Pairing: Q/O Rating: R (for violence, adult themes, *disturbing
imagery*)
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Thank you George!
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crime! .
The skies were cloudless and bright the day we arrived on
Maltora Prime. A temperate peaceful planet, unsullied by war or
unrest, it seemed more of a vacation than work when we arrived
in the capital city of Mos C'ethra, a pretty, prosperous town
slightly to the west of the towering Sharet Mountains.
Our mission was a simple one as far as most missions go. We
were to help create a hydraulic water system to help eliminate
the frequent droughts that plagued the smaller cities
surrounding the capital. It was diplomatic gesture, one
organized by the Senate, for the benefit of the Senate, and, of
course, carried out by Jedi.
Nothing unusual there and all was going smoothly, right
according to schedule.
Until the plague broke out.
It started as a rumor, a bit of news from the mountains that
filtered its way down to the city and beyond. An old man had
fallen ill and had been cared for by a local cleric from the
city temple. He'd shown all the symptoms of a terrible fever,
one that no medicine or treatment could alleviate and died
within ten Standard rotations of the first symptoms.
By all accounts, it was as gruesome and miserable a death as
one could imagine.
Two days later, an outbreak of rassa was discovered in the
lower quarters of Mos C'ethra and all residents were ordered
inside city limits immediately. I'd never seen a case of rassa,
but learned the basics of it while at the Academy.
A fever that destroys the higher nervous system's ability to
function, rassa is a cruel contagion, killing its victims
slowly, robbing them first of their minds then eventually,
their lives. Cutting a wide swath across species, killing the
sentient and non- sentient alike, few creatures are safe from
its debilitating and invariably fatal grip.
As with all epidemics, the first to die are the very old,
followed by the very young. The poor go next. Unable to treat
the disease by expensive medical means, they rely on
superstition and folk remedies to see them through and these,
invariably, are never enough.
The Tarriff of Mos C'ethra was a kind, genial man of late
years, obviously unprepared for such an emergency. He asked for
our help and Qui-Gon agreed, immediately informing the Council
of the outbreak and our plans to assist.
They agreed to send out healers and medicine, but warned us
they would be some time in arriving, as Maltora Prime was a
distance of at least three weeks away from Coruscant.
Qui-Gon nodded grimly as Ada Gallia's holographic image faded
from view.
Bid me to return to our quarters with him and upon arrival, he
dug through our emergency medi-kit, finally pulling out a small
hypoderm. "I have an inoculation that might be suitable. It is
for Terlot's Fever, but should be effective against rassa as
they are very similar."
"Yes, Master," I replied, hoping I could shield my worry from
him, at least until the healers arrived.
"There is only enough for one dose," he said calmly.
I nodded and prepared to administer it to him. In my mind there
was no doubt he would be the recipient of the inoculation, for
two reasons. The first being that he was the Master, the more
experienced and in my young estimate, the more valuable.
The second reason being that if worst came to worst there was
no way I was going to watch him, the center of my life and
heart, die in such a terrible manner. "Just instruct me how to
administer it and I'll take care of it," I said, reaching out
for the hypoderm.
The shadow of a wistful grin crossed his features. "It seems
you have already decided which one of us will receive the
inoculation, my padawan."
"The choice is obvious Master," I replied crisply, already
advancing toward him ready to make sure he'd receive the
medication whether he agreed or not.
Qui-Gon looked at me carefully for a long moment before nodding
and casually holding out the hypoderm. "Well, in that case . .
. " he said, shrugging.
I reached out, expecting to be handed the medication but
instead found myself spun around, caught in a headlock and the
inoculation was delivered before I had a chance to react. I
yelled as its sting burned its way into my bloodstream, crying
out not from the pain, but from frustration . . . and more than
a little anger.
"Forgive me, padawan," he said, catching his breath. "But I
felt that you were planning to put up some resistance."
I stared at him, open mouthed and still rubbing at the residual
sting of the hypoderm. "But . . . but Master . . . "
Holding up his hand, he quietly interrupted. "Now padawan, we
must help the Tarriff calm the populace and prepare for what
may lie ahead. Plagues are terrible things, Obi-Wan, and bring
out the worst in the most peaceful and law-abiding citizens. We
don't have much time."
