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(continued from part 8)

Xanatos was alone, floating in darkness. He had no idea how long he had been there, or when his captors had finally tired of their games. There was nothing but darkness, cool and quiet. He knew that his body should hurt, but he couldn’t feel it just now. Perhaps Durante had damaged him in some permanent way. Definitely possible, yet the possibility did not trouble him. Not at the moment, anyway.

Nothing touched him; nothing hurt. That was enough for him, right now. Qui-Gon would be proud, he thought. I’m finally content to exist in the Moment.

Something like a chuckle came from his throat, turning quickly into a wracking cough. Gods, but that hurt. Eventually, the pain subsided and Xanatos was back in the fuzzy grip of painless darkness, secure in the knowledge that he was not dead. Not yet.

He didn’t want to die, no matter what they did to him. He’d never been one to give up on anything. There had never been training so difficult that he could not master it, or a lover so unattainable that he could not win them in the end. Still, he was content not to be fully conscious. Awareness brought him no comfort, cut off from the Force as he was.

Slowly, he became aware of light. Not pink-tinged light, filtered through his closed eyelids, but a light pure and pale, almost substantial. The closer it came, the brighter and more solid it seemed, until finally it coalesced into a figure. A lean, humanoid shape that he found both familiar and alien.

“Xan?” The voice trembled with emotion.

The vision drew closer, and the feeling of familiarity intensified.

The hair was long, flowing up over his head and around his shoulders, like the branches of a tree. The whole image wavered as if seen through water, hair and clothing floating around his form, defying gravity. Closer still, the face became clearer.

Pale brows knit with concern, skin of shining bronze, vaguely aristocratic features. I’m dreaming, Xanatos thought, wondering vaguely how damaged his mind might be.

“Bruck?” Xan wasn’t sure if he truly spoke or not. So hard to tell, in dreams.

The vision made a sound halfway between a chuckle and a sob. “Yes. It’s me.”

Why the fuck am I hallucinating Bruck Chun? Xanatos wondered. Even his subconscious wouldn’t give him a break.

“Why?” he groaned. His throat hurt; he couldn’t move his mouth, but somehow the word came out. His voice sounded strange.

“I-I had to find you.” The vision Bruck seemed tired and drawn, now that Xanatos looked more closely. Too thin, eyes sunken, and why did he have so much hair? Bruck seemed to sweat as if he were exerting himself; his breathing was fast and labored. “Help is coming. Hold on to the Light.”

“Where…” Xanatos whispered, trying to force his thoughts into order.

“Please, Xan. Don’t turn.”

The vision of Chun was crying. That just didn’t make sense. Could Force visions cry, or sweat? Neither one seemed like something the real Bruck would do in a vision, or a dream, belonging to Xanatos. Can’t have Force visions, he thought. The collar…

“You look…” Xanatos searched for a word to describe what he saw. The vision bore little resemblance to the fastidious young man he knew.

“Never mind that now,” the hallucination pleaded. “Just stay in the Light. Qui-Gon is coming. Don’t let the Dark Side overwhelm you.”

“I’ve cracked,” Xanatos whispered to himself. Bruck was still beautiful, and the sight of him warmed him in ways he might not have been willing to admit under other circumstances. But, why wasn’t he dreaming of Qui-Gon? He felt more than heard a rasping giggle in his throat. Surely he’d lost all sense of reality, to dream of Bruck crying over him, much less orchestrating his rescue. Maybe I’m in love with the haughty little bastard.

The watery distortion around Chun increased, and the light began to dim. Xanatos thought he saw the figure collapse, crying softly, “Force forgive me!”

Then it was gone.

What a strange dream, Xanatos thought. Only, he was definitely not asleep anymore. Now he could feel the horrible gag between his teeth, and the ache in his jaws. He couldn’t see anything because the hood still covered his face, but he hurt. His muscles were stiff and sore; a hundred separate cuts, bruises and broken bones clamored for his attention, and where he should feel the Force there was only a throbbing emptiness.

More than that, though, he was not alone.

“I hate to interrupt your dreams, Master Jedi.” Durante’s voice. Xanatos’ insides cramped at the sound of it. For one shameful moment he thought he might lose control of his bodily functions. “Not that they sounded particularly pleasant.”

Deep breaths helped him keep still. He felt fear, yes, but he didn’t have to tremble. He even managed not flinch when the hood was removed.

He blinked in the dim light, wondering how long he’d been here; had it been long enough that the Council would know he was missing? Maybe the dream was more than a subconscious manifestation of hope. Maybe help really would come.

Durante ran a finger along the gag, brushing past his lower lip. Xanatos tensed at the touch.

“Shhh, pretty Jedi.” Durante reached for the mechanism that held the gag in place. “The fun is over.”

All at once the gag was gone; closing his mouth hurt, but he did it.

Durante stood very close, dressed in fine black clothes. He looked down on Xanatos with an unreadable expression on his florid features.

“There’s just one last bit of business before I let you go.”

Xanatos looked away from the round, lying face.

“It concerns Fawks.” Durante’s clammy fingers ran along a jagged cut in Xanatos’ side. “I’m giving you the opportunity to buy his freedom, Jedi.”

“Why?” Xanatos’ voice was no more than a croaking whisper. He knew it must be a trap, but Fawks had suffered far more for far longer than Xanatos had done. If he could help him, then he must.

“Honestly, I’m tired of him.” Durante flashed an oily smile.

“You want me to take his place.”

Orima Durante laughed. “Oh, no! A Jedi would be far too dangerous a pet to keep.”

Xanatos waited for Durante to continue. He refused to ask. It hurt to speak, and the bastard was most likely only toying with him anyway.

“Not curious at all?” Durante taunted. “I suppose I could let our next session be the end of it. That would please him just as well, I think. Or I could give him to my men. They deserve some fun once in a while, too.”

“What do you want?” Xanatos whispered, knowing full well he was falling into some sadistic trap. But he was a Jedi; he had a duty to protect those who could not protect themselves. Xanatos almost laughed at the absurdity of the thought.

“You are whole, Jedi. I have not damaged you in any permanent way. That is what I want.”

“Nothing is stopping you,” Xanatos rasped.

“Quite right,” Durante said, with a laugh. “But I wonder how much a Jedi would sacrifice for an innocent.”

The silence in the chamber throbbed. Orima Durante waited patiently for Xanatos’ answer, while Xanatos struggled with his anger, his fear and, above all, his duty as a Jedi.

Hold on to the Light, Bruck had said in his dream.

