***THIS VERSION IS OUTDATED. SEE THE ADAPTED AND IMPROVED VERSION ON MY PROFILE***
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 b...
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Circe can't help but fuss over Anakin's face on the ride back home. Every time he flinches, a tinge of pain shooting through his cheek, she feels her heart leap and worry consumes her.
She's glad he can't tell how concerned she is. If he were to look in her head, he'd make fun of her and tell her off, but she just can't let the anxiety go. The discomfort in his face, the stress set in his dark, furrowed brows, the clench in his jaw, she notices it all..
As children, Anakin and Circe had sworn that they'd be best friends, but more importantly that they'd never use the Force on each other. It was her that had suggested it, intent on the importance of privacy and respect. Even at ten years old, she was serious and thoughtful about those kinds of things. Anakin had wanted to be serious and thoughtful, too, so he agreed, without even really thinking about it.
Ten years later, as their ship carries them back to the Jedi Temple, Circe is once more grateful that her thoughts are her own. That she can worry without interruption.
They drop low over Coruscant's skyline and cruise towards the Temple. Anakin sits back, letting the ship take over in autopilot, and his eyes dart to the girl sitting beside him. She's inspecting her wrists, the burn marks faded from a bright red to a soft mauve.
Circe has never given the same patience and attention to her own wounds as she does his, sweeping her fingers gingerly over his skin, holding his cheek as she thumbs the edge of a bruise or cut. Anakin has always been prone to accidents, nearly always taken the more dangerous path if it meant getting the job done.
He's the one that comes home injured. Not her.
And although his cheek is beginning to ache, his blood pulsing around the wound in an effort to close it, Circe's injuries are what worry him.
"Does it hurt?" He asks.
She shakes her head. "No, I didn't even feel it happen. I'll be alright."
He wishes he were more caring. That he could be soft, like her, and tend to the discomfort on her face. He wouldn't even know what to say, never mind that Circe would laugh it off if he tried. He doesn't have the gentleness that she does. The instinct of what to do, what to say. His touch doesn't magically fix everything, like hers does. He is grateful she can't tell how helpless he feels.
"We're here," Circe says, holding her wrist in her hand. "Let's go report."
She admits to herself that her wrist still burns, the tender skin is warm to the touch. But inside the Temple she can relax, at least. The absence of danger makes it easier to forget about the pain, it's no longer a weakness, and she can ignore it like she does all the other wounds she's accumulated over her days as a Jedi. They all stop hurting at some point.
"Circe!" An accented voice calls from down the hall.
"Master, Obi-Wan," She smiles.
He furrows his brows as Anakin comes up behind her. "You seem to be in pain?"