I glared at him. "Yes, Master," I ground out. Still angry . . .
and more than a little afraid.
He simply patted me on the shoulder. "Have faith Obi-Wan. The
Council will not abandon us and if we work hard, things might
go well yet." Force strong voice and my anger and fear melted
away.
Nodding hesitantly, I agreed. "Yes, things might go well yet."
He smiled and squeezed my arm. "Good. Come now. There is much
work to be done."
"Yes, there is much work to be done," I agreed hazily. Followed
him out into the main square of Mos C'ethra, still teeming with
happy, bustling crowds of men, women and children, most of them
possessed of even less knowledge than I of the horror that lie
ahead.
I didn't know where Qui-Gon had learned about the effects of a
quarantine and wasn't sure I wanted to find out. The things he
instructed me to prepare for were ghastly, even in theory.
Curfews were to be imposed at the slightest sign of unrest and
I was not to hesitate to use my weapon in the maintenance of
order.
At one point he pulled me aside and grasped me by the
shoulders, his face a grim mask. "Listen to me carefully,
Obi-Wan. There may come a time when martial law will have to be
carried out. It will become your responsibility to make sure
that anyone who disobeys the laws set down is to be warned only
once. Upon the second instance of disobedience, they are to be
killed outright without regard for age or sex. Do you
understand this?"
An awful chill crawled up my spine, but I nodded. "Yes Master."
He shook his head. "No, padawan. Tell me again that you
understand exactly what I'm saying to you."
I swallowed hard, the words sticking in my throat. I cleared it
and repeated his instructions. "Anyone who disobeys the laws
set down is to be warned only once. Upon their second
infraction, they are to be killed outright."
"Without regard for age or sex."
Again I quailed, but forced myself to repeat it. "Without
regard for age or sex."
He sighed. "Good. I know how cruel this sounds now, but if
things go badly you will understand the necessity of these
instructions."
"Yes, Master," I replied, willing to obey, but not really
understanding at all.
Another sigh and he motioned for me to follow him back to the
main square where we once again set to work.
It was an exhausting day, and we labored well into the night.
There were no reported new cases of the disease and I began to
think that all this talk of epidemics and plagues and
quarantines was nothing more than a ridiculous panic brought on
by a mistaken case of some other, more benign, fever.
The next morning proved me wrong.
Fourteen more cases of rassa appeared, this time in the
religious temple where the cleric who'd cared for the first
case was cloistered. The gates of the convent were quickly
locked, and bolted shut from the outside, effectively trapping
its residents within. Water and food were slid underneath a
small side door by a 'droid who was then destroyed upon return.
Every morning for the next five days I stared at the temple
from the window of our quarters and heard singing, the voices
growing weaker as the evenings passed, and then one morning
disappearing all together.
I didn't look at the temple again.
Qui-Gon and I worked tirelessly throughout all of Mos C'ethra,
setting up information channels and asking for calm, in some
cases enforcing it by means of the Force. The residents were
growing uneasy, but still hopeful that the two Jedi in their
midst had everything under complete control. Their faith in us
was welcome and we tried our best to live up to it.
But there are some things even a Jedi can't control.
The disease began to spread, despite our best efforts to
contain it. Cases multiplied by the dozens, first taking
individuals, then whole families, without regard to gender or
age, poverty or wealth.
It was the greatest of all equalizers, and the keening wails of
the grief-stricken were soon echoing in every quarter -- in
every home.
I can't say I didn't feel fear. The enemy Qui-Gon and I were
facing was a faceless one and its motivation for murder was
ruthlessly simple. All it wanted to was survive and multiply,
but to do this, it had to kill its unwilling host. No saber
could touch it, no amount of Force could defeat it, and we were
helpless in its wake, able only to patch the wounded and try to
protect those who had yet to fall under its deadly grip.
It quickly became a thankless task.
But I still had faith that things couldn't possibly get any
worse than they already were and we would be able to hold the
situation together, at least until the healers from Coruscant
arrived.
Yes, I was still very optimistic.
Until the afternoon Qui-Gon collapsed at my feet, his skin
burning with the very fever that had already claimed so many. I
quickly gathered him in my trembling arms and made my way back
to our quarters, praying with each and every step.
