He looked like hell.

They say that reflections do not lie, that there is nothing in a mirror but truth, that a person's heart could be seen in silvered glass.

They were right.

Because the mirror did not lie. He was in hell.

Blood-shot eyes rimmed with the crusted remains of grief. A trembling hand wiping at matted hair, skin waxen in desperation, smeared clots of dried brown across one cheek, a pulpy trail of gore from nose to beard.

Remnants of a battle that he would rip from his memory. If he could.

Qui-Gon stood there, loathing the poor broken fool in the 'fresher mirror. His own face was staring back at him but the lines of sorrow etched into the skin could not be his. The nose, misshapen and throbbing, twice its size and still stained with blood, purple bruises framing his face - surely it was some other victim of fate's cruel tricks. Not his face, not that of the Master of one of the brightest students of the age, Xani's Master. Not the face of Qui-Gon Jinn.

But he could not lie, even to himself. And the mirror kept reminding him of life's harsh reality, much as he would wish to deny it.

Xan was gone. Xan was... it seemed impossible but Xanatos duCrion, his bright and energetic Learner, the brilliant example of just what an outstanding Padawan should be and, more importantly the boy he had thought of as his own son, had turned to the Dark and tried to kill him.

No, that was not... Xan would never do such a thing. And yet the mirror did not lie.

Blinking in the unendurable light, he stared at his swollen face, not really seeing anything, not really thinking. He didn't want to remember; he didn't want to think about that life so cruelly torn from him. But the memories kept returning like slimy ooze seeping past his shields, like a stain on his heart.

Xan's face dark with rage. Hate-filled words spilling out. The stench of burning flesh as his Padawan pressed the red-hot ring into his pallid cheek, skin melting liquid under the onslaught. The raw ozone hum of a lightsaber swinging close.

The shorn black braid of a beloved apprentice thrown with contempt into clotted blood.

Denial anguished deep in Qui-Gon's throat, rending him into despair. Closing his eyes for a moment, he curled inward, leaning his head against the cool surface, trying to fight the memories, trying to push it all away.

But reality was not so kind.

He wanted, desperately wanted, to make everything return to the way it was a few hours ago. Qui-Gon had looked forward to a long and happy partnership with his beloved apprentice, his Xani knighted and the two of them sharing missions and briefings and laughter. Relaxing into family.

Fool. Poor pathetic fool in the mirror. Surrounded by cold tile and duty. It was his fault, that pathetic lifeform staring back at him in the silvered glass, his fault that Xan had turned to the Dark.

But he could not turn back time or undo his actions. Now there was nothing left for him but a lifetime of regret.

He did not know how long he stood there warring with himself, denial and truth battling with his spirit. His whole body ached as if it had been hours but it could not have been more than a few minutes.

A soft knock at the door startled him back into focus. After all, the people he had come to help were still waiting for him, just outside his room.

A gentle, "Master Jedi, are you well?" and he almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. But he knew where his duty lay and so he answered just as softly - that he would be with them in a few moments, that he was just cleaning up and then they would continue with the negotiations, that he was ready to do his duty and help the people of Telos. And that seemed to satisfy them for there were quiet footsteps leading away from the door and he was left in peace. Alone.

His thoughts tried to skitter back to the battle, the hatred on Xan's face phasing in and out as the grief pushed past his shields. But he would not allow it. He would not. Instead, he concentrated on the cold tiles beneath his feet and the echoing white stillness. Trying to pull himself together and put on the facade of a Jedi. Serenity personified. Untouchable and untouched.

Besides he had a job to do and duty, Force help him, duty was all he had left.

With that, he began to swipe at the blood and the sweat, dabbing at gore encrusted in his beard, gingerly cleaning his broken nose. He could not remove the stain on his spirit but he would look the part at least.

Until he tried to undo his matted, disheveled hair. It lay snarled and stiff with blood, wild tendrils glued to his wet cheek. Somehow, too, it was uneven, as if it had been cut or melted under the heat of a lightsaber blade. Not that it mattered. Not that it...

Pain twisted him back into the moment. Blinking down, he could see that his fists were full of hair, as if he had tried to pull it out or removed the offending impediment to his duty. He didn't remember doing such a thing; he should have been disquieted at the thought but he could not seem to make himself care.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he concentrated on the task at hand. The people he had sworn to protect were waiting for him and he needed to think about them above his own petty problems.

Clenching his jaw and looking closely at the reflection, he realized that he would have to cut off the offending hair or try to balance it somehow. Slowly and carefully - not this wild destruction. And for that he would need a knife.

Unfortunately, he knew just where to find one.

He turned away from the glaring lights and cold tiles of the 'fresher, stumbling out into the darkened room, over to his sleepcouch where he had awaken with a happy heart and contentment just hours before.

