Anakin was the only person she saw for three days. For three days, she stayed in his cell with him, only leaving to retrieve meals for them both. They spoke of adventures they'd had — this wasn't the first time Anakin had been held prisoner by pirates, apparently — and planets they had visited that left an impression and a plethora of other meaningless things. She knew she didn't have to stay with him constantly, but his voice was far more preferable to the silence of her room. In four years, it had never been home. The walls were still bare and grey, like a blue-less sky. She hadn't adorned them with green and life as Rowan had, or even trophies and cruelty like Rolfe. She had left it empty.

It was late afternoon when the ship rumbled as a vessel boarded. It could only be the Outlaw, which meant the crew had returned victorious with the bloody spoils to prove it.

Anakin watched as her expression changed, darkened like a shadow had reached up to block out the sun, "What's wrong?"

She shot him a sideways glance, "They're back."

He raised an eyebrow, confused by her short tone, "And? Isn't that a good thing for you?"

"Not after what they've done, it's not." She huffed, folding her arms over her chest.

Anakin sighed. She had told him where they had gone, what they had gone to do, and he liked it even less than her. Despite the fact that they were Republic ships, they were delivering war relief aid. Countless people could die without those supplies. She turned to face him and he saw his own anger mirrored in her eyes — like sunlight streaming through a coloured window, staining the floor glass red; subdued yet still present beneath the surface.

A beep emitted from Val's wrist, and she looked down to see a holomessage. The Captain had summoned her to the main deck. That was unusual. Her eyes narrowed but she knew she had to go.

She stood, stretched to alleviate the ache in her muscles, and deactivated the cell. She spared Anakin a backwards glance, a smirk painted on her lips. "Don't go anywhere."

He rolled his eyes, used to her antics by now. Her smirk slipped into a smile for a moment, before she turned her back and walked up the corridor.

The ship itself seemed to suffocate under the drunken smell of victory and bloodlust as the pirates returned home. She had to shuffle past crewmates and meld into the wall to allow loot past on her way to the deck where presumably the Captain was waiting for her with the rest of the crew. The main deck was where the Captain gave orders to the crew or hosted events. She sincerely hoped it was the former. The Captain's post-raid celebrations were never benign, and someone always died.

Normally, she'd enjoy the senseless revelry. It was as good a time as any to lose herself in music and dance and blood-coated bodies. The pounding bass of underground music overrode the beating of her heart; her thoughts turned to lyrics, her body merely an instrument of freedom rather than death. It was the only time she didn't feel like herself. But the restless twitch in her limbs told her this would not be one of their ordinary parties.

When she emerged out of the covering and into the large atrium, she found the Captain standing atop a raised platform in the centre of the gathered pirates. Five dozen of the galaxy's most bloodthirsty criminals and she was one of them. The thought had never bothered her before, but now her life, her family, brought her nothing but a dull, aching shame she did her best to ignore.

She found Rowan at the outskirts of the crowd and came to stand at her side. The older woman gave her a small smile before turning her attention to the Captain.

"My fellow pirates," He began and the room quieted until his voice was all they could hear, "Today we returned from a glorious victory. Not only did we successfully plunder a valuable cargo ship, we struck a blow to those pompous fat-cats in the Capital!"

The crew threw their fists in the air and hollered. Val had never understood the Captain's insistence on hindering the Republic; they hardly ever targeted Separatists vessels. It seemed the Captain had taken a side in a war they had no stake in. She shook her head, her lip curled in disgust. Whatever her feelings were about the Jedi Order and the Republic, she hated the Sith and the Separatists even more.

"As per our traditions," He continued, "The pirate who achieved the most kills in battle selects the festivity. Khan." The Captain raised a hand towards a large figure that slowly made his way to the stage.

Khan was a towering, vicious man of Dathomirian descent. Unlike the other residents of the Reaper, Khan was his true name — she understood his boldness, if she were an unrivalled warrior raised on violence and good at it too, she wouldn't fear retribution either. His skin was black and garnet red — she had heard crew members whisper that the blood of his victims had stained it that colour — and a crown of ivory thorns encircled his head. He wore no shirt and his skin was inked with dark jagged, vein-like markings. He walked with sure-footed, heavy steps; his hands steady at his sides. At his back was an imposingly large double bladed broadsword made of a strange silver metal Val wasn't familiar with; the weapon was named Rikan after the man he had killed for it.

If it ever came down to a battle in this place, Khan was the only one that concerned her.

Khan reached the platform and came to stand at the Captain's side. Even with Rolfe's taller than average stature, the Dathomirian dwarfed him. Val shifted her head to the side, surveying the scene before her curiously. She had never noticed how small, how unthreatening, how insignificant the Captain was next to those he presided over. If she had asked a stranger, at this moment, who captained the Reaper, she doubted Rolfe would be their first guess. It wouldn't be her's.

But then she was reminded that Rolfe's reign was born and maintained with a forked tongue and cunning wit, not brute strength and steel. She knew who the more dangerous of the two was.

When she had first heard Khan speak, she had expected few words in a gravelled, low tone, but that was not reality. Khan was surprisingly charismatic. He spoke in a way that enthralled listeners into a false sense of security and confidence — like the dragon's smile that hid serrated teeth.

