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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The gentle ringing in her ears leads Circe across Coruscant. She flies fast, her hand pressed against the throttle so hard that the engine shakes below her.
There is a tightness in her chest, a cramp that's seizing at her heart as her ship moves. Phaedris's gleeful expression is stamped in her memory, egging her on, telling her to fly faster to an answer she already knows.
And not too far from her, Anakin is snapping. Breaking down like rotten wood, just as the Council predicted.
As she sweeps down over the city, something shifts in the air. A sharp, painful crack of something splintering apart. Something in the Force has changed, she can feel it in her bones. It is as though a shiver runs down the spine of the entire Jedi Order. Somewhere across the city Obi-Wan has dropped his tray while waiting for lunch, and he has to brace himself on the counter. She inhales sharply, sitting back against her seat and clutching the throttle.
A great wave of sadness has rolled over her. It creeps into every corner of her mind, blurring her thoughts and stealing her breath. The ringing is so loud she thinks her ears might bleed.
They've both gone too far.
The Force is coursing through her, and him, wherever he is. She's not sure how she knows, but she does, and he is falling apart.
Pushing past the pain, she follows the Force signal to a vast, ivory Temple—named the Skydome for its rounded, glass ceiling—cast in the shadow of the city. Stained glass windows crawl up the sides of the building, shards of religious stories and history, stretching up to the blue glass that circles over the top.
Something has died here. Everything is out of balance.
She runs up the bone-white stairs, her footsteps ringing out in the silence of the hall. When she reaches the top, she doesn't have time to process what lies in front of her before her feet fly out from under her, sliding on something slick, and wet, and red.
Circe's breath is like a ripple on the surface of a pond. It stirs quietly around her, the only movement in the whole room. She can feel her robes beginning to cling to her body, hot, and wet, and sticky. Her hands are red, her clothes are soaked. Her hair is stained with angry splotches of burning, broken color.
Blood covers the great white ceremony hall of the Skydome Temple. It is splashed in every corner, on every pillar, pooled in thick, wet puddles of crimson.
Bile rises quickly in Circe's throat, and she gags at the sight in front of her. There are dark piles scattered across the room—bodies—and dismembered limbs splashed in red. She rushes to her feet, her boots sliding in the mess upon the floor, a scream rising in her throat. She runs to a wall, bracing herself as she doubles over and pukes, throwing up what little she had to eat onto the red tile.
There is blood on her face. She can smell the coppery metal of it, and the rancid stink of death.
Where is Anakin? How could he be tied to this? Another wave of nausea hits her as she wonders if she's standing in his blood. If one of those dismembered bodies belongs to him. She has to sit back against the wall, a gag rising in her throat.
Anakin could be dead.
A tight knot has formed in Circe's stomach, her chest throbbing with the ache of panic. In her head, she hears Phaedris's voice, telling her to keep moving. To use the Force and find him. To uncover the truth.
With one shaky step after the other, she begins crossing the hall, careful not to lose her balance on the slippery stone. Her breath rattles in her chest, which is heaving unnaturally.
She is scared.
Circe is more frightened than she has ever been in her life. Anakin floods her mind, images of his golden laughter ringing through the air, his stone-blue eyes, the way he used to look at her. Just the thought of it forces her to stop, rest her hands on her knees, and steady herself.
His eyes, rimmed with thick, dark, beautiful lashes, always searching for her in the crowd. There is so much unsaid in the way he looks at her. So much that only now is she beginning to understand.
I would do anything for you, he says wordlessly, illuminated in the dark of her room or shining in the light of the sun, every breath I take is for you, and you alone. There is nothing that could take me from you.
This gives her strength. She is so sure, beyond reason or thought, that she is right about Anakin. That the Council has made a mistake, that Phaedris is taunting her with lies. She believes, as so many of us in love do, that everyone else is wrong, because Anakin is the only thing that has ever been right.
And like so many of us do when we're in love, she lets this hope lead her way through the gore, and the mess, and on to find the truth.
As she leaves the ceremony hall behind, trailing red footprints in her wake, she hears voices. The only voice she's wanted to hear since the moment they first met, all those years ago.
Down the hallway, hidden in the shadows, she hears Anakin's voice.