Reluctantly, he looked down. Qui-Gon knew what was there; he had seen it when he hobbled back into the room after battling his fallen apprentice. Gleaming bright among the torn sheets and shredded pillows, an ornate knife had been plunged deep into bedding and Qui-Gon's spare tunic.

It had been his Pad.... Xani's blade, the one that he had brought back from Telos.

They had often joked about it. A gift from Xan's father, jeweled and sharp and deadly beautiful, his Learner had kept it as a token of love from one he should have let go long before and could not. And he, his fool of a Master, had loved the boy too much to deny him such a gift. Force help him.

He had assumed that Xan would have kept the knife with him, a final token of his father's esteem.

Instead Qui-Gon had found it in his bed, at the centerpoint of a cutting swath of destruction that could only have one meaning - the blade had been thrust, oh so deliberately, into the left side of his tunic. Where his heart would have resided. If he still had one.

But even with such an obvious gesture of contempt and rage, Xanatos apparently wanted to make sure his old Master truly understood. So, beside the knife, a sheet of flimsiplast lay on the bed with a single word written there - Revenge - and a small broken circle drawn in dried blood

Leaning over, he pulled the knife out and stood there, staring at the blade. Its glint of grey durasteel, jeweled hilt and wickedly sharp edge spoke of wealth and power and death. Turning it over in his hands, staring at ruinous beauty, he wondered how easily it could slip into skin, the fine edge like gossamer silk slicing through flesh. As if anything so lovely could possibly hurt him any more than he already was.

For a long time, he was silent and still, gazing at the gleaming line of blade. Finally, aching with regret, he turned again and walked back into the 'fresher.

Much as he would want to give in, to let go, to fall into despair, he could not. It was not his time and, although he desired an end to the pain, he would not go against the Force. Even for Xan. Even for his own peace of mind.

So he took the blade and began to saw at his hair, trying to even it out. Balancing a little here and a clump there. Cutting through the symbol of his previous life, vain-glorious strands of brown. Cutting through joy and laughter and the love of a master for a son in all but name. Cutting, tearing through the fury and the terror and the grief. Floating brown threads of the past. And he cut a little more and a little more until the floor was covered, littered with the debris of his life, a soft carpet of loss.

And he would have sliced through it all, leaving a bloody trail of hair and skin and...

Another knock at the door, louder this time. "Master Jedi, are you all right? It has gone past third hour and we were growing concerned. Do you need assistance?"

Startled, he jerked back into focus. Blinking rapidly at the glaring lights and white gleam of tiles, his vision blurry with exhaustion, at first he could not see what he had done to tidy his errant hair. He rubbed his eyes clear of the grit of grief and stared in horror at his image in the glass.

Uneven clumps of coarse brush, spots where his scalp was shaven almost clear and there was a wet trickle of blood where the knife has eased into flesh. Gone was the silken strands of his Mastership, his own foolish vanity. There was only raw flesh and bristling accusation.

Qui-Gon stood there, in disbelief. He did not even hear the blade clattering on the floor.

Gazing at the stranger in the reflection, he realized that he didn't know who he was anymore. Jedi stoic, indulgent Master, fool... He was lost, truly lost, in grief, in despair, in emotion. He had lost his way and did not know how to find it again.

But there was no time for recrimination. Beyond, in the hallway, the knocks had turned into pounding and the voices beyond were strident with worry.

Qui-Gon knew that it would be only moments before the lock would open and the crowd pour in. Gathering what little remained of his strength, he hobbled wearily to the entrance and, swinging open the door, he gazed out into the cluster of alarmed faces. One heavyset man stood in front, all jeweled opulence and puffed up self-worth, his eyes bulging with surprise, his mouth in a wide oval of astonishment.

Stuttering in alarm, the man backed up a step and asked, "Master Jedi, what has happened? You look..." His voice trailed off and he retreated further in confusion.

Qui-Gon waited for a heartbeat, looking out into the crowd, feeling their stunned dismay. There was nothing to do but say, "It is nothing. A small accident." He looked at the leader, nodding, "I believe that there is much to do and not much time. Shall we go?"

As he closed the door behind him, limping through the shocked clutter of Telosian nobility, his tall form all stoic dignity and silence, he understood just what he had done. He had been selfish, irrational, foolish.

He had not acted as a Jedi should in the last few hours, indulging himself instead in a fit of grief and despair, refusing to let the base emotions go as he had been trained. He had allowed the Dark to pull him close. He had failed Xanatos, he had failed himself and, most importantly, he had failed the Republic and the people he had sworn to protect.

In the years as Xani's Master, in those years of feeling the love of a father for a son, feeling emotion like a joyous celebration of life, he had forgotten one thing, one hard and central truth - that to be Jedi was to be untouchable and untouched.

But never again would he allow himself to fail, never allow himself to feel again, to love. He would bury his grief in duty and the service to others. As it should be.

For he was Jedi. Untouchable and untouched.

The mirror had not lied after all.

He was in hell.

The end.