"The last skirmish, while rewarding, was not particularly..." He paused as though the word escaped him, but she knew it was all an act; she recognised the smile, the unfocused eyes of a purposeful mask. "...challenging. Are we pirates or common raiders?" He asked the question so calmly but invoked such a deafening response. Val didn't know if he thrived on violence like the rest of the crew but he most certainly knew how to incite it.

"As such, I call for a resurrection of the arena championship."

His eyes nearly met hers across the room and she felt her heart stop. There hadn't been another installment of the championship for almost two years now, after Val herself had won the title in the bloodiest battle she had ever fought. She had not realised then, the lasting cost of her bloodlust — the caged arena was a recurring setting in her nightmares, only preceded by a grove in the dead of winter. She had hacked and carved her way through two dozen contenders to claim the crown; she had believed the glory to be worth it.

But that infamy meant nothing hunched over a bathroom sink, desperately trying to bleach hands stained red. The arena had never been about glory, only violence.

The response from the crew was instant and unanimous. The championship had been an idolised tradition, and winning the title made you legendary. She had become Rolfe's second in command shortly after her victory, and there were certainly pirates present who resented that choice and thought this a perfect opportunity for recompense. But she had already decided; she would not endure that carnage again.

"There is a Jedi aboard our vessel," Khan continued, a faint smirk on his face. Her eyes widened, a well of nausea rose in her stomach. She knew what was coming. "It would be a shame not to test his mettle."

Was it possible for a heart to stop twice in the span of a minute? Her hands began shaking at her sides. She quickly folded them into her coat pockets, gripped so tightly she could feel her nails draw blood from her palms. Her eyes immediately sought out Rolfe; surely, surely, he would not put his most valuable transport on the line to appease the crew. But from the way they whooped and crowded around the podium like starved wolves to a fresh carcass, she realised he would. As much as he preached obedience and the chain-of-command, he was at the mercy of the masses just as much as anyone; if he didn't do this, he would be at risk of appearing weak — some men thought it a fate worse than death.

His intentions were clear; he would not stop this.

Her thoughts turned to the boy sitting alone in the depths of the ship, far away from the lion's den he was about to be thrown into; Anakin. He was a skilled fighter and she knew he could likely defeat every person in the room under the normal rules of engagement; a battle to the surrender, with death an ever present possibility. But she knew these people, knew what reputation and infamy meant to them. She hadn't lied when she said glory was the only currency that mattered now. If Anakin faltered for even a moment, there would be no surrender for him. After all, what pirate didn't want 'Jedi-killer' whispered when they passed by.

Something brushed her arm. She looked up to see Rowan tugged on her sleeve.

"What is it?"

'The Captain is giving an hour for all the participants to prepare and... he's looking at you.' Rowan signed.

Val turned and sure enough, Rolfe and Khan both had their eyes on her. She steeled her gaze and her heart; she wouldn't allow this to happen. She squeezed Rowan's hand and the two made their way to the platform. In the overhanging light, the Captain's skin seemed sickly and pale, translucent veins ran just below the surface — she wondered if cruelty could change the colour of your blood. She stepped up onto the stage.

"I won't do it." Not the wisest of first words, but she hardly had time to be anything but blunt.

Khan's smile was razor sharp. "Afraid you won't scrape a victory this time, Seaflyer?"

"They'll be scraping you off the walls in a minute, Khan." He ran his tongue over his teeth like he could already taste the bloodbath to come. Val turned her attention away from him and looked to Rolfe.

"We made a deal with the Republic that he would be alive and unharmed." She implored him, barely capable of keeping her tongue in check.

"Deals change. The people have spoken." Was all the Captain said.

Her anchor snapped and the ocean roared in her ears, deafening and chaotic. "That is a coward's answer. You are their Captain, tell them no!"

Her bones fractured under the weight of her anger, struggling to maintain the dam she held back. The Captain regarded her with cold, wrathful eyes and it took all her strength to soften her tone, to ask rather than demand — she was never able to demand anything from Rolfe. "He could die."

"Then he dies."

With that, he walked away. Khan stayed. She didn't know what possessed her, what reckless force of nature made her challenge a war god in the flesh. But she could be vengeful divinity as well; fire may burn hot, but water consumes all.

"I won't let you kill him."

Khan raised an eyebrow, her words both a threat and an invitation. "The only way to stop me would be to kill him yourself."

"How about I kill you instead?" She spat the words, tried to force every fibre of murderous intent she could muster into them, but she couldn't make her threat feel real. The tsunami that fuelled her aggression had been drawn back into the depths. A wave lapping at the shoreline was all that remained — and a mere drop of water would not douse the raging inferno that was Khan.

He leant down to her eye level, burning gold met torrential blue.

"You won't. Somewhere, somehow, you lost your taste for blood. I don't think you even know how to kill anymore," His eyes swept across her face as though he could see the facade splintering, "Not without killing yourself." The ocean evaporated. As Khan left, his eyes strayed to Rowan for a moment. The two shared a long look; silent words exchanged. Rowan crossed her arms in dismissal and Khan left, perplexed.

Rowan turned her attention to Val, who had all but shattered. Had her lost warrior's spirit really become that obvious? Even those beyond the destructive nature of her own thoughts could see she was falling apart — piece by piece, cut by cut.