It was futile; Durante would do what he would do. Nothing Xanatos did could change that. It was a trap, a trick; it had to be. But what if it wasn’t? Durante had, so far as Xanatos had seen, kept his word when he made a promise. But his words were slippery things, as what he had seen of Fawks’ torture had shown him.

It was then that Xanatos realized how simple the choice really was. He had no control over what Durante did or did not do, but he did have control over himself. He could choose, and whether Durante kept his promises… that was on Durante’s head.

“Jedi sacrifice their lives for innocents every day,” he whispered. “I can do no less.”

“How very noble of you.”

“You give your word you will free him?”

Durante chuckled. “I will leave him here with you. A distress message with these coordinates will be sent to your Temple. Your brethren will find the both of you.”

Xanatos thought furiously. There was a loophole here, something deceptive about the wording. There had to be – that was how Durante operated. “Is he well enough to survive outside a bacta tank?”

“Very good, Jedi!” The man’s belly jumped as he laughed. “I will leave him here with you, inside a bacta tank.”

“And the tank will be fully operational? Powered breathing pumps, no poisons or traps?”

This seemed to give the smuggler pause. He said nothing, as if rolling it over in his mind before answering.

“As you wish,” Orima sighed. “But it won’t be much fun.”

“Then we are in agreement.” Xanatos’ voice was quiet of necessity, but his fear was quite real. He knew many of his bones were broken, especially in his hands; they throbbed even though he remained immobile. Bones would knit, other injuries could be healed with bacta. He could be just as he had been before he’d known the hospitality of Orima Durante, if the man truly intended to let him go. But what would he take from him in exchange for Fawks’ life and freedom?
Durante appeared to be pondering the same question.

“I could blind you,” he whispered, his face close to Xanatos’. “Cut out your tongue. You’d miss that, wouldn’t you? They
don’t make prosthetics for tongues. Or cocks, for that matter.”

Xanatos breathed evenly, not allowing his fear to show. His decision was made. He would show this monster what a true Jedi was made of, even without the Force to guide him. “Just get on with it.”

“So brave,” Durante smirked. “I’m letting you keep your handsome face, Knight T’Crion. Remember that.”

There was a bright flash and the familiar sound of a lightsaber igniting. The blade swished by to the right of him. He heard a clank as part of the metal framework to which he was bound hit the floor, and then he felt the searing pain from his severed right arm. He did not scream.

Durante switched off the lightsaber and bent to retrieve the arm. He held it for Xanatos to see. The hand that had been his was a misshapen, bloody lump. It seemed to Xanatos that there was no longer any air in the room.

“You can thank your Master Jinn for that.” Durante removed the arm from the framework and laid it on Xanatos’ chest, with his own mechanized had. “An arm for an arm, if you will.”

Too horrified to speak, Xanatos merely stared at the dead weight lying across his sternum. Durante tied a band around the cauterized stump of his upper arm.

“Just in case the artery tries to open.” His captor’s voice was cheerful. “Can’t have you bleeding to death, now can we?”

Xanatos closed his eyes and swallowed hard, fighting down a surge of nausea. He breathed slowly, forcing himself to accept the truth. There was nothing to be done for it; his arm was lost.

“You’re not a sniveler, T’Crion. I’ll give you that. No screaming, no begging for mercy.”

I expect no mercy, Xanatos thought, for I will give none.

The weight disappeared from his chest, and something struck him hard across the face.

“Look at me when I speak to you!” Durante screamed.

Xanatos opened his eyes. His face stung; he thought he could feel his left cheek beginning to swell. Durante stood over him, holding the severed arm like a cudgel. Xanatos’ blood ran cold. Suddenly, he felt nothing. Just like that, he was empty. No horror, no hope, just a strangely comforting coldness.

“I have just given you a compliment, Jedi.” Durante’s voice had returned to its quiet, cheerful tone. “Do not allow your Jedi stoicism to overwhelm your sense of social propriety.”

Xanatos regarded the man from his newly detached perspective. He was quite mad, obviously, but the Jedi no longer feared him. Durante might let him go, as he had said, or he might not. At the moment, Xanatos didn’t care. All of his anxiety had disappeared completely. It felt surprisingly good. Xanatos looked Orima Durante in the eyes, and smiled.

“Why thank you, Ser Durante,” he said. “You have been a most… unusual and inventive host.”

Durante blinked, slightly unnerved.

“I suppose my hospitality has left its mark on you.” He ran the broken fingers of the severed arm across Xanatos’ cheek, but the Jedi’s gaze never wavered. “You have been a very pleasant guest. Suppose I decided to enjoy your company a bit longer?”

The threat had no effect on the Knight. “As you like,” he said, lips still twisted in a grin. Xanatos was not afraid. He didn’t know why his fear had vanished, but it had. Durante saw it, and it frightened him, made him angry. Xanatos didn’t need the Force to read that in his captor’s face.

Durante flew into a rage, beating the Jedi with the severed arm he held, with his own pudgy fists; he even threw things, whatever fell to hand, but Xanatos only found it amusing. The pain no longer mattered. Orima Durante had lost the ability to affect his emotions because, for the time being, he had none.

When Durante’s stamina could no longer keep up with his rage, he collapsed in his seat, panting. “I should kill you,” he muttered.

“Yes,” Xanatos whispered, the tiniest smirk on his bleeding lips. “You really should.”

Qui-Gon was careful to follow the Lentrebi’s instructions to the letter. They wanted Bruck to be passed to them through a closed airlock, refusing to open their side until the docking hatch on the Furlan had been securely closed. It would keep any of the undiluted Lentrebi pheromones from entering the Furlan; Qui-Gon was certain that was a good thing.

The patient himself had appeared quite frail -- small and drawn, almost withered. The intoxicating aroma had faded somewhat, but when Kenobi had volunteered to be the one to move Knight Chun into the airlock, Qui-Gon had not objected. Nor had he been able to meet the young man’s eyes since his lapse of control.

It wasn’t so much the aphrodisiac, or what he had almost done to Bruck, but the spiteful way he had lashed out at Kenobi, when the young man had done nothing wrong. He would have to face up to his wrongdoing and apologize accordingly, when time permitted.

The exchange had been a rather rushed affair, with Qui-Gon in the cockpit and Kenobi handling the actual transfer of Knight Chun. There had been no time for goodbyes, which would have been awkward under the circumstances, at least where Qui-Gon was concerned. He hadn’t harmed Bruck – Kenobi had seen to that – but he still felt guilt for what almost happened.

What would have happened if Kenobi hadn’t intervened.

“We have the host,” a Lentrebi voice came through the com, jarring Qui-Gon out of his self recriminations. “Prepare to disengage.”

“Detaching umbilical now,” Qui-Gon replied. He hesitated before speaking again. “Take care of… them.”