The great equalizer had struck once more . . . and even a Jedi
was not immune.
When we arrived back in our room, I immediately set about
preparing for Qui-Gon's care. Forgotten was the rest of this
desolate place, along with the rest of the victims. All I cared
about was my Master and his recovery, which I would obtain by
any means necessary.
Breaking the quarantine and flying him back to the nearest Jedi
temple wasn't out of the question by any means, and I put him
to bed with assurances of his well-being, no matter what the
cost.
But Qui-Gon shook his head violently. "Listen to me padawan.
Under the pain of obedience."
When I heard this, I knelt immediately, as was expected when a
student is called upon his vows to his teacher. "Yes, Master?"
"The needs of the many come first. If you have time, you may
attend to me, but only after you've done your duty as sworn to
the peoples of this city, not before. If necessary, you will
ignore me all together."
Impossible, I thought angrily, but remained silent.
"You must swear to me, my padawan, that no matter what happens,
no matter what I say to you in the days to come, you will
follow your oaths and not be influenced any other motivations."
I looked up, only to see dark blue eyes staring at me
imploringly, searching the depths and secrets of a heart they
seemed to know better than its owner did. Biting my lip, I
responded. "Yes, Master."
"And above all things, my Obi-Wan, remember my pride in you,"
he said, raising his hand to brush a stray lock of hair from my
forehead. "You are my legacy, dear one. I know my faith in you
will never be misplaced, as you have always been, and ever will
be, my pride and my joy. Please . . . never forget that."
That brought the sting of tears to my eyes and I could feel my
shoulders sag beneath a new burden -- the weight of knowing
that whatever was to be borne over the next fortnight, I would
have to face alone. It seemed unthinkable, but I knew I no
longer had a choice.
That didn't mean I had to be happy about it. "You speak as
though you are on your death bed, Master," I said, my voice
thick with bitterness.
Another soft touch, this time along my cheek. "Hush, padawan.
Go now and attend to the northern quarters. Make sure there is
enough water in the wells and enough food to last for at least
the next ten rotations. Go. I will still be here when you
return."
Bowing my head, I reluctantly obeyed. I left our quarters and
headed back into the streets where the loud cries of mourners
mingled with the black marches of funeral dirges, creating an
endless, discordant symphony of grief.
I walked past it all, forced to shut away my own terror at the
sound of that wretched, miserable song of the damned and listen
only to Qui-Gon's instructions as they repeated themselves
again and again throughout my mind.
Forcing myself to ignore everything . . . and everyone else.
By the tenth day of the outbreak, full-blown chaos had erupted.
There was dancing and drinking in the streets. Couples of all
species took to making love in broad daylight, uncaring of
their partners or of who might be watching. Vandalism abounded
along with a rash of thievery, some of it committed by the very
young.
A group of small children had taken to stealing from the
abandoned storefronts of dead shopkeepers. Not older than nine
or ten Standard years, they smashed their way past weakened
shields and took whatever was left of the merchandise, laughing
to bleak skies as they looted.
"Hold," I snarled as they exited one shop, their arms full of
sweets and toys. "Where do you think you're going with those
things? They do not belong to you. Put them back immediately
and return home."
One of the children, a boy of no older than nine, stared at me
defiantly. "No, I won't. I wanted them, so I took them. And you
can't stop me. No one can stop me."
Without hesitation, I picked him up and beat him with the blunt
of my saber until he howled. Threw him to the ground when I was
done and stood over the other youths, who shrank beneath my
scrutiny.
"The next one who steals will be killed," I said calmly. "Now
go to your homes and pray I don't catch you outdoors again
unless you've been called for."
They ran for their lives.
My stomach knotted brutally and I could taste the bile at the
back of my throat, but pushed it down. A beating was better
that than death, I thought, as I hung my saber back onto my
belt.
Or so I hoped.
Looked in to check on the Tarriff and found him sprawled on the
floor of his quarters, dead. In his hand was an executive
order, seceding temporary power of his office to myself and
Qui-Gon. Again, I was forced to swallow back the contents of my
stomach as the terrible weight of responsibility settled over
me.
I can't . . . I couldn't . . . not without . . . I thought as I
clutched the order in my shaking hand.
