There are few stories that are told among the Jedi Order long enough to become myth. Legend. It takes importance to stand the test of time that way. A lesson has to be learned.
Anakin and Circe's story is told for generations long after they are go...
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When Circe's Troopers make their way to the Kesis, Anakin has been out for hours. Circe is still unconscious, her heartbeat barely more than the drum of a butterfly's wing in her chest. Kiger finds her first, his heart dropping to his stomach at the sight of her crumpled on the floor.
"Circe," He says, turning her into her back and pushing her hair away from her face, "You have to wake up. Come on, please. Open your eyes."
The others, Angel, Nej, and Khoan, come in behind him, their armor clanking through the empty halls.
"We've cleared the east part of the building, but there's no sign of—" Nej stops short, his eyes falling on the Jedi in the youngest's arms.
"Is she breathing!?" Angel asks, coming to kneel beside them.
"Get a reading on her heartbeat!"
Nej looks off towards the other rooms. "We've gotta find Anakin. He'd know what to do."
"Wait, be quiet," Kiger says, pushing them away. "She's coming around— give her space!"
Circe's eyes have to adjust to the light in the room before she can see their faces, staring down at her anxiously. Before she can even begin to think about what they're doing, or why they're with her, pain spreads over her body like wildfire, scorching her veins and muscles, eating her up from inside. She winces, doubling over and groaning.
"What? What is it? Tell us what you need," Nej says, afraid to touch her.
She shakes her head, trying to speak but her throat is raw. "Anakin," She coughs, "Where is Anakin?"
They carry her through the halls, searching room to room for him. Kiger holds her as delicately as he can, but he still cringes every time she winces in pain.
"This way!" Khoan says, nodding towards an empty hall. "There's a prison wing."
Nej nods, motioning to them to stay back. He lands a swift kick at the handle of the only closed door, and it bursts open, the metal splintering and clattering to the floor.
Anakin is startled, his eyes blurry and his body heavy with grief. At first, his eyes miss Circe. Her hair blends in with the white armor of Republic clones, and they are standing too closely together for him to make her out. But there is something familiar in the room, something he could not miss if it had been a thousand years and they had not seen each other. That faint, dim light inside her. His heart jumps at the familiarity.
They lower her to the ground and Anakin scrambles towards her. When she manages to open her eyes and look at him—at the pained expression on his face and the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes—her pain disappears.
For a moment, she is healed. Just like magic.
"Circe—" He cries, the tears in his eyes slipping down his dirt-stained face, "Circe, that was so stupid! How could you do that!? Why would you ever do that?!"
She tries to laugh but the pain has returned, and her body is plagued with aches, and throbs, and a horrible stinging within all her muscles.
"I'm okay," She breathes. "I'm alright, Anakin."
They share a look, the air moving between them like the ruffle of feathers. She does not know what the look means, but she knows she is safe, and he is in her arms, and that all the world could be falling apart, and she would not care.
Anakin shakes his head, breaking the spell between them. "That's not the point. You know it's not— Circe, it should have been me." His voice cracks.
She holds his head to her chest as he cries, pressing her cheek against his soft curls. "No, it could never have been."
He presses close to her, breathing in her presence like he's never felt air in his lungs before.
The Clones watch them, cradled close, their arms wrapped around each other as though holding the world together by its seams.
"We should go," Khoan says, his eyes lingering on Circe's face, soft and tender despite the dirt and sweat on her skin.
Anakin stands, pulling her up into his arms. Pain blossoms across her body and the movement but she doesn't cry out, only biting down on her tongue to stifle a whimper. If her were to let himself into her mind, she's sure he'd sense the spasming inside her muscles. The shooting pain running through her veins would be obvious the second he opened himself to her, and she is glad that they made that promise all those years ago. She doesn't want him to feel the ache she does. That's why she volunteered in the first place. If she can spare him pain, even from the memory of it within her head, she's done enough.
As they load up the two ships waiting outside, Nej breaks away from the group to clip the Jedi's aircraft to the back of theirs. They load the broken Jedi tenderly into the main hull, taking off as gently as they can to ease her suffering. Anakin is furious. He holds Circe closely, resting her gently against his chest when they settle inside the Trooper's ship. She's weak. Like a flickering light caught in the middle of a storm, trying to withstand the weather.
Phaedris did this.
The thought of the white-haired boy makes Anakin's blood curdle with blind, potent rage. His dream was warning him about this—he should've known. He should have suspected someone like Phaedris to be the reason for Circe's suffering. Someone cold, and clever, and young enough to be so stupid. How incredibly foolish to hurt the one person Anakin loves most in the world.
She is like suede and yarn—all things soft, even in the aftermath of unimaginable suffering—and he is bullet casings and the electricity in the air right before lightning strikes.
Perhaps a gentler person could have seen this sooner. Could have protected her. Maybe a gentler person could love her better, too, but it doesn't matter anymore. Anakin is armor, wrapped protectively around her fragile body, hardened like steel.
The next person to try to hurt her will die, he swears. Every part of him hopes that person will be Phaedris.