“We will do our best, Master Jinn,” the Lentrebi replied.

That would have to do. Qui-Gon expected the Lentrebi to be somewhat more concerned with preserving the remnant of Master Leem that was psychically attached to Knight Chun than with the Knight himself, but he knew they were the young man’s only hope for survival. He watched the odd-looking Lentrebi ship pull away, and laid in a course for the Girreni system.

The navicomputer was well into its calculations for the jump to hyperspace when Kenobi entered the cockpit.

“That’s it, then?” The young man looked worried. “Just leave him with the, er, forest and be on our way?”

“They can help him. We can’t.” Qui-Gon did not look up from the controls.

“Just like that,” Kenobi said, his voice raw and accusing. “Do you even care what happens to him?”

Qui-Gon counted silently, controlling his response. “Of course I care. However, no action on my part can do anything to change Knight Chun’s condition. His fate is in the hands of the Lentrebi healers now.”

“So we just… leave?”

“I promised him that I would find Xanatos. That is something I can do for him, and I intend to do it. I’m sorry, but that means you have to come along. If you wanted to stay with him, you might have asked. Though I doubt the Lentrebi would have agreed to take you.”

“I thought the Council had appointed you whore-sitter, Master Jinn.”

“They charged me with looking after you, it’s true.” Qui-Gon looked up at Kenobi through what he hoped were glowering brows. “But what, exactly, about the last twenty hours has given you the impression that I always do as I am told?”

“Well…I suppose I thought that was part of the whole” Kenobi paused to wave a hand vaguely in Qui-Gon’s direction “Jedi… thing.”

“A Jedi vows to serve the Force. Sometimes the prompting of the Force leads an individual in ways a bureaucratic body, such as the Council, does not expect.”

“I see.” Kenobi looked thoughtful and shook his head. “Or maybe I don’t. In any case, I wish I knew what was happening to him. Whether he’ll be okay.”

“We will know how he fares soon enough. We’d best focus on the task at hand. It could be dangerous. It looks as if my Padawan may have been captured by the smugglers he was sent to investigate.”

“You mean, maybe Orima has him?” Kenobi’s voice sounded small and uncertain. Qui-Gon wondered if the young man was thinking of his last encounter with the customer he knew only as “Orima.”

“That is a possibility.” Everything was ready for the jump. Qui-Gon glanced at Kenobi. “You’d better strap in for the jump to hyperspace.”

Kenobi complied in silence, and sat glumly watching as stars streaked and the universe twisted around them. Once the hyperdrive had engaged, Qui-Gon released the catch on his harness and turned to his silent companion.

“I owe you an apology.”

Kenobi glanced up as if startled to see that anyone was there. He released his own harness and slouched down into the copilot seat, propping one foot on the inactive controls in front of him.

“No, you don’t.” He sounded annoyed.

“Yes, I’m afraid I do,” Qui-Gon sighed. “Before, when… I should not have spoken to you so harshly.”

Kenobi rolled his eyes around to Qui-Gon, irritation etched in every line of his face. “You reminded me that I’m a whore, and now you feel bad about it. Is that it?”

“I shouldn’t-”

“You really are a piece of work, aren’t you?”

That was unexpected. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You spoke to me the way anyone would speak to a pleasure worker, but you consider it an insult. I am a whore, Jinn. When this mess is over and I finally hold my own contract, I intend to call myself a courtesan, but that’s just marketing. A whore’s a whore, and I. AM. A. WHORE. I suck and fuck and take it up the ass for a living. I’m good at it, and for the most part I enjoy it.”

“I am aware of your professional training.”

“So why does it bother you? And it does bother you, Jinn. The way you flinch when I say the word ‘whore’ – does that word offend you?”

“I’m not offended, but I-”

“It’s what I do, Jinn, and I’m good at it, which I think you would have to acknowledge at this point.” Kenobi stood up, aiming his words right at Qui-Gon’s face, poking at the folds of the Jedi tunic covering his chest. The Jedi Master would have stepped back, but there was no room. “But no. You look at me and you see nothing except a victim. A poor, pathetic life form to be saved from a life of sexual servitude.”

Kenobi’s eyes blazed. He was pressing close to Qui-Gon now, popping up on his toes and getting in the Jedi Master’s face. He watched in silence as Kenobi went on, the furious little frown line between his russet brows bobbing ever closer.

“But it isn’t going to be that way. Once I hold my own contract, I will do as I like. And I do like to fuck, Master Jinn. Just because you can’t or won’t, that doesn’t give you the right to judge me, or pity me. Or save me. Got it?”

Qui-Gon folded his Jedi calm around himself. “Are you quite finished?”

“Not by half!” Kenobi went on. “You know what your problem is, Jinn?”

“I assume you’re going to tell me.” Qui-Gon managed an amused grin, but it didn’t seem to annoy Kenobi they way he had hoped it would. The infuriating little man went on without even pausing for breath.

“You try so hard to be the perfect Jedi that you’ve forgotten how to be a halfway decent man. Are you a man, Qui-Gon? A man who knows what he feels and knows what he wants?”

His voice had grown softer, but the passion of his feeling lingered in his eyes. Qui-Gon couldn’t seem to stop looking at his flashing eyes, his mouth, suddenly so full of words. The Jedi Master licked his lips, but couldn’t find the words to speak for himself.

“Or do you merely fill the mold that fate has set for you, denying what you want, what you need?” Kenobi paused, and Qui-Gon thought he could feel the heat pouring off him, swirling around the cockpit. If space was cold, why was it so warm in here? He managed to look into those luminous eyes and give an answer, without even clearing his throat.

“I serve the Force. Jedi are the guardians of peace in the galaxy; duty must come before personal desires.” His voice broke a little on the last word, and he swallowed hard.

“You force yourself down some narrow path simply because it’s all you’ve ever known. And when neglected desires cock-up something, you just apologize and that makes it all okay, because you’re a Jedi.”

“I only want,” Qui-Gon paused, suddenly unsure of what he meant to say. “I only wanted to make amends.”

Kenobi looked away from Qui-Gon’s face, a wry smile twisting his lips. “You really are pathetic. Did you ever think that maybe you’re not meant to be a Jedi? You have no idea what else you could do, if you put your mind to it. You’re more trapped than I ever was, only you don’t seem to mind it. Are you afraid?”

Qui-Gon pressed his lips together, refusing to take the bait. Inside, his emotions were in turmoil, but he wouldn’t let Kenobi see it. He just had to get control of himself, that was all.

Kenobi snorted, dismissive of Qui-Gon’s silence.

