Title: Decrescendo
Rating: PG
Timeframe: Clone Wars
Characters: Barriss Offee, OC
Summary: A MedStar vignette
Notes: Written for a quotation challenge to use the following quote as the basis for a vignette- Quote: "If I were not a physicist, I would probably be a musician. I often think in music. I live my daydreams in music. I see my life in terms of music." -- Albert Einstein
Disclaimer: George Lucasowns it, I don't.

It always begins with the drums - the staccato beat of repulsorlifts in the distance herald the overture of the dissonant symphony of life in a Republic Mobile Surgical Unit. We gather in the landing field where medlifters will arrive bearing wounded from the front lines of battle.

It is always the same. Environments vary - some frigid and bright, others dank and humid – but the steady influx of clone troopers in what had once been white armor does not change. Each identical trooper arrives bearing his now-distinguishing marks, the individual disfigurements of battle.

Thus begins the cadence of triage. Some can be repaired and returned to battle, others will die here an unmourned loss. We make our way through the chorus of pain, marking the troopers accordingly in a steady beat of fate, our verdict handing out life or death.

Those who can be saved are taken to the operating theatre where the surgeons and nurses begin the ensemble of healing. The words to this waltz are simple: open, repair, close…open, repair, close.

"Healer!" I turn at the familiar lyric. "Here's one for you."

Some are wounds beyond the scope of medical ability, and that is when I am summoned. I kneel beside the gravely injured trooper. Though their faces are the same, they acknowledge my presence with a mixture of emotions, for they know the Jedi is only called when there is no other hope.

Some are relieved, grasping for the chance to get up and fight again. Others are resigned, perhaps knowing their fate already and embracing it. Unlike non-genetically-altered sentient beings, they are not angry, nor do they rail against death.

There are times when the Force will guide me to do what a physician cannot, when an organic life form will respond to the healing power of raw life force. In other cases, I can only ease their suffering, making the end tolerable.

Such is the wounded soldier beside me now. I sense through the Force that his time is limited…that there is nothing that can be done.

There is a pause, a measure of rest as our eyes meet and the ensemble becomes a duet. I run a practiced glance over his numerous injuries, what is left of his broken body.

"Well, Healer?" he rasps from bruised and lacerated lips.

"It will not be long, trooper," I begin to rub anesthetic ointment over burned and exposed skin. "But you will not suffer. And you will not be alone." It is a vow I make to all for, to me, to die alone would be a fate worse than death.

He smiles and coughs, a harsh, wracking sound that breaks open yet another wound on his chest. "That's good, at least. My men?"

I administer an analgesic hypospray and notice the commander's insignia beneath blood and grime on his armor. "They made it," I assure him. It is not a lie, for I do not know the truth; but it is what he needs to hear.

I feel his relief in the Force and wipe more blood from his mouth. The solemn stanza of waiting begins. I could quicken the process, there are ways, but they are against the Jedi code.

"Do you have a family?" he asks.

He knows I do not, but we talk anyway, "The Jedi are my family."

He nods knowingly. Like me, his brothers in service to the Republic are his family. "It's good-" he coughs, "it's good that we do not leave widows, or orphans. Although, I would have liked to have had a child. A son." He grimaces with the effort of speech. "I would have liked to have had a son. What about you, Jedi Healer?"

"Barriss," I answer softly. "You can call me Barriss." I administer another dose of analgesic when his pain crescendos again. "A child? I don't know…"

I'd never consciously considered such. I am not from a culture that would warrant the occasional Jedi blessing for the necessity of procreation.

Yet his question stirs a memory…a dream I'd had once and tucked away quietly. A forbidden descant of possibility. A young girl with long black hair that flowed behind her as she ran laughing through the fields of Mirial.

A spike of pain, a sudden forte, pulls my attention back to the man dying before me. "Yes," I smile, wiping cold sweat from his brow. "A girl. My daughter could have played in the sunshine with your son. In a world without war."

His vision dims and I feel his spirit weaken and separate. Our duet becomes a solo – a mournful refrain. The decrescendo of his soul.

"Thank you...Barriss," his voice is barely audible, a soft legato caress even as his brown eyes lose focus. "You are…lovely…"

I squeeze his hand, calling on the Force to ease his passing. A single note sustains and fades and…

…coda.

I close his eyes and lift mine to the sky as the drums begin again.

-End-