But, of course, I had no choice. Returning to Qui-Gon, I showed
him the order and he nodded, grasping my fingers and squeezing
them weakly.
"You can do it," he rasped. "Have faith Obi-Wan, faith in
yourself and in your own strength."
"But Master," I stammered. "This . . . the entire town is
falling apart. The very fabric of the society and there are so
many dead and . . . and . . . " I looked at him imploringly,
feeling buffeted and torn, falling -- as if the very ground was
crumbling beneath my feet and I'd been left utterly alone,
without anyone to catch me.
"You can do it," he whispered, raising his hand to caress my
cheek. "I know you can."
Defeated, I bowed my head. "Yes, Master."
Felt a harsh tug on my braid. I looked up and saw a fierceness
in his eyes I'd never seen before. "No, not 'Yes, Master.' Say
'Yes, I can do it Qui-Gon," he growled. I hesitated and his
eyes narrowed at me. "Come on . . . say it."
"Yes . . . I . . . I can do it Qui-Gon," I muttered, stumbling
over the unfamiliar syllables of his name.
"Again."
I swallowed hard. "Yes, I can do it Qui-Gon," I repeated,
loudly this time.
"Good." His eyes closed. "Very good," he said hoarsely, before
falling into a deep, uneasy slumber.
Leaving me with nothing but a bit of paper, a dying town and my
own feeble, untested devices.
By the thirteenth day, they'd stopped burying the dead.
The corpses began to pile in the streets, thrown aside like
unwanted dolls, scarred and blackened with decay. The stench
was unimaginable and I knew without swift action, the entire
population would be lost.
I immediately ordered fire pits to be dug by any able bodied
person available, including women and children. If no shovels
could be found, they were to dig with their bare hands. If no
firewood was to be had, they were to give over their personal
possessions as fuel. The dead were to be dragged to the pits
and thrown in without a backwards glance. When one pit was
full, another was to be dug in its place. There would be no
rest, no food and only one cup of water per worker until the
task was completed and the streets were free of corpses for
that day.
I enforced these rules with the use of the Force and the threat
of my saber.
It was the hardest, most terrible thing I ever had to do.
For days this went on -- this hateful funeral devoid of
sympathy or tears, until a routine of sorts was implemented and
the threat of new diseases had passed. At night I crawled back
to my quarters and tended to Qui-Gon who was growing sicker and
weaker by the hour.
He was burning with a fever no cooling pack or fever medication
procured from the shrinking contents of our medi-kit could
help. I thought I'd prepared myself for this eventuality, but
quickly learned there was a wide gap between theory and
reality. Seeing Qui-Gon suffer so miserably was worse than any
nightmare I'd ever had and my confidence was soon replaced with
an indescribable fear.
The fever robbed him of most of his strength and I was left
with a Master who was as helpless as a newborn. His eyes were
glazed over and his concentration wandered aimlessly, making
the smallest mental task difficult, if not impossible.
Fits of delirium set in, especially at night when the fever
peaked. Not much at first, but soon they were enough to fill me
with terror.
He didn't know where he was, asking me constantly if we were on
Coruscant and why he was in bed and not attending this session
or that class and if I could possibly give his excuses to the
Council for him, as he suddenly didn't feel well enough to meet
with them.
Asked where his padawan was and if I would be kind enough to
find him and bring him to his side. "His name is Obi-Wan
Kenobi," he said, his voice weak; his hands trembling. "A young
Jedi, you will not be able to miss him if you look hard enough.
Tell him his Master seeks him and he will come. Have no fear."
Toward the early hours of morning he'd forgotten his own name
and by that time I'd stopped trying to reason with him.
Instead, I covered him with light blankets, put another cooling
pack on his forehead and excusing myself to a private corner of
our quarters, I wept until I could weep no more.
At sunrise, I returned to the main square. Oversaw the fire
pits, once again watching the corpses burn one by one, pausing
only to order another round of digging to commence.
Upon the pain of death.
By the sixteenth day, my Master was clearly losing his fight
for sanity.
He was in a constant state of delirium and there was nothing I
could do, nothing I could say that would either calm or console
him. Instead, I rode wave after wave of madness, praying that
whatever bits of clarity snatched from his once brilliant mind
could be put to some use.