“Well, I know there is something good out there waiting for me, and I am going to get it.” Kenobi’s voice was quiet now. “I heard what Xanatos said that first night at the Temple, about you always rescuing ‘pathetic lifeforms’. I just want you to know, if there is a pathetic lifeform on this ship, it isn’t me. I’m the one who should pity you.”

Qui-Gon struggled to keep his breathing even, to give the outward appearance of Jedi calm. Beneath that façade, he was a half step from kissing Kenobi, or slapping his face. He hadn’t the chance to do either, as Kenobi turned on his heel and left. Qui-Gon slumped into the pilot’s seat once again, trying to get himself under control.

Xanatos needed him. That gave him the strength to put certain questions aside for the time being. He took a few calming breaths and centered himself before following Kenobi.

He found the young man sitting by the table in the ship’s mess, tearing a quara stick with his teeth, perhaps more forcefully than was absolutely necessary.

“We will be in the Girreni system very soon. If the smugglers are there, this could be dangerous.” Qui-Gon sat across from Kenobi, trying to keep his tone calm and reasonable. “We need to put aside our differences for the time being, and find Xanatos.”

“Why do you need me?” Kenobi seemed to be asking honestly. At least his tone was not argumentative.

“Because you know this Orima fellow – you might have some insight that would be helpful. Besides, I may need you to fly the ship, depending on how things go.”

Kenobi frowned. “What do I know? The man was a pig. He never tipped, and always smelled of antiseptic.” He shook his head and sighed. “It’s not as if Orima and I played sabacc on alternate thirdays, Jinn. I never even saw his ship. I mean, I had no idea he intended to feed me to… bug babies until he had almost succeeded in doing it.” Kenobi let out a shuddering sigh, obviously disturbed by the memory. “You know everything I know.”

“I’d prefer you stayed on the ship, if we have to land,” Qui-Gon said. “You can keep her flight-ready. I never meant to imply that I would expose you to danger.”

“Danger has a way of finding me.” Kenobi shrugged eloquently. “I’ll do my best with the ship and all, but you’ve only given me the one lesson.”

“There’s time for another.”

Kenobi looked up, his eagerness barely contained.

“Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt to try.” Kenobi wiped his hands on his leggings and headed for the cockpit, a wide smile on his face. He was trying not to show his enthusiasm, and failing. “From what you’ve shown me so far, I think I’m really going to like flying.”

Durante leaned over his Jedi captive, expertly opening small cuts in his eyelids to drain the blood welling there. Amazing the medical know-how he’d picked up over the years, an unexpected side benefit of his chosen hobby. Pain, emotional and physical, could be an art in the right hands; Durante had become a master of it over the years.

True, this raven-haired Jedi was tougher than most; he had certainly shown strength of will that Durante found impressive, if somewhat infuriating. He should have been crying and begging for mercy by now. Well before this, actually. Now time was short, and he still hadn’t really broken him. He could have done, if he’d only had more time. Everyone breaks eventually.

But the Sith Lord had put certain restrictions on Durante’s time with his Jedi captive. He wasn’t allowed to kill him, and he wasn’t allowed to keep him. It was nearly time to move along to his next project; somewhat less entertaining, but necessary.

“Open those big blue eyes for me,” he cooed. He wanted to make sure the Jedi could see. He’d administered enough stimulants to keep him conscious until he and his crew were well away. It would be a shame for the Jedi to miss the big finish.

The eyes opened. Deep blue, still beautiful and perfect. The rest of him was quite a mess -- more so than Durante had originally intended, in fact. It was the Jedi’s own fault for refusing to break, of course. Still, Durante was confident that he would be broken by the time help arrived, though it was a pity he wouldn’t be able to see it.

Life was full of little disappointments.

Durante backed away a bit, taking in the whole of the Knight. He had been left quite bloody – for effect. Durante hoped it would be Master Jinn who found him, so the man would see Durante’s vengeance first hand. The tube that hung from the man’s side, burbling blood and air, was a nice touch. He hadn’t meant to break his ribs quite that badly, but the tube would keep his lung from collapsing until help arrived. Most likely.

The Knight was clothed in his own blood, cut and mutilated. Violated. He made quite an impressive tableau, Durante noted with some artistic pride.

“Hush, now,” he soothed. His captive’s lips were moving, as though he meant to speak. “Soon, they will bring out Fawks in his fully operational, non-booby trapped bacta tank, and I will bid you farewell.” He paused to run a finger over Knight T’Crion’s battered lips; he did have nice lips, even in this state. “I believe I will miss you.”

A med droid entered, rolling a portable bacta tank and its accompanying breath pumps. What was left of Fawks floated inside. The boy had become such a bore; Durante was glad to be rid of him. One last time, Durante quelled the desire to keep his Jedi pet.

In his mind danced visions of healing him, hurting him, and healing him again. He could break him with finesse, given time; maybe even well enough to enjoy his mouth without putting his own tender parts at risk.

No. Sidious would never allow it, though what his plans for the Jedi were Durante couldn’t begin to guess. Besides, there was too much risk involved in keeping a Jedi around. The collar that made him almost as vulnerable as an ordinary man might malfunction, and Force-suppressing drugs were terribly expensive.

Durante chuckled. He’d given this idea much too much thought. Sidious would have his balls if he failed him again. Definitely not worth it.

In the back of his mind, he did worry that the Jedi might bear him a grudge, despite the fact that Jedi were supposedly above such things. The Knight would never be able to find him, though. Not unless he wanted to be found, and then he would be sure to control the field long before the Jedi arrived, just as he had this time.

“Move him over here, close to our guest,” Durante ordered the med droid. “You see, Ser Jedi? I have kept my promise.”

Midnight blue eyes focused on the tank for a moment, and slowly closed. Poor boy was tired. Durante administered one last dose of stimulant, watching in amusement as the Jedi’s eyes popped open and his body strained against his bonds.

“Feels like your heart’s trying to jump out of your chest, doesn’t it?” He chuckled. “I’m leaving now. Someone will be here for you soon, I’m sure.”

Durante circled the Jedi, making sure everything was as it should be. He leaned in one last time, and kissed the Jedi’s ear. Unable to resist one last chance to stir up the Knight’s emotions, he whispered, “Say ‘hello’ to my son for me, will you?"

He left quickly, chuckling to himself. What I wouldn’t give to know what he makes of that!

His main ship was waiting for him. It was all too easy to leave the Jedi behind, drifting in the same unmarked shuttle where he’d been held during his entire stay. Durante was not foolish enough to let a Jedi see any part of his actual operation. Once the shuttle was released, he could give the Jedi his final surprise; only then would it be over. Another mission successfully concluded. Orima Durante smiled smugly, settling back to enjoy the ride.