She turned her hollow, glass eyes to Rowan, "What do I do?"

Rowan always had an answer, she always had a way forward — a way back to the light. Val had never seen Rowan speechless, 'I... I don't think there's anything you can do.'

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Val was gone longer than Anakin had expected. He had taken to pacing the five-by-five meter cell as a way to distract himself from his thoughts, from his worry. Almost a full hour passed before he saw her familiar blue coat descend the stairs. His shoulders untensed almost instantly, as though her mere presence had a calming effect on him. He met her halfway and stood at the bars. She deactivated the cell but didn't move any closer, her head tilted down. His forehead creased in confusion and he angled his neck lower.

"Val?" He asked gently, trying to meet her eyes but she wouldn't look at him. As he said her name, she took a deep breath and looked up at him fully. Anakin couldn't read her expression, and she didn't offer any explanation.

"I'm sorry." Before he had a chance to ask why she apologised, two other pirates entered the holding area. Anakin immediately squared his shoulders and widened his stance. When the two men stopped next to Val, they moved forward to grab Anakin's arms. Before he could react, Val seized their wrists with a fingernail in a deadly point pressed against their pulse and poised to draw blood.

"Don't touch him," She ordered harshly, and tossed their arms away. She looked up at him and said, in a much gentler — almost mournful — tone. "He's not going anywhere."

Val took him by the elbow and pushed past the men, leading him up the stairs. He looked at her in utter confusion.

"They demanded you fight in the arena championship. I couldn't stop them, Anakin." She explained, shaking her head. Her mind was a mess, even Anakin could see she was splitting at the seams — burning through every possible way to spare Anakin this pain.

"Wait, arena championship? What is that?"

"Khan called for the arena to be reinstated. The pirates create a roster to duel each other one at a time until only a single victor remains. It's supposed to be a fight until someone yields but Anakin-" She pulled him to a stop, their two escorts stopped several meters behind. She gripped his sleeve, "They all want a shot at a Jedi Knight. They won't let you surrender. You cannot falter, not even for a second."

He swallowed, caught between concern and confusion — the anxiety in her eyes and the speed at which she spoke was overwhelming. "I won't."

She nodded, like his word was all she needed. They took a different path from the elevator than he remembered; up three floors, right, left, long corridor, left again.

They emerged into a large high ceilinged room and to his shock, it was packed with pirates — he hadn't realised just how many were on the ship. He now knew that his early escape plans would have failed miserably. Dozens of leering, blood-crazed faces surrounded him, prodding and grabbing at his robes — Val, with her tidal wave eyes and a dagger he hadn't seen her carrying, kept them back as best she could. The masses parted as a lone figure came towards them. Anakin recognised him; the Captain. His presence created a barrier between them and the horde; no pirate dared come closer when he was addressing the soon to be deceased.

The Captain slung an arm over Anakin's shoulders and it took all of his willpower not to throw the man across the room — judging from Val's expression, it looked like she was having the same urge.

"Anakin, my boy," The Captain gripped his arm around the back of Anakin's neck and began walking slowly — he was being led away from Val, Anakin noted. "I assume Seaflyer informed you of your new circumstances?"

The scathing look he gave the older man was answer enough. The Captain chuckled and continued, "Excellent. Now, there are only two rules. Rule one, you fight until someone yields — 'course if they yield, you are still within your rights to kill them. Rule two, and this is especially for you, no using the Force. Understand?"

"What makes you think I'll follow your rules?"

The Captain shrugged, "Well let me ask you this, if we ignore the fact that I have an entire ship full of pirates with blasters who will kill you at a moment's notice," The Captain pulled him in close and spoke lowly — his breath reeked of ash and asbestos. "How many lives is your in-cooperation worth?"

Anakin's eyes found Val instantly. She stood to the side next to the tall, dark woman from earlier. Val looked up at him like she could sense his gaze and tried to smile, it was probably meant to be reassuring but it ended up more distressing. The Captain, who had spared a long, suspicious glance between Val and Anakin, coughed to draw his attention back.

"Tell you what, Jedi. In the interest of fairness, I'll make you a deal." Anakin looked away from Val and back to the Captain, "If you defeat each of your contenders, I will give you your lightsaber and a ship and you are free to go back to the Republic. No strings attached."

Anakin's head snapped to the side. He stared at the Captain in bewilderment — caught between disbelief and hope, "And why would I trust you?"

The older man laughed deeply, "I am nothing if not true to my word, son." Upon seeing Anakin's skeptical face, his jolly facade all but evaporated. He straightened and put his hands in his doublet coat pockets, "This isn't a free ticket. You first have to defeat my crew, Jedi." He spat the last word.

With that, the Captain turned and walked off, his coat billowing behind him. Two pirates suddenly grabbed Anakin's arms and dragged him forward. Quicker than he could process, he was thrown off a platform and into a lower ring. He hit the ground, his face coming into hard contact with the reddish earth. He gathered a handful of the matter. Sand, he thought distastefully. Something hit the ground to his left. He jumped to his feet and gazed at the object. It was a sword similar to Val's. Val. He looked up. He was in a large, circular pit with a domed roof made of chains. He couldn't see her — but he could see Rolfe.