But there were none to be had. His words were a jumble of
ravings -- accusations, endless questions and protestations.
Begging for water one moment, hurling the cup away the next.
Demanding to know where various items were placed, where
certain people were hiding and why in the name of all Hells he
couldn't see the Council.
I did what I could, but it was never enough. Soon there was
nothing left to do but ignore his ravings, make him comfortable
and pray with all my heart for the healers to come.
One night I arrived in our quarters only to find him standing
at the foot of the bed, his clothing unkempt and his eyes wild.
"So," he spat at me. "You have finally returned."
"Yes, Master, I am here," I replied wearily, ignoring the
frightful look etched into his features. I was too exhausted to
try and read into his mood at that moment, for as sickly as he
was in body, as was I in my heart. I'd spent yet another day
burning the dead and keeping order among the dwindling
survivors, all the while searching the skies for any sign of
help . . . any sign of relief.
"I knew it was only a matter of time." There was a new and
furious edge to his voice, one that suddenly chilled me to the
bone. Without warning he leaped up from the bed, and I watched,
horrified as his lightsaber flared to life.
"Xanatos," he snarled. "I knew you'd never be satisfied until
you witnessed my death."
Shocked, I took a faltering step backwards. "Master?"
The saber hummed and I heard a bitter laugh. "What? Dare you
still use that title with me?"
Oh Force, I thought, taking another panicked step back. He was
weaving unsteadily on his feet as the saber wavered in his
hand. His eyes were dull with fever, but a deadly rage burned
its way through the haze, fueling Darkness and filling the room
with an overwhelming sense of dread.
Desperately, I tried to think of some way to disarm him without
getting one or both of us killed as he continued to rant at me.
"My so-called brilliant student. My so-called greatest triumph,
" he snarled, a triangle of madness knit between his brows.
"And yet how quickly you became my greatest shame."
"Master, please," I whispered, praying to all the gods I no
longer believed in. "Please, put the saber down." Using Force
in my voice, but knowing it wouldn't work.
He took a stumbling step forward and I dodged him easily.
Watched with horror as his features slowly crumbled into a
pallid mask of defeat. "My greatest failure," he choked, and
the saber fell from his hand, deactivating as it clattered to
the floor.
He followed in its path and I caught him as he fell. Led him
back to the pallet and covered him with blankets he just as
quickly tore aside.
"He would have been my last failure you know," he muttered, his
breathing labored. "Would have been my eternal legacy ... if
not for Obi-Wan." He blinked and stared at me, suddenly seeing
someone else in my stead. "Have I ever told you about Obi-Wan,
Cortall, my old friend?"
I shook my head. Reached for the cooling pack with a shaking
hand and applied it to his fever-flushed cheeks. "No ... no you
did not," I murmured, humoring him as best I could.
He smiled weakly at me. ""Oh, but there are many things I can
tell you about my Obi-Wan, Cortall. So many things." His tone
turned wry ... dreamy. "I can tell you about all times he's
saved me . . . especially from myself." A hoarse chuckle and he
closed his eyes. "Quite a job that is -- saving this stubborn
old fool from himself, but somehow . . . somehow he manages to
do it."
I wiped a thin sheen of sweat from his brow and heard another
hoarse laugh. "But that's not to say he coddles or humors me,
oh no Cortall. You should see how fierce he is when he thinks
I'm being too careless with myself. Watches me like a sherehawk
he does and doesn't let me get away with a damned thing." A
thoughtful pause. "He's very beautiful as well. You've never
seen him have you?"
Not knowing what to say, I shrugged, biting my lip against the
tears that were threatening to fall.
"Oh, well then you're missing quite a sight, my old friend. He
has the most astonishing eyes. They ... they can see right
through you and touch you straight down to your soul. And such
a smile. You won't see it often, but if you ever do, be assured
the Helix itself would pale besides its shine." Conspiratorial
whisper. "I've seen that smile . . . more than a few times. If
I didn't know better, I'd say he saves them up to charm me when
I'm being particularly obstinate. I think it's a last resort
weapon of his -- the only thing that never fails to sway me."