I can breathe, Xanatos told himself. I can breathe. It was difficult, but he could do it. There was enough oxygen getting to his brain. Jedi breathing techniques and physical control would be easier if he had access to the Force, but he could still manage enough to keep himself alive. He didn’t feel much pain as long as he kept still, though his chest hurt with every breath. He didn’t really feel much from the lower parts of his body, and he knew that the last violation had probably caused internal damage. Yet it seemed a distant thing, beside the point. Survival was what mattered.

Xanatos was aware of his chances. At least one of his lungs was in danger of collapsing, and he had lost a lot of blood. It seemed unlikely that anyone would arrive in time to save him, but Durante had kept his other promises.

Fawks was alive. He could see the young man through the distortion of the tank and pinkish fluid surrounding him. He thought he saw one of his large, hazel eyes open, and wondered if Fawks could see him. If only he could reach out to him in the Force, to comfort and reassure. If Fawks survived, it would all be worth it. Even if I don’t.

He’d barely known the fellow, but he would gladly die if it meant that Fawks could live. He was a Jedi; he could face death without fear.

The cold metal at his throat still hummed, and he wondered vaguely how long he’d been cut off from the Force. He wished he could feel it now, call it to him and wrap both himself and Fawks in its warm embrace.

The collar made a noise, jarring him out of his thoughts. It crackled like a tiny com speaker, just below his ear. Then the voice came, smooth and smug.

“Farewell, Jedi.” Durante. “I have one last gift for you, before I jump to hyperspace.”

Xanatos’ heart sank. Was Durante going to go back on his word and kill them? If he had something else to say, it certainly couldn’t be good.

“I realize that being cut off from the Force has been difficult for you. I could not deactivate the collar before I left, for reasons I’m sure you understand. However, I have placed a device on your collar that will set off a small EMP once the transmitter and I are safely in hyperspace.”

Gods, no! Xanatos tried to shout, to curse Durante, but he had no breath for it. An electromagnetic pulse would disable anything with electronic components. That had been Durante’s plan all along. Xanatos began to twist his neck, trying to beat the collar against the rods of the framework.

“The affected area is limited to three meters, so it will not interfere with the distress signal being transmitted from the shuttle.”

Xanatos struggled harder, but he was still bound in what remained of the nerve-induction framework.

“It will disable your collar as well as the nerve induction suite. That’s one expensive toy I’ve left with you, Knight T’Crion.” Interference made the connection crackle, but Xanatos still heard the man chuckle.

“I do hope the breath pumps and battery packs for dear Fawks' bacta tank are at a safe distance. Farewell, my Knight.” The com went silent.

Xanatos felt something on the collar catch on one of the metal bars by his head. He smashed it against the framework with all his might, though he didn’t have much space to build up momentum. Maybe he could disable it before it blew.

The Girreni system had four major planets. The largest was a gas giant with no native life and a system of twelve moons. Most of these were habitable or had been forcibly adapted to various forms of life. Two other planets in the system supported both native lifeforms and a healthy Galactic trade. The planet nearest the binary star they orbited was small and inhospitable. It seemed like a good place for smugglers to hide a base, so Qui-Gon scanned it as soon as the Furlan was clear of hyperspace.

“Steady on this course,” he instructed Kenobi. “Lock into a high orbit.” The young man had taken to flying rather easily. It was almost as if he had had some previous training. Qui-Gon smiled to himself, certain he should have expected such a performance out of Kenobi. After all, he had performed acts of Force manipulation with no formal training. Why should flying be any different?

The ship’s sensors detected a large ship, possibly a freighter, just out of visual range. He directed the scanners to lock on its location, but it was gone before they were able to collect much information. The ship had made the jump to hyperspace, and all Qui-Gon knew for certain was that it was a big one. The com began to beep in a tone that indicated a distress signal. Qui-Gon checked the frequency, realizing with a start that it was being sent on a secured Jedi frequency.

“It’s coming from a ship orbiting that moon.” Kenobi pointed at the view screen.

If the first planet in the Girreni system was a barren rock (and the preliminary scans showed no areas of development) then its oddly-shaped moon was little more than a pebble. Qui-Gon reached out to the Living Force. At first, he felt little, but a strange urgency soon washed over him.

“Move in closer.”

Kenobi gave him an odd look, but complied without comment.

As they approached the signal, scans showed that the ship was a small, short range shuttle. No weapons systems. Qui-Gon tried hailing, but got no answer other than the insistent beep of the distress signal.

“Can you maneuver close enough to deploy the umbilical, or shall I take over?”

Kenobi didn’t even spare him a glance, as the familiar line between his brows deepened in concentration. The Furlan moved close to the shuttle so quickly that Qui-Gon flinched, but his young companion slowed at the last possible second. He used the right front thruster to reduce the speed, but allowed the back of the ship to swing forward on its remaining momentum. When the Furlan came to a full stop the ships were side-by-side, mere meters apart.

Qui-Gon let out a breath he had not realized he’d been holding, and deployed the umbilical, which was not perfectly centered over the derelict shuttle’s hatch, but was still close enough to provide a stable seal.

“Well done, Kenobi.”

The young man’s serious face blossomed into a closed smile. “Keep the com open, so I know what’s going on, okay?”

Qui-Gon nodded and he headed for their end of the umbilical. “You just be ready. We may have to leave quickly.”

He didn’t want to scare the boy, but there was the possibility that the shuttle was a trap of some kind. He called upon the Force, feeling it moving around him and through him as he closed the Furlan side of the umbilical. He felt no warnings of danger from the Force as he neared the shuttle’s hatch, but his feeling of urgency increased. The door would not budge.

The shuttle hatch was not locked, but appeared to have been spot welded shut. Qui-Gon drew his lightsaber and cut through the weld and the lock. It swung open at an odd angle. It probably would not close properly, but the shuttle was still pressurized, so it shouldn’t matter as long as the umbilical remained stable. He entered the darkened ship quickly, lightsaber at the ready helping to light his way.

Through the Force he suddenly felt terror, anger and despair. It urged him forward; he began to run, letting the Force guide his steps. Ahead he saw at doorway, slightly illuminated by a red light from within. He thought he heard whispers.

With Force-assisted speed he bounded through the door, into a cargo bay. The room was nominally illuminated by emergency lights some ten meters away, and what it revealed made his heart lurch.

He ran to the figure in front of him, the dim light making it difficult to reconcile what he was seeing. But he knew it was Xanatos. The red light made him look bathed in blood, bound and spread in a device Qui-Gon didn’t recognize. At first, he seemed to be wearing clothing of some sort, nothing more than tattered rags, but when Qui-Gon touched him, he knew better. His skin was a mass of gaping wounds.