"Good luck, Jedi. You'll need it." His laughing voice was the last thing Anakin heard before another person jumped into the ring with him.

One moment, he was watching as a Weequay descended to the arena floor; the next, he had the sword in his hand and stood, waiting for the bloodbath to come. The weapon was strange and light in his hands, evenly distributed where his lightsaber's weight was all in the hilt. He slashed the blade once, twice, tried to accustom himself to the sound of steel cutting air rather than plasma burning up oxygen. He didn't like it; it felt wrong — but he didn't have time to complain.

His opponent had been kind enough to give him a moment to adjust, but the roar of the audience drove him forward into what he hoped would be a glorious victory. Key word being hoped. With one well timed duck and a backwards slash, the Weequay man fell to the ground, unmoving. Clearly the roster had been drawn up with the weakest, and possibly the craziest, contenders going first — though he hoped for his own sake that this was the best they had to offer.

Anakin recalled the Captain's words; he was within his rights to kill him. But senseless death had never been his way. So he let two other pirates jump down to retrieve their fallen friend, and waited for his next opponent.

The next pirate, a lithe, hollow thing, found defeat waiting for them in a similar manner. With their blood staining the sand floor and Anakin stalking off to the side while their crewmates collected them.

This happened the next time as well. And the next, and the next, and the next.

True, their skill level slowly starts to increase but it was still never enough to shake him; even with a weapon that felt alien in his hand. He began to lose count of his opponents as they rose and fell by his blade. He had minimal injuries — a scrape from sliding across the floor, an occasional nick from a pirate's lucky shot — but sweat coated his forehead and his breath came in short bursts. He was running out of stamina and the pirates didn't stop coming.

Occasionally, between sword swings and metal ringing, he would look up to try and catch a glimpse of brown hair, blue eyes that were equal parts sea and sky. But he couldn't find her. For a moment, he thought she had left him — the agony that lanced through his chest was more painful than any wound he had received in the ring. He didn't have time to dwell on it.

His latest opponent was a large Nautolan who managed to slice open his outer thigh before Anakin managed to throw him against the wall with the man's own sword in his arm. He allowed himself a moment to lean against the wall and breathe. The room was suffocatingly hot and his ears rang from all the screams and hollers sounding above him. His muscles burned from the exertion and he wanted to close his eyes but he knew if he did he likely wouldn't open them again. The gash on his leg was thankfully not life-threatening but bleeding greatly; the wound seemed to be the least of his concerns.

The next opponent who jumped into the arena was different. Tall and imposing, the man was of Dathomirian descent and built like the epitome of the warrior clan. He didn't charge him immediately like the others had, rather he stood and studied him calmly — he didn't even reach for the sword at his back. Anakin knew immediately that this fight would not be so easy. He ignored the burning in his limbs and stood upright, loosely held the sword in his gloved mechanical hand. The two men began circling each other slowly, staying close to the edges of the ring.

"You are a skilled warrior, Jedi." The Dathomirian remarked; an observation rather than a compliment. None of the other pirates had spoken to him.

"Well, they don't let just anyone have a lightsaber."

"You don't have a lightsaber now, Jedi, and this isn't the Republic." The warrior drew his weapon, a double bladed broadsword made of shimmering metal and something in Anakin's blood told him to run. The strength it would take to wield such a grand weapon alone was daunting. The Dathomirian charged.

His only option was to dodge, skirting just outside the Dathomirian's range. Anakin tried to tell himself it was like battling an opponent with a two bladed lightsaber; but watching the warrior stalk towards him with the large blade gleaming red in the light, the familiarity faded. Anakin tried to control his breathing, force his mind to focus but his heartbeat was in his ears; disorienting and overpowering.

He managed to dodge again, rolling to the side. He crouched just in time to duck a swing and return one of his own; he aimed for the Dathomirian's bicep but ended up nicking his forearm. The man looked at the cut like he had never bled before and that's when Anakin made his first mistake; he looked too. With impossible strength, the Dathomirian took advantage of his split second error and gripped the front of Anakin's robes, flinging him across the ring.

A groan escaped his lips as his back made contact with the metal walls and his head smashed into the infrastructure. He reached a shaking hand up to the base of his skull and his glove came back red. Anakin breathed deeply watching the man walk towards him — there was something like disappointment in his eyes.

Anger burned through his veins — he was being toyed with.

He was running out of time and blood; he had to change tactics. He ran towards his opponent and, at the last second, slid between his legs — a maneuver he had picked up from Val. When the man turned towards him, Anakin landed a swift punch with his left hand to his opponent's jaw. He recoiled and Anakin took the opportunity to slash at the man's exposed back. His first strike hit home and he tried to land a second when the Dathomirian spun and landed a blow on his sword arm — specifically on the wrist of his mechanical hand. Anakin cried out in pain and dropped the sword as the blow reverberated up his arm. He stumbled backwards, falling to his knees.

The Dathomirian kicked him in the ribs and Anakin went sprawling across the arena floor. Pain radiated across his entire body, rendering him motionless for far too long. Long enough for the Dathomiran to get close. Anakin rolled to the side moments before the man drove the broadsword into the earth where Anakin had just been.