A sigh and he rambled on, his voice rough with fever. "That's
not to say it's all on the outside, no, no ... the great inner
beauty is there as well. A noble soul my Obi-Wan has -- and
generous enough to accept the burdens this bitter old fool
thrust upon him in our first years together." A miserable look.
"How many... how many disappointments, how many failures he has
paid for, all of them accepted without complaint. Ah,
Cortall..."
"Hush, Master," I begged. "Please, you must..."
But he didn't hear me. "I ... I can tell you a secret,
Cortall." He opened his eyes and clutched restlessly at the
bedding, the sweat beading on his brow. "Once, an ambassador
politely asked me if we were lovers, my Obi-Wan and I. For a
moment, I was sorely tempted to say yes, yes we are. He is my
lover and aren't I the lucky one, to be able to have, to hold
such a creature and call him mine."
He suddenly sat up and peered at me with a troubled, miserable
look. "I then thought later, what a fancy that is Qui-Gon Jinn.
To think such a young, beautiful man could ever love an old
doddering troublemaker as yourself. You should be ashamed, you
old fool."
The cooling pack fell from my hand and the power of speech
abandohis long hair away from his eyes
and it was there I felt the heat, the terrible fever that still
raged within, and unable to help myself, I pressed my lips
against the top of his head, then over his eyes and cheeks.
Kissing him as he murmured on, over and over again. "Never ...
never to know."
By the nineteenth day, hope was but a vague memory from some
other life past.
There was no more music, no more dancing or lovemaking. No more
funerals or theft. There were few corpses to deal with as most
of the town was already dead and those who weren't stricken
with the disease appeared fated either to live or die
unattended to.
I no longer had the will or strength to go outside.
The streets were eerily silent, except for a group of little
children whom I watched dance around a lone rotting corpse,
singing and holding hands, tumbling to the ground at the song's
end in a chilling parody of death.
"rassa, rassa tellak mawr
keireth 'tassa menk yn chrawr
selonth matra, selonth pate
sans seriff bilo, serrif blate"
Unable to watch any more, I closed the window and drew the
curtains.
Qiu-Gon's condition had declined considerably. He was as near
death as one could be but in place of madness, a strange
clarity had overcome him, and somehow, that was much worse. He
knew as well as I did what fate lie in store and we were
helpless to do anything but wait. Together.
I sat at his side, silent, staring for hours at nothing. We
didn't speak, as in truth, there was nothing left to say.
"I'm suffocating," he finally whispered. "Please Obi-Wan. Open
the window."
I obeyed without a word, and again, I heard the children sing.
"rassa rassa we don't care
we can play all day and night
goodbye mother, goodbye father
your sons and daughters can now have fun"
A short time later, he looked up at me. "I am dying."
Unable to cry anymore, I simply nodded in reply. "I know."
His eyes closed -- his breathing grew shallow and weak, and for
the first time in my life I threw all caution to the winds.
Crawling into bed beside him, I held him close and wove my
fingers through his hair. Pressed my lips against his forehead,
still hot and flushed with fever. Kissed dry lips, then drew
yet more kisses over sunken cheeks and eyes. Told him that I
loved him, that I always had and that if he ever held the
slightest bit of love for me in his heart, he would refuse
death and stay with me.
"You described your love to me, Master," I murmured. "Now prove
it. Stay here, stay beside me always. This is not the way it
ends, I refuse to believe it. Refuse this with me and I will
repay you with whatever life is left to me. Don't make your
lover beg, Qui-Gon. I know you are more generous than that."
Another round of kisses. "A lifetime of devotion in exchange
for a moment of refusal. Such a bargain, my only one. Please .
. . please stay."
But there was no sound coming from his lips, no words of love
returned, there was only the sound of the little ones outside
as they continued to sing their childish song of death.
"Rassa, rassa . . . we don't care . . . "
By the dawn of the twenty-first day, the healers from Coruscant
arrived.
There was no celebrating, no parade heralding their arrival.
Whatever survivors were left sat huddled in the town square,
their faces blank with shock, their eyes devoid of hope.
The healers tended to them as best they could, but there was
little to be done. For many of them the damage was permanent,
as no amount of healing could bring back their families, nor
erase the memories of their terrible deaths.