“Force.” Qui-Gon fought to release his emotions. Xanatos was still breathing, lips moving in an almost soundless whisper. His breathing was shallow and labored. He sent a surge of healing Force into his former Padawan, uncertain what good it would do, yet Xanatos seemed to breathe a little easier.

“Is something wrong?” Kenobi’s cultured tones came over the com.

“Contact the Temple and give them our coordinates. Knight T’Crion needs medical attention. Stay ready. I may need your help over here.”

“Understood.”

Qui-Gon broke the vial on a chemical light and tossed it to the floor. It served to illuminate the stump of Xanatos’ right arm, which had been concealed in the shadows. It wasn’t bleeding. Cauterized.

He took this all in at a glance, focusing on Xanatos’ face, which was bruised and bleeding, but not mutilated. Qui-Gon touched his battered cheek. “Padawan, I’m going to get you out of here.”

Xanatos moaned and began to cough. Blood sprayed out of his mouth. When the spasm calmed, he looked at Qui-Gon. His lips moved urgently, but there was very little sound behind it. Qui-Gon leaned in close, and made out something. Maybe a name.

“Don’t try to talk. I’m going to get you out of here.”

Qui-Gon dialed down his lightsaber and carefully began cutting the bonds that held Xanatos. As soon as his left arm was freed, Xanatos began gesturing into the gloom with it. Qui-Gon could see the arm was broken, and tried to stop the movement, but Xanatos fought him.

“Fawks,” he whispered. It hurt Qui-Gon to see what the effort to speak cost his former Padawan. He broke another chemical light and tossed it in the direction Xanatos’ indicated. Then he saw it.

What had seemed, in the near-darkness, to be no more than a stack of cargo containers was actually a bacta tank. It was not empty, and the breathers were not running.

Qui-Gon ran to it and slashed it open with his ‘saber. The bacta spilled easily enough, but it took a few more slashes for him to reach the person inside. He pulled off the breathing mask, trying to be careful of the boy’s injuries. He was not breathing. Qui-Gon sensed no spark of life in him, but he was not a healer.

The Jedi Master tried to force the boy to breathe, to breathe for him, to coax his heart to beat, but it was no use. He was dead.

Qui-Gon met Xanatos’ eyes, and knew that his Padawan had already known. Tears washed tracks through the blood on his face. His lips formed a silent plea. Don’t leave him. Please, don’t leave him.

“I won’t, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said, moving close enough to stroke Xanatos’ hair. “I won’t leave him. You rest, now.” The last held a bit of Force suggestion that Xanatos was in no condition to resist. His eyes drifted closed.

“Kenobi, I need you,” he whispered into the com. “Bring the med kit, a grav sled and some blankets.”

“I’ll be right there,” came Kenobi’s soft reply.

By the time he had managed to free Xanatos from his bonds, Kenobi was there with everything he had requested. He had covered Xanatos in his outer robe, but hesitated to lift him without knowing the extent of his injuries.

Kenobi gaped in silent horror while Qui-Gon examined Xanatos with a handheld med-scanner. The Jedi Master didn’t want Kenobi watching; he knew that Xanatos was a private, proud man, and would not wish the intimate details of his injuries to be known. It would be bad enough that Qui-Gon himself had seen him like this.

“Take a blanket and cover the other body.”

Kenobi turned a puzzled face to Qui-Gon, as if he wondered what language he was speaking.

“There is a body over there, please cover it for me.” He knew he had to give Kenobi a task, or he’d be of no use at all. And he was certain that he’d need his help before this was done. Kenobi took a blanket around to Fawks’ body, and Qui-Gon turned his full attention back to Xanatos.

He had internal injuries, but his vital signs were stable. Whoever had done this to him had left something inside him, but he couldn’t remove it here. Qui-Gon used the Force to help him lift Xanatos, careful not to jostle him, and laid him gently on the grav sled. He could do more once they reached the ship.

Kenobi knelt by Fawks’ body, his breathing ragged. Qui-Gon took the blanket from his hands, and covered the corpse.

“O-Orima did this?”

“I don’t know for certain,” Qui-Gon answered. “It seems likely that he was involved.”

Kenobi lurched around behind the remains of the bacta tank, and vomited violently. Qui-Gon lifted Fawks’ body in his arms, making sure it was covered completely by the blanket.

“I know this is difficult, but I need your help to get them back to the ship.”

Kenobi turned back to him, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He nodded gravely, not questioning that they were bringing the dead boy as well. Qui-Gon was glad not to have to explain that just yet, though he suspected it wouldn’t be long before his fellow Jedi asked.

“You drive the grav sled,” Qui-Gon directed. “Let’s get moving.”

He wanted to spend as little time in this horror of a shuttle as possible. He was sure the Temple had already sent a team to investigate whatever evidence the shuttle might have to offer, but he didn’t want to wait for them to arrive. Xanatos was stable, but he needed more medical attention than the med kit on the Furlan could provide, and soon.

Kenobi did a good job of negotiating the grav sled through the narrow umbilical without jarring Xanatos, for which Qui-Gon was grateful. Kenobi was an unusually compassionate man, for his line of work; Qui-Gon wondered at how quickly he had come to trust the younger man, despite their squabbles.

The outer hatch on the shuttle wouldn’t close properly. He would have to come back and try to find a way to keep whatever evidence the shuttle contained intact, but he would not wait for the investigative team to arrive if it meant delaying Xanatos’ medical treatment. He’d been through too much to have his suffering needlessly prolonged.

Upon reaching the Furlan, Qui-Gon realized he would have to stow Fawks’ body in the small cargo area. There was simply no other place. No doubt the Council would question why he had chosen to remove the body, but he would let them wonder. This boy meant something to Xanatos, therefore Qui-Gon would take him back to the Temple as Xanatos had wished. The Temple healers could examine him in due time.

Kenobi disappeared into the cockpit, leaving Qui-Gon to transfer Xanatos to the bunk and secure him for the trip. He tried to be gentle, but Xanatos still moaned in his arms as he laid him on the bunk that had so recently held the young Knight Chun. He reinforced the sleep suggestion before he left him.

Qui-Gon secured the dead body to the grav sled, and stowed them both in the cargo hold. He was heading back through the umbilical to try to secure the shuttle hatch when Kenobi emerged from the cockpit.

“There’s a com from the Temple. They want to talk to you.” He didn’t meet Qui-Gon’s eyes when he said it.

“I’ve asked a lot of you in the past few days.” The Jedi Master managed a wry smile, resting one large hand on Kenobi’s shoulder. “You’ve been there when you were needed every step of the way. You should be proud.”

