen one, provide a *visible* hologram of a Jedi's presence in the Force. So even without the robes or the lightsabers . . . or a traitor. . . the Empire could identify them and kill them . . . or worse.
Drip.
Like torture. Just like that drip is torturing me. No, it would be much worse, much worse than staying here. Here in this stinking room with 126 1/2 ceiling tiles!
Drip.
Cirrus, too, had thought to leave. Many, many times. Go out fighting like a Jedi. Like in one of those holodramas. She imagined that in the ones currently showing, the Jedi, now, were the villains.
Drip.
Villains.
Drip.
That was the worst part of all. Jedi turning against Jedi. The fear and the mistrust. It was not good for the Force, it upset its balance and its harmony. She could feel it even in here. Cirrus was trapped. For out there, she and her Padawan would be. . . *hunted* . . . down. Yes, that's the word Chrysoberyl had used. *Hunted*.
Drip.
Like prey. So, she stayed. Growing hungrier and hungrier. Her Padawan eventually started to complain. Jedi or not, she still was only ten. Only ten. Those monsters. Who would want to kill a *ten-year-old little girl !*
Drip.
They did. Chrysoberyl's face had become more and more strained and gaunt with each increasingly infrequent visit. Then, one day, after many day's absence, he had shown up without the crystal dangling from his neck. No chrysoberyl. What do I call him now?
Drip.
Mistress, I'm hungry, she had said.
What, what do you say to that? What do you say to a ten-year-old girl that hasn't had anything to eat in three days . . . or four days. *Stang*, she didn't even know what day it was.
Drip.
Day. She wondered what kind of day it was outside. What the climate-controllers had cooked up for today. Ha, ha, very funny, Cirrus, *cooked* up. Were there *cirrus* clouds or *nimbus* clouds? Or no clouds at all?
Drip.
Get a grip on yourself, Cirrus. Meditate. But, that is what I had told my Padawan. Meditate on the Force and the pain in your stomach will go away. Meditate and it will go away. Go away.
Drip.
Maybe there where those huge, dark cumulonimbus clouds outside. The ones that were anvil-shaped and brought storms. Cumulonimbus. Her husband had once joked that if was going to be the head of a family of clouds, he was going to change his name to that, Cumulonimbus, largest of all. Cirrus thought that the name would have suited him well. He had been a huge, towering man. Dark hair, almost black. He had been anvil-shaped, too.
Drip.
He had wide, broad shoulders. So wide, Cirrus was sure they could carry any burden. But, not that last one. No, not that last one.
Drip.
Those shoulders were what first attracted her to him. And kept her interest. Oh, I liked his face. He was a handsome man. Handsome. And a rich deep voice. But, those shoulders! She melted every time he hugged her. And she made sure he hugged her often.
Drip.
One more hug. That's all I ask for. One more hug.
Drip.
That's was her Padawan had asked for. A hug. When Chrysoberyl, or should I call him He-With-No-Chrysoberyl now? Too long. Stick with Chrysoberyl.
Drip.
When Chrysoberyl had shown up that day minus the necklace, Cirrus knew that she and her apprentice were dead. It was only a matter of time. Time! She had too little of it and too much of it. Time to count *one hundred and twenty-six and a half kriffing* ceiling tiles over and over!
Drip.
He told them that things had gone terribly wrong. Terribly wrong. He would continue to come and bring them food and water, but it looked like they were going nowhere. They were going to have to ride out the storm until the situation changed.
Drip.
Storm. He had said . . . storm. Cumulonimbus. He had been powerful in the Force. A strong, bright presence in the fabric of the Force. As brilliant as lightning. You just try and scan him with your Jedi hunting device! His image will blind you! Cumulonimbus. The lightning-storm cloud with the wide shoulders.
Drip.
Her shoulders were not that wide. Not wide enough to carry the burden placed on them. But, the Force had never failed her before and it wasn't going to fail her now she had promised her Padawan. At least that was the answer Cirrus had given her.