Anakin retrieved his fallen blade; wielding it with his non-dominant hand amplified its unnatural nature. His opponent pulled his sword from the ground and turned to him. The two regarded each other. There was no warning when the other man charged him. Their blades clashed for a moment before the Dathomirian's superior blade disarmed Anakin. Pain exploded across Anakin's jaw as the man's elbow connected and his vision went white.

Anakin fell to his knees.

He braced himself on his arms. He coughed up blood, the taste metallic and something he was wholly unaccustomed to. He breathed heavily, and looked up at the Dathomirian. The warrior stood over him, his weapon poised for the final blow. The roar of the crowd was deafening; they had all been waiting for this fight, for Anakin to die. He closed his eyes, unprepared to join the Force. He didn't know what he had expected to see just before the end; Obi-Wan or Ahsoka, his mother. Maybe Padmé — in truth, he didn't want her to be the last thing he saw, a love he couldn't and wouldn't return to.

Instead, he saw nothing. Only the red glow of his eyelids and the feeling of sand between his fingers; the screams of spectators brought back nightmares of a racecourse in the desert. He always knew he would die here.

He heard the sound of metal cutting through air and waited for the end. Then, a different scream. A scream of fear.

"Stop!" He knew that voice.

He opened his eyes to see Val, hanging onto the opening of the dome — her eyes wild and desperate. She wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were on the Dathomiran who had been moments from ending Anakin's life.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Val's plea was to Khan. Her earlier words were nothing but echoes in the wind; empty threats wouldn't save Anakin now. But maybe she could. Val knew she had no right to ask this, to take the glory of killing a Jedi away from him. But she had to try. A feral, defiant thing under her ribs refused to let Anakin die — not like this. So she spoke to Khan silently, prayed her eyes would convey what she dared not say aloud.

You defeated him. You are the victor. He doesn't need to die. Don't let him die.

Khan watched her, emotionless, his blade still raised to Anakin's throat. Khan had to know this victory was tainted — Anakin was exhausted, already wounded. This was not a victory to be celebrated. His eyes seemed to cloud over and for a moment, she thought he might still swing it and the first true, good thing she had wanted in years would die. Khan shook his head like he was coming out of a sleep and Val held her breath. But then he threw his blade down and turned to the crowd, his arms raised in triumph. The fight had been spectacular enough that the pirates were sated, they cheered for the carnage — and ignored the Jedi about to collapse on a blood-soaked floor.

Val vaulted clumsily onto the arena floor, skidding to Anakin's side just in time to catch him as he fell, exhausted. She cradled his head in her lap, his blood soaking her black pants. His eyes opened weakly, a painful smile on his face.

"Hey, seaflea." He mumbled, unable to keep his eyes open.

"Hold on, buzzard." She whispered. There was so much blood; she needed to get him out of here.

"Rowan!" She screamed her friend's name, desperation carving itself into her throat like a knife, and the girl landed beside her with feline grace. Rowan barely spared Khan — who was basking in the glory of his victory — a glance and helped Val lift Anakin out of the ring.

No one helped them or even noticed them, and she was thankful for that. With much difficulty, Rowan and Val lifted him out of the pit. They each looped an arm around their necks and guided him out of the room. He groaned in pain, his wounds aggravated by the lumbering movements. Rowan shot her a questioning look, steady despite the heavy Jedi they were supporting.

"Follow me." She yelled over the clamor of the celebrating pirates, who had likely brought the alcohol out. She led Rowan down a winding corridor the same shade of steel grey as every other wall. They reached the hall where the individual quarters were, and Val shoved one door open with her shoulder. The room was plain and bare, adorned with the standard bed and kitchenette and closest.

This was where Val lived.

"Help me get him onto the bed." Rowan helped her heave the Jedi onto the mattress, and Val winced at the pained sounds he made. She rushed over to the kitchen counter and retrieved a medkit from under the sink. She opened the case and found the usual; bandages, anti-bacterial salves, gauze, needle and thread — all brand new. She kept multiple medkits in her quarters — she was always coming back injured. She only went to the medbay if she couldn't repair the wound on her own, but there was no way she could take Anakin there so this would have to suffice.

A loud rustling — presumably an already drunk pirate — came from the corridor. She didn't expect any of them to share Khan's forgiving sentiments. Val looked to Rowan, whose eyes were already on the door.

"Keep everyone off this level." Rowan nodded, a knife already in her hand. She spared Val and Anakin a respective glance before leaving the room and bolting the door shut.

Val turned to Anakin. He was sprawled across her bed, his body coated in sweat and blood. She went to his side and inspected his injuries. She ran her hands across his skin, locating the wounds she had seen him receive and feeling gently for the ones she hadn't. He had bruised ribs and a bruised jaw, a split scalp and a large gash on his left thigh. He was badly hurt. She recalled when Khan had struck Anakin's wrist, the blow had been strong enough to sever the limb. She reached for his right hand and removed the glove to assess the damage. She wasn't expecting a metal arm.

Val stared in confusion; Anakin had never mentioned this. Though she supposed, she had never asked. Regardless, she inspected the machinery. The panel shielding the inner workings of the wrist was damaged and the wires were out of place but it would be easy to fix. She had more serious injuries to attend to first.