Kenobi blushed a little, pressing his lips together in a tight smile. “Thanks.”

“You see if you can rig a way to shut the hatch on the other end of that umbilical,” Qui-Gon said. “I’ll deal with the Temple. Don’t worry.”

Kenobi arched a pale brow in his direction, amusement transforming his features once more. “Who’s worried?”

Qui-Gon wasted no time in reaching the com.

“Knight T’Crion needs medical attention. We will be returning to the Temple immediately.”

“A team will be arriving shortly,” gritted the hologram of Master Windu. “Is the vessel secure?”

“We are having difficulty getting the hatch to shut on the shuttle where Knight T’Crion and the body were found. There is a chance of decompression when we detach the umbilical, but we cannot delay.”

“Could you tow it to Coruscant?”

“No, Master.” Qui-Gon fought to keep his patience, wanting nothing more than to get the ship into hyperspace as soon as possible. “The Furlan is too small to drag anything through hyperspace.”

“Then you will wait for the evidence retrieval team. They will be there within three hours.”

“Xanatos could be in the Healer’s Dome by then, if we leave now.” Qui-Gon said, in as reasonable a tone as he could manage.

“You said Knight T’Crion was stable.”

“He is, at the moment,” Qui-Gon said. “But he has lost a lot of blood and his injuries are serious. His captors inserted a chest tube to keep his right lung from collapsing. It is a temporary measure. To delay his treatment would be irresponsible.”

“Careful of your tone, you should be, Master Jinn.” Yoda’s image took the place of Master Windu’s.

Qui-Gon took a calming breath, releasing his emotion to the Force. “With all due respect, Masters, you have no idea what my Padawan has been through.”

“Your Padawan, he is not. A Knight, he is. Knows the risks of his missions, he does.”

“Healers, he needs, or die, he will.” Qui-Gon slammed his hand into the controls, breaking the connection and sending needles of pain up his arm. Why did his every interaction with the Council result in so much frustration? Could they not see the urgency, or did they simply not care?

He rubbed his hand thoughtfully. He hadn’t taken the time to heal it completely after he had punched the bulkhead to clear his head of the Lentrebi aphrodisiac. Maybe he was just an old fool after all, neglecting himself, disobeying orders whenever it suited him. He was behaving like a man who wanted the Council to censure him.

They probably would, after this mess with Knight Chun and its aftermath. Soon, they would be back on Coruscant, and he would have to give a full report to the Council and face the consequences of his actions. The thought was strangely energizing.

“I think I managed something that will hold the hatch.” Kenobi’s voice startled Qui-Gon from his thoughts.

“There’s one way to find out,” he said, pressing the release for the umbilical. Sitting in the copilot’s seat, he used the maneuvering thrusters to back away from the derelict shuttle, and saw that the hatch was holding. Qui-Gon glanced at the young man who settled into the pilot’s seat as if he belonged there, unable to hide his curiosity. “How did you manage it?”

“The umbilical was a bit off-center of the hatch, so I could reach the end of a drag hook. I had to bend it across the hatch and hook it behind the control panel, but I think it will hold for a while.” Kenobi grinned lopsidedly. “Coruscant, then?”

Qui-Gon nodded. “As quickly as we can safely manage.”

Kenobi’s grin broadened. “Secure yourself, Master Jinn.”

Once they had made the jump to hyperspace, Qui-Gon excused himself to care for Xanatos. The Furlan had only the most rudimentary medical supplies, but he could wash his former Padawan’s wounds and help him into a healing trance. Kenobi seemed to sense his need to care for Xanatos in private, and kept his distance.

As they neared Coruscant, Xanatos roused enough to speak a few words in a tortured whisper.

“Orima Durante.”

“That’s his name? The one who did this?” Qui-Gon whispered his questions, gently stroking the silky, black hair at Xanatos’ temple. Xanatos nodded, closing his eyes briefly.

Qui-Gon offered him a sip of water, and he took it. Before Qui-Gon could begin guiding him back into a healing trance, Xanatos spoke again. His dark eyes were clear, though his voice had no strength to it.

“Bruck...”

Qui-Gon swallowed hard, certain he couldn’t tell Xanatos of his lover’s mortal danger. Not yet; it would only trouble him further.

“He couldn’t come with us,” he said finally. “Though he wanted to be with you.”

Xanatos’ broken lips twitched with the hint of a smile, and he closed his eyes.

Xanatos was too weak for shielding at the moment. Qui-Gon could feel the warmth his Padawan felt for Knight Chun through the Force. He fought back a pang of jealousy, wondering if Bruck and Xanatos knew how fortunate they were to have each other, even if it was only for a moment. A beautiful thing, Qui-Gon thought. However fleeting.

Qui-Gon sank into a Force-healing trance, all his energies focused on Xanatos, unaware of the wetness drying on his cheeks.

The light was everywhere – all around him, in him. More than light. It had a scent, like a cool evening breeze near fresh water, like dark earth and the sweet nectar of flowers. Bruck could almost taste it on his tongue, rich and deep and unbearably delicious, but there was more to it than that. He felt it weaving through him, the texture of it permeating his bones, binding him to everything in the universe.

So beautiful it almost hurt him to see, to feel it. This must be what it’s like to be one with the Force, he thought.

“It is, young one,” said his Master’s voice. “Few of your kind hold this knowledge in their flesh, the way we Lentrebi do. You are fortunate.”

Bruck wanted to speak to his Master, though he didn’t know what he would say. He did not have the opportunity to find out, for just then he remembered how to breathe.

Gasping, hacking, struggling for every lungful of air, Bruck seemed to fall away from the light and into another sort of light, tinted red through his closed eyelids.

He opened his eyes to a piercing brightness. He lay upon a soft, mossy platform, with yellow light filtering through the leaves of trees that swayed above him. He could only move a little, and his throat felt parched. He tried to speak, but for a few moments he seemed unable to remember how.

A deep, creaky voice spoke, coming from somewhere above him.

“The youngling wakes.”

Bruck turned his head slowly, both seeking the speaker and indicating his displeasure at being called a youngling.

“You are a youngling to us, Knight Chun,” the voice answered with a windy creaking Bruck recognized as Lentrebi laughter. “I am Creeb, a Healer. These others are my assistants, Delkaa and Moor. You have done our planet a great service, Ser Jedi.”

The three of them, now clearer in Bruck’s vision, all bent deeply in his direction. Bruck swallowed hard, recognizing the great honor they were showing him. The Lentrebi were, as a general rule, not terribly bendable. Any sort of obeisance was a physical inconvenience and an extreme sign of honor. Especially for a Lentrebi as old as Creeb seemed to be.

