Written for a challenge on tf.n.

It was the hand that Ventress remembered.

"Hey, there – take my hand and I'll pull you free. I will save you."

Yes, she remembered, both the hand and the eyes – the latter with a twinkle in them, though it was in the midst of battle. A young boy, it had been, squatting beside the pile of bodies haphazardly stacked like an unkempt wood pile above her and reaching a hand to hers. Hers was red, she remembered, red and grimy. His, pale and untouched.

She had almost believed him.

"Obi-Wan," another voice rang out, an older voice, a note of warning and perhaps – perhaps a note of fear.

"Sorry, but I'll be back," the boy whispered. "I promise."

The next moment he was gone, jumping to his feet and twirling, his lightsaber held before him to block the blow that might have taken his life, had he not heeded the warning in time. The blow that took him away from a scared, bloody little girl's side, leaving her underneath a pile of bodies.

Bodies, whose life blood dripped into her face. Onto her hands. Their blood was on her hands, for she had killed some of them, but not in time. So much blood for a child…those who killed her parents before her eyes and died for their deed years ago. Those who killed Ky Naroc not so long ago and died, also, for their deeds.

She was trapped in a coffin of her own making.

She couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't die like this, a frightened and angry child of nine under a pile of those whom she had killed.

"Are you okay?" That cultured voice came close again, a whisper.

"Save me," she whispered and slid a hand out. A hand grasped it, closed around it. Warm and comforting. Hope was in that hand. Life was in that hand.

Blood was on that hand.

Her blood and the blood of those she had killed.

Now it was on his. This boy, not much older than her. Contaminated, this beacon of light in the darkness, by whom he reached to. She would be his downfall rather than he her salvation. To save him she would have to sacrifice herself.

"Go," she croaked. "I'll be here when you finish…come back when it's safe."

"Are you sure?" This warrior boy sounded doubtful. "I think my master can finish this without me."

"Go!"

After a moment's hesitation, she heard his feet shuffle. He ducked down and stared into her eyes. "When next you clasp my hand, know I will pull you to safety. I promise."

His voice was so young and sure. His eyes so warm and confident. His hands now so red like hers.

"'kay." The lie trembled from her lips. When she was sure he was gone, she found a burst of strength and slithered free from those who would entrap her even in their death. From those who thought to save her.

From this Obi-Wan who so desperately wished to save not just the galaxy, but her.

There was no salvation for those with blood on their hands. She would only bring them – him - down with her.

Because life had taught her that those who were good were weak. They died young. They died at the hands of others. They could not save others, for they could not even save themselves.

Foolish, foolish men – to think salvation was theirs to offer. Foolish, foolish boy – to think his mere hand holding hers would cleanse her soul of the corruption already rotting her from the inside out.

He had touched her and if he touched her again, he would die, too, still good, or live, rotting just like her.

That offer of his hand had doomed him either way.

She knew, because she could see the hand she had reached back with. It was not clean. She could see again his hand as it withdraw. It was no longer clean.

He had not taken the blood off hers. He had only shared it. He was not strong enough to wipe it away.

And she hated him for that.

So she slithered and she ran, escaping doom. Escaping temptation. Escaping hope. And the sound of battle deescalated to silence, for here, the gasps and sobs of the dying were too muted to hear, if any yet breathed.

Then a young voice wafted to her ears, far off in the distance, full of despair. "She's no longer here. Master, I promised I'd come back. I promised to give her my hand, to save her. I promised."

"One should be very careful of one's promises, Obi-Wan." The voice was older, deeper, a man's voice, not quite comforting yet not stern. A mentor's voice, but a father's voice as well. "A Jedi always keeps his promises and rash promises in the heat of battle – well, that is perhaps unwise."

"I plan to keep this one, Master. Even if I'm old and crippled when I do."

Ventress almost turned around and went back. The words would haunt her for the rest of her life if she didn't – and she didn't want to encounter this bright, fierce warrior boy as an old and crippled man, even if the spirit was undimmed by years.

She even turned and reached out a hand – because she knew he would reach back – but it was red.

And soon his would be, too.

If she allowed him to keep his promise. He would save her, but doom himself. So she turned and fled.

And here the man stood before her at last, perhaps a couple of decades older if not wiser. He was still trying to save the galaxy and, she sensed, her as well. Salvation one soul at a time. How quaint.

How touching.

And she didn't know if she loved him for it or hated it. Because she knew his offer was still open and always would be.

"Ventress, my sweet." Kenobi stood braced, lightsaber at the ready, a knowing smile curving at his lips.

"Obi-Wan, darlin'," she purred back.

Anakin Skywalker said nothing, tense and poised at his master's side, awaiting the fury within to be unleashed but as yet held in place by his master.

The tableau held for a moment; then Anakin leapt forward – and froze, held in place by a soft "Anakin" and a hand on his arm. The two Jedi exchanged glances and then Kenobi advanced a step and switched off his lightsaber although Ventress noted he held it ready in his left hand. He was no fool, her Obi-Wan. The warrior-boy was now a warrior-man.

And there was still no blood on his hands. Only on Skywalker's – and those warm, bright eyes were just as blind to that as they had been to the blood on hers all those years ago. He was just as much a fool now as then.

He cocked his head to one side and took another step forward, hand extended. "There is still hope, Ventress. There is always hope. Just reach for it."

And he offered his hand.

It was the hand that Ventress remembered. A little more callused and worn, it was true, but the same hand that had offered hope with a smile all those many years ago. But even then it had been too late. Now it was beyond late, beyond any redemption.

It only reminded her now of hope forever lost. And Kenobi, the fool, was too blind to even see it. He still smiled, his eyes still shone, and his hands were still unstained.

"Be careful of the promises you make in battle, my dear Obi-Wan," she taunted him and saw his eyes widen with recognition.

"My hand is always at the ready, my dear. Qui-Gon never knew the other part of that promise; t it was between you and I alone. You promised then to reach back."

"Then take it, Kenobi!"

She sprung and Skywalker quickly intervened, placing himself in her path to the elder Jedi. His lips curved to a smirk; he anticipated this match. Their lightsabers locked.

"You go through me to reach him," his eyes warned.

"I'll go through hell to reach him," her eyes flashed back.

Reluctantly, Obi-Wan relight his lightsaber, his eyes for the moment sad.

The last thing she registered before losing herself in the heat of battle, was Obi-Wan's whisper, for her ears alone, "When you're ready to take my hand, you will find mine still outstretched."

As one still was.

Open, palm upright – extended to her…waiting patiently, always waiting…

… for her to simply reach back.