Val worked on the thigh wound first; disinfecting the gash first before sealing it with steady and precise stitches. She could mend the tear in his robes later. Anakin barely made a sound while she worked, likely sedated by the adrenaline coursing through his veins. She turned his face towards her with her fingers and inspected the bruise already forming on his jaw.

She spared a moment to simply look at him. His hair was matted to his forehead, his face pale and he breathed in short, strained bursts. She had never seen him this vulnerable, without the layers of charisma and stoicism he used to keep others at an arm's distance. She doubted many people saw him when he was in pain, let alone were responsible for healing him; she would have felt strangely honoured, if the thought of him in pain didn't make her heart drop. Val cleaned the blue-purple area with a wet cloth and smeared a salve over it — it had been specifically engineered to speed such recoveries. She would need more than one tin for Anakin's wounds. Anakin hissed at the pressure and opened his eyes.

For a moment, he seemed confused as to where he was and why she was kneeling beside him. Then the memories flooded back to him. He grimaced and tried to sit up. She held his shoulders tightly.

"Slowly, or you'll make your ribs worse." She helped him sit up and put his feet on the floor, frowned at his sharp breath. She sighed and turned to the kitchenette again. While the faucet ran, she wrung the cloth out and watched as the diluted blood flowed from the material no different than it did from a wound. She filled a glass with water and handed it to him. He held it unsteadily in his left hand and took a sip.

"I need to look at the back of your head." She murmured. He nodded and shifted to the left so she could get past him. She sat at his back and gently tilted his head forward, exposing the badly torn and heavily bleeding skin. She pursed her lips, and reached for the antiseptic. She raised the pad but paused suddenly; he half-turned his neck to see why she was hesitating. Anakin looked at the cloth in her hands for a moment, understood, before nodding. She sighed and held it to the wound. It felt like fire — his hand tightened on the glass as he resisted the urge to cry out.

Val felt his body tense and finished with the stitches quickly, before pressing an iced cloth to the nape of his neck. He sighed in relief. She went back to the floor and collected new bandages and salves.

Anakin watched her for no reason other than the fact that it was her. He had been so sure she had left him to die in that arena — perhaps she couldn't bear to see him fall — but she had always been close by, and he had never felt such intense relief as he did when he heard her voice. Heard her scream for the Dathomirian not to kill him. He remembered the world swaying under him and the red of the earth coming alarmingly close, remembered being caught before he hit the ground. He looked up and she was there, steady and unfaltering. He had said something to her but the cacophony of noise around him drowned his own words out, but not hers. She told him to hold on and for her, he had.

Val looked up, her mouth open to speak, but was taken aback by the emotion in his eyes. Panic flared in her chest at the thought that he may still be in pain.

"What's wrong?" She asked, the supplies gathered in her hands. She placed them down on the floor beside her.

Anakin shook his head with a small smile, "Nothing."

Val nodded, not entirely convinced. She stood, her eyes fixated on an area to the left of his heart.

"I, uh," She wet her lips, suddenly nervous, "I need you to take your shirt off."

His expression changed instantly, "If this was all a ploy to get me shirtless, Val, you really could have just asked." A smirk lit up his face and he raised an eyebrow. He leant back on his left arm despite the jolt of pain through his side. The look on her face was worth it.

Her cheeks burned. She swallowed before replying, her words shaking. "I will leave you here to suffer, Skywalker."

He chuckled like he knew she was lying and began removing his robes. He tried to lift his right arm, panicked when he realised he couldn't. He looked down to see it was ungloved and the circuitry was a mess. He met Val's eyes who were already on him, as they often seemed to be. He wasn't sure what he expected, maybe pity or empathy — he wasn't expecting understanding. Like she knew exactly what it meant to be part machine, to have to rely on a body that was not wholly your own. To have steel running through your veins.

In truth, Anakin had never seen his mechanical arm as a burden or a shame as others had expected him to. The metal limb had always felt like power to him; like the flesh fused with machine somehow made him more than human. He tinkered and improved the arm the same way he improved his starfighter; he now possessed more strength in his cybernetic arm than most did in their entire bodies. He had heard other Jedi, even some Masters, whisper that the arm made him too sure, too powerful. But what harm could more power do in the war they fought for the galaxy's fate?

"Let me help." She said gently, and undid his robes, letting the material fall from his shoulders and pool around his waist, revealing the angry bruise already forming across his left side. He looked down at it curiously; he was never usually conscious long enough to see his injuries and he was always sedated while in the Bacta tank.

She tried to ignore the build of his chest; he was all smooth muscle and untainted victory. Instead, her fingers traced the edges of the damaged flesh. She was morbidly fascinated by the way purple bled to blue bled to pink — like ink spilling over a parchment. Anakin watched from the corner of his eye, and he was damningly fascinated by her.

She sighed and pressed a cloth to the wound, cleaning away any dirt or grime that clung to it. For a moment, her fingers accidentally grazed the hard muscle of his chest outside of the bruise and she resisted the urge to recoil. He was so warm — part of her thought it may be a fever, the other part considered that it may just come with being alive. He huffed a laugh at her reaction and her face flushed — she muttered curses in the many languages she knew, which only made him laugh more, and kept working. Another salve was spread across his skin to draw the heat out and hasten his recovery. Lastly, she bound the wound several times with white gauze, and secured it over his shoulder. She loosely pulled his robes on again and sat back on her heels.