Qui-Gon was clinging to life, but barely. He no longer spoke,
no longer ate or drank. His eyes would open, but only to stare
blankly into mine and then flutter shut again, the eyelids
trembling. His pulse threaded sluggishly through his veins, and
I'd spent the past two nights laying beside him with my head
against his chest, rising and falling with each breath, holding
onto every beat of his heart with whatever was left of my soul.
When the healers came into our quarters, I could do nothing but
lead them to him and let them try to save his life. I myself
harbored no illusions as to the outcome of their ministrations.
He'd lived longer than many of the victims, and whatever the
result was now left in the hands of Fate.
I left our quarters and stumbled into the town square. Fell to
my knees and for the first time in many, many days, I wept.
Wept for the living as well as the dead, wept for my own
desperate, despicable deeds as well as those of everyone
surrounding me.
The survivors gathered around me, some of them holding me,
others praying quietly. I was passed from embrace to embrace
and cloaks and blankets were thrown over my shoulders until I
was practically smothered beneath their warmth. I was given
first servings of hot soup, tea and cool, clear water. Allowed
myself finally to be cradled in the arms of a woman who had
lost all four of her sons to the plague, and I slept, a
blessedly deep and dreamless sleep.
When the healers emerged from Qui-Gon's room, the entire square
was silent. The Master healer pulled me aside and whispered his
prognosis in my ear.
Qui-Gon was going to live. Live.
For a long moment, I couldn't speak.
I turned to my fellow survivors, told them the healer's news
and the happiness surrounding me was palpable. In the matter of
a few scant hours, Qui-Gon had become their miracle as well as
mine and they wept joyfully at the good tidings, cheering when
I rose and practically ran to see him. They were gathered at
our window when I leaned down and embraced him and there was
more cheering when he returned the embrace, weakly, but none of
that mattered in the slightest because . . .
He was going to live.
And by that token ... so were we all.
The ride home to Coruscant was quiet. Uneventful. Qui-Gon was
given the captain's quarters, while I, a mere padawan was given
what amounted to a closet with a pallet.
I don't think I'd ever been happier in my entire life.
I spent the trip performing my usual inconsequential duties and
enjoyed every one of them. It was three days before they let me
back into see Qui-Gon and I arrived to find him sitting up in
bed, looking healthier than I'd have thought possible just a
few days before.
He smiled when he saw me, and I thought my heart would burst at
the sight. I wanted to throw myself at him, crawl into his
embrace and never come out, but instead, I merely nodded and
returned the grin. "Master. How are you feeling?"
He beamed at me. "I am much better, Obi-Wan . . . thanks to
you. Now, please come here and sit by my side," he said, and
patting his pallet.
I obeyed happily and he reached up and gave my braid a short,
affectionate tug. He looked at me for a moment and his
expression turned solemn. "I know it may not seem like it after
all that has happened, but I can assure you, you've done very
well indeed, Obi- Wan."
Felt myself flush. "Thank you, Master."
"And, I wish to thank you for your care, even under such trying
circumstances. I owe you much, my padawan," he said, quietly.
I swallowed hard, past the lump in my throat. "I've done
nothing Master, except what you have taught me to do."
He gave me a wry glance. "I see." He looked away, with
something akin to shyness in his expression. "And ... I'd
suppose it's a moot point now, but when I was fevered, I ..."
Hesitating. "I hope I did not do or say anything to offend you.
I ... I honestly remember little or nothing of the past few
weeks."
"No, Master, " I replied quietly. "You ..." I paused and looked
into his eyes. Saw love and fear and wonder all of it
breathtaking and new and for a long moment, time stood still
between us. I took a long shivering breath. "You said nothing I
did not already know."
Relief shaded his features and he smiled once more. "I am glad,
padawan. For making you unhappy is the very last thing I'd ever
wish to do."
I shook my head, suddenly feeling glad for the simple pleasure
of being alive. "I would have no fear of that Master." Shyly.
"You make me very happy indeed."
He chuckled and held his arms open to me. I gratefully curled
into his embrace and nestled against his warmth, as behind us
an outline of racing stars faded long and far away into the
distance, as if they were a dream, a fever dream, leaving
behind memories both best forgotten, and . . . best remembered.
FINI
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