Drip.
Mistress, are we going to die? was the question she had asked her.
It was then she had asked for a hug.
Drip.
But, Chrysoberyl never showed up after that. Never showed up.
Drip.
Cirrus' apprentice had begun to lose weight and grow lean. How does one * grow* lean, anyway? In addition to being hungry, her Padawan now said she was cold. Unlike food, for there was none to give her, Cirrus gave the girl her clothes. Wrapping her tightly in them, she had hugged and hugged her, trying to warm her small frame with the heat from her own body.
Drip.
Cirrus had thought when Chrysoberyl comes back I'll ask him to bring a blanket. Cirrus, you're an idiot. If Chrysoberyl came back, they would have food and my Padawan wouldn't be so cold.
Drip.
But, now, the girl asked for nothing. Cirrus wished for her robes back. Her thick, flowing, voluminous cloak. That would warm her apprentice. Now, why was it they hadn't thought to bring them?
Drip.
Cirrus was cold, too. Corellian brandy. That would be nice. Warm me up. Or a hot, steaming mug of strong caf. Or a funeral pyre.
Drip.
Soon enough, soon enough, she thought. And then it occurred to her that they were no longer burning the bodies at the Temple. How did she know that? Who had told her that? Now she remembered, Chrysoberyl. Where was he anyway? She was hungry.
Drip.
The Jedi Temple. Why hadn't she disobeyed? Why hadn't she stayed? To die there would far better, then in this stinking, rotting room engulfed in the stench of their own offal. The Temple was so beautiful, so serene. Or at least it was. She wondered what it looked like now or even if it still stood. Her apprentice deserved better.
Drip.
Her apprentice stirred uneasily in her sleep. She's in great pain, Cirrus knew, but there was little she could do for her Padawan, she couldn't even shunt away with the Force the small pain of that cut on her own left wrist.
Drip.
She looked at the slit in her wrist. She knew she could do that only one more time. One more time. Maybe, the Force willing, that would be enough. Enough for the two of them to last until they came. They? Chrysoberyl? For him to come, she held little hope. Another Jedi? A true Jedi, like the ones of old. Like in the sagas and in the ballads. For she knew, out there they were going down fighting to the very end.
Drip.
"Wake up, Padawan. Wake up." She gently shook her Padawan. Her apprentice opened her large, sunken eyes and focused them on Cirrus.
"Padawan, remember? You are not to disobey me."
"No, Mistress," Her small head managed a small shake in the negative. "Not again. I won't."
Cirrus summoned all the authority in her voice she could muster. "Padawan, you will obey me."
Cirrus took the knife in her left hand and made a small slit in her right wrist.
She lifted her Padawan's head to drink. When she heard small sucking sounds, she thought of Nimbus. She wished that that had been her name instead and could provide heavy rains.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Words from the Jedi Code entered her mind: There is no emotion; there is peace. There is no ignorance; there is knowledge. There is no passion; there is serenity. There is no death; there is the Force.
Drip.
Summoning her strength, she called out in the Force announcing her presence. She broadcast as wide and as far as she could. She didn't care who found her now, friend or foe. It was time to end it.
"In here," he said.
They didn't bother to knock. They just blasted the door down.
Seeing the nearly naked figure of the graying women hugging the tiny form of the young child, he said, "See? See how sick and twisted they are?"
Prodding the two bodies laying in an embrace on the filthy cot, he said, "Too late."
"Saves us the trouble of killing them," one of the Imperial soldiers said.
"Takes away the fun is more like it," the other said disappointed.
He lifted the old woman's wrists to check for a pulse, to further confirm what he already knew through the Force. He saw the silt in the wrist. Dropping her left arm to fall lifeless to the cot, he checked the other one.
"Suicide," he announced with a sneer. "Cowards."
He looked the small girl over. He bent down closer to look at her lips.
"Look here. Sorcerers and witches, all of them. Evil. Who else but the Jedi would make children do this? The sooner we are rid of all of them the better."
The End.