Her eyes strayed to his arm, hanging limply at his side. She gathered up the medical supplies and returned the case to the cupboard. When she returned, she had a different, smaller box in her hands. It was a tool kit. He stared at the box, then back at her, then the box again.

"I can do it myself," He reached for the case but she pulled back out of his reach.

"What kind of friend would I be if I left you now?"

She let the question hang between them, suspended on a silken thread. It was both a choice and a promise. As much as she had tried to tell herself otherwise, he had never been a mere prisoner to her. Despite that, despite her instincts about people and their habits, she couldn't read him as well as she would like. She didn't know what he wanted. So instead, she offered him a choice. He could easily cut the thread and they would fall back to what they used to be — what they were meant to be — and she would say nothing. Her promise was that she would not hold it against him; she would still save him no matter what he chose. After all, she knew better than anyone that there were very few combinations more volatile than a Jedi and a Pirate.

But for all her bravado — her talk of blood and glory and selfish victory — she was tired of being lonely, and she thought perhaps he was too.

Anakin silently stared at the ground, weighing her words and the truth they both knew. Their friendship would have no easy path to follow; no way to erase the fact that they were bound to opposite sides of the war, and would be torn apart because of it. After all, she was as likely to stop being a pirate as he was to stop being a Jedi.

He smiled to himself, recognising this may be a mistake — and realised he didn't care.

He held out his wrist: an answer and a promise. The smile that broke across her face was the softest and most genuine she had felt in years. Rowan was her conscience, her reason, but she was whole and forgiving and brave and adaptive and everything Val couldn't be no matter how hard she tried; Anakin was her mirror but not her equal.

He was scarred and perhaps slowly wearing thin but he hadn't broken, hadn't killed a single one of his opponents though he had every right and every reason, had gone to save slaves at the cost of his own life and damn near paid it. He was better, kinder, filled with more light than she would ever be.

This war had made monsters of them all, but not him.

Val took two tools into her hand and sat beside him on the bed, and they wordlessly shifted to face each other. He balanced his wrist across their knees and she began working. Anakin watched her, mesmerised by her sure movements and steady hand.

"This is beautiful craftsmanship." She murmured, mostly to herself.

"Well, the Republic doesn't spare any expense for a Jedi." He responded and she hummed in acknowledgement. He was beginning to realise there were many things the Republic had made available to him because he fought in their war, and many things not available to those affected by their war.

"How come you know how to do this?" He asked after a few quiet moments of only hearing the soft scraping of machinery. She curled his metal fingers into a fist, the angle uncovered the deeper mechanisms.

"Because I do it often." She answered vaguely, her words obscured by the second prong she held between her teeth.

"For who?" He pressed.

She took the prong out of her teeth and sighed; speaking quickly before she could talk herself out of it. "Myself."

He stared at her, shocked. Before he could ask what exactly she meant she spoke, "I'll answer your questions once I've finished putting you back together, buzzard." He snorted but didn't push the matter.

The moments between rewiring and bolting extended, branched across hours and years in her mind. She had never been self-conscious, never been embarrassed or ashamed of her scars, but this one was different. Its origins were murky at best, like the truth of it was hiding just past the shallows — she could vaguely see its shape and the mark it would leave but not how it came to be. She knew it was a leviathan but couldn't see its teeth.

Her memories of that day came and went in flashes. She had been with the closest person she had to a father. They were walking through a snowy grove on their way to a fortress; their path was populated only by barren trees and the silence of a galaxy at peace. Until the sound of blasters and machinery and the plasmatic red glow of death drenched the memory in blood. She remembered little else from that day — the memory locked away in a vault of her own making where it could not hurt her; she knew only that she had lost everything. Including the ability to walk.

She aimlessly fiddled with the mechanics to the point of likely enhancing the motion control, stalling for the truth she didn't want spoken aloud. But burying it wouldn't make it disappear; and the trauma you don't speak about will ruin you in the end.

She pulled the tools away and Anakin lifted his arm, flexing the fingers and joints. They were in perfect working order, though she doubted her skill had ever been in question.

Val sighed and stood, returning the tools to their casing. Anakin looked at her, curious but never expectant — Val knew if she told him she couldn't do it, couldn't bring this truth out of the dark, he would leave her be. And that was all the more reason to share it with him. She turned her back to him, her voice caught in her throat. She shook her head, they didn't need to speak for this.

She took a deep breath and slowly removed her blue coat and unbuttoned the green blouse. She shrugged it off her shoulders. With her hands shaking, she removed the chain holding her signet ring and let it fall to the floor.

Her back, and all the memories that marred it, was laid bare to him.

The skin was crisscrossed with pale pink scars from swords, knives, anything she had let get too close — she took pride in those markings, they proved she survived. But the metal brace embedded in her skin — encircling the small of her back and curling up like wings around her hips, encased in a clear plastic to access the inner workings — meant only that she had lost. Her family, her identity, and a piece of herself.

Val tensed when she felt featherlight touches along the curve of the metal, tracing the history carved into her spine. His touch released her voice and she began to speak.

"When I was fifteen, before Rolfe found me, I was travelling with my... the mentor I told you about." She stumbled over the words. For the first time in years, she wanted to say more. She wanted to speak the truth she kept even from herself, but some realities are too painful to relive, even in memories.

"We were attacked by droids and a Sith acolyte on Krownest. I was shot in the back and knocked unconscious, he was killed. The blast destroyed my lower vertebrae and the cold only made it worse. A few months after Rolfe found me, he had this implant made and now it's the only way I can walk." His hand stilled. She couldn't see Anakin but she could imagine the shock on his face. She stood silently, waiting for him to speak. He didn't.

Her voice guttered, "Say something."

"You're like me."

She hung her head, her shoulders shook with laughter — laughter and relief. "Never thought I'd be glad to hear that."

She sniffed, her eyes brimming with tears. She did up her blouse again, left the coats on the floor, and turned to him. Anakin was smiling softly at her and she couldn't help but feel like she found the one person in the whole galaxy who could know her wholly, truthfully. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and sat beside him, their knees touching.

"So how'd you lose your arm?" She asked curiously. She held the limb in her hand, studying the design and function as though tempted to remake it.

Anakin chuckled, "Battling a Sith."

Val faltered. You're like me. They were more alike than he could ever imagine. She nodded absently, resisting the urge to trace the line where flesh met steel as though it represented when she had made the shift from hero to heresy.

"So how do you do repairs?" He asked after a moment. Her machinery was in a much trickier location than his. His repairs were usually conducted in a dark corner, with only R2's headlamp and quiet beeps for company — he had tried not to dwell on it, but he missed his little droid. He missed Coruscant. He missed Obi-wan and Ahsoka... he missed Padmé.

"Usually I just stand with my back to a mirror and maneuver as best I can. Took a lot of practice but now I know how it works better than whoever put it there." She smirked.

"Why do you fix it yourself? Couldn't someone help you, like Rowan?" He asked.

Val shrugged. "Rowan doesn't know. I never told her."

"Why not?" He was surprised. She and Rowan had seemed so close.

Val sighed as the mood dropped. "Because she thinks I'm broken enough as it is."

"Why does she think you're broken?" His tone was curiosity tinged in skepticism. He could never imagine Val to be broken; to him, she was as vast and resilient as the sea.

"Because I'm a pirate who can't stomach pirating anymore. I can't pillage, I can't raid, I can't kill as easily as I once did. I can't do anything without thinking about the innocent people I'm hurting now. I will still live and die by my sword, but now my reflection in the blade isn't one I'm particularly proud of."

The room was silent for a long moment, as Val waited for him to tell her she was slipping — that she needed to pull herself together before it was too late. Or perhaps that was what she was trying to tell herself.

"None of that makes you weak. It makes you self-aware. It makes you a good person." Val turned to him, shocked. He couldn't possibly believe that about her. But looking closer, she could see that the words were more to reassure himself than her; they were a hard, unyielding truth that maybe even he struggled to believe at times.

She drew a knee under her chin. "I don't feel like a good person."

He smiled ruefully. "Neither do I, sometimes."

She traced his features with her eyes, and tried to deduce why he, of all the Jedi, could possibly believe they weren't a good person. She understood the inherent hypocrisy of the Order — had lived through it — and knew the destruction it would inevitably bring unto itself was deserved. Perhaps war did make monsters out of even the best of them. The thought didn't sit right with her. Anakin was good, despite the Order, in spite of the Order. She cleared her throat and stood.

"Your injuries have been treated but you're still exhausted. Get some sleep." He stood up, swaying slightly on his feet. She braced a hand against his chest quickly, keeping him upright.

"What are you doing?" She asked, confused.

He raised an eyebrow like he was fine, though she could see the exertion even from standing up overwhelmed him. "Don't I need to go back to my cell?"

She scoffed and pushed him gently back down onto the bed. "You couldn't even make it all the way there. Besides, I'm not letting you sleep on a cold, metal floor after today. You're staying here."

"But isn't this your bed?" He asked, lying down. The sheets smelt like her; like salt and citrus.

Val smiled, settling into a chair beside the mattress. "I'll manage. Get some sleep, buzzard."

He rolled his eyes but returned her smile nonetheless. "Goodnight, Val."

"Goodnight, Anakin."

author's note:

four elements check !! god i love my chaotic cast, they're all so sweet and violent and stupid (except Rowan, what a queen)

anyway this is so long i know, I'm soooorry i promise i will not make a habit of it

but like... worth it right? they're so god damn CUTE !! oh and KHAN !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

as usual, your thoughts. all of them. hand them over and nobody gets hurt.

on another note, this will be the last update for about two weeks while i get caught up with my school work and assessments and shit. so forgive me for the very small hiatus while i'm in, ya know, general pain.

disclaimer: i probably should've addressed this sooner but I'll just do it now. my portrayal of disability in this story comes from a place of research not experience. i do my absolute best to make sure i portray spinal injuries and muteness and other such things as realistically as possible while still working within the context of star wars. if you find anything wrong or upsetting about it, please do tell me and we can work something out !!

anyway, have a wonderful day !! i love you all so much !! and I'll see you in two to three business weeks lol