The Healer was extremely tall and his skin looked very, very thick. He made Master Leem seem a sapling by comparison. Bruck licked his lips and tried to speak again, but his tongue was dry. One of the others (he thought it was Moor, though he had not been specifically told which was which) brought water. Bruck was too weak to hold it, so the Lentrebi poured it into his mouth a few drops at a time. He swallowed gratefully, thinking he’d never tasted better.

When he had drunk his fill, he tried to speak again, this time managing a whisper.

“Master Leem?”

“Ah, yes! You carried his graft to us successfully. I was able to find a new host, and your Master’s knowledge, his wisdom, even his genetic legacy will not be lost to our people. Though he will no longer be able to serve as a Jedi, he lives.”

Bruck let out a breath he had not meant to hold. He felt so weak, unable to move. The light around them seemed to be dimming. He managed another question, this one a bit more selfish in nature.

“Am I... going to die?” It was a salient question – up until a moment before, he would have sworn he was dead.

“Yes,” Creeb answered, laughing. “Almost certainly. Your kind always do, eventually. Though who can say for certain what awaits the being you are now? It will be interesting to see what becomes of you.”

Confused, Bruck glanced among the immobile faces of the Lentrebi Healers. He sensed amusement in them, perhaps even a bit of pride. His voice grew even weaker, but still they heard.

“The being I am now?”

A sighing sound seemed to pass through all the Lentrebi present. Finally, Creeb spoke again. It seemed to Bruck that he heard the explanation with more than just his ears. It echoed through his body, and set his hair on end.

“Your Master’s graft had gone very deep. We wanted to take it all out of you, but he resisted. He feared it would damage you.”

“He was dormant…”

“The graft was already in bloom when we received you. Our attentions roused him from his dormancy. We needed to save his consciousness, you see.” The creaky voice sounded tired to Bruck, though Lentrebi voices did not have much range or varied inflection. “He would not allow us to take all of the graft. Part of you might have come with it, you see. He would not allow you to be harmed, yet, to leave part of it within you presented much danger, as well. He left some of the deepest roots within you, in the Place Between.”

The Place Between. That was the way Master Leem always referred to the place he went during his deepest meditations. The ones humanoids were not considered capable of achieving; the meditations that gave rise to the belief that the Lentrebi were true inter-dimensional beings.

“You begin to see, young one,” Creeb’s voice came softly to Bruck, on senses deeper than his ears, as if the fibers of light still resonated through his body. “You brought your Master back to his people. He is one with us again. To save you, we had to weave that part of him into you. Your flesh and your spirit did not reject it. It runs through them, and through the Place Between. We have made you as we are.”

In that moment, Bruck realized what he had felt inside, what he had known on some level the second he had remembered how to breathe. He had been in the Place Between, with his Master. He had been one with the Force in a way no living human should be able to achieve. Bruck felt more than weak, drained by the ordeal of coming back. He was different now, he could feel it. His body shook with fine tremors of exhaustion, yet he knew he would learn to find the Place Between again.

“You must rest now.” Creeb, Delkaa and Moor all spoke within him now, one soft voice full of caring and awe. None of them had expected him to survive the procedure, though they had all done their best. To them, he was a miracle. “When you wake, there will be much to learn.”

Pain, gnawing at the edge of his submerged consciousness, drags Xanatos closer to awareness than he has been for some time. Everything seems to hurt, inside and out. The fingers of his right hand throb, newly broken. That can’t be right, though; his arm is gone now.

Nearly weightless in the healing fluid of the bacta tank, he opens his eyes. Everything is tinted that sickly red. He can see a Healer through the glass, talking to someone. Someone he knows through the Force more than through his barely-open eyes.

Qui-Gon.

Is this what I looked like to Fawks, in the end? The thought is vague, half-formed. He remembers the horrible rush of pain as the Force came back to him, setting his brain on fire, like a thousand needles pushing through his skull. Just in time to feel Fawks suffocate, unconscious in the tank before him. I tried, Xanatos tells himself. Still, he wonders.

He remembers reaching out through the Force to touch Fawks, to comfort him in those last moments of futile struggle. He tried to hold onto the spark of life, but it wouldn’t stay. Fawks was glad to go; Xanatos felt his joy as he slipped away. It did not comfort him. The battle was over moments before he sensed the presence of his former Master.

Tears slip from his eyes, unseen in the viscous bacta. Qui-Gon has come to see him, but where is the other? The face he can scarcely admit that he longs to see.

The pain grows; it has teeth like needles that pierce without rending. His heart beats faster and the machines notice. They send something through the tubes into his body. It feels cool as it spreads through his veins, granting relief. He knows oblivion will follow.

Just before he drifts off into dreamless darkness, he sees the young man he loves sitting cross-legged in a grove of trees. The image is bright and calm and good; even if it is no more than fantasy—an unknowing gift from a soulless med droid. It gives him peace.

“Awake already,” Healer Phol muttered. Qui-Gon noted that her bluish skin was ashen, her face pinched with concern as she watched the med droid administer more drugs to his former Padawan.

Qui-Gon had haunted the Healers’ Dome since he brought Xanatos back to Coruscant. He had spent less than six hours out of the past twenty in his rooms. Thus, he had avoided the temptations his guest presented and kept watch over Xanatos. It looked as though he would be out of bacta soon.

“You have been working very hard on behalf of my Padawan,” Qui-Gon said softly. “I am grateful.”

Phol waved a webbed hand dismissively. “He was stable when you brought him in, which helped a lot. Not quite sure how you managed that, considering his injuries.”

“I was desperate.” Qui-Gon knew the Force-healing he’d attempted on the Furlan was beyond his skill; it was a relief to know that it had helped.

“You saved his life, Master Jinn.” Phol put down a data pad and fixed him with her dark, slanted eyes. “Jedi are not so numerous that we can afford to waste them. I’ve told the Council as much.”

“Thank you.” Qui-Gon said. She didn’t know the extent of his troubles with the Council, but her support of his decision couldn’t hurt.

“I have some questions I’d like to ask you about his condition when you found him.” She had picked up another data pad and was scrolling through some information. “We found a number of foreign substances in his bloodstream, most of which we have been able to identify. Several stimulants, at least one aphrodisiac, similar to what we think your friend Kenobi had been given.”

It was an effort for the Jedi Master to control his emotions, though he remained outwardly calm. He’d seen the state of his Padawan’s body; he knew the nature of the abuse he’d endured. “I take it you found something else as well?”

She nodded. “There were two we could not identify for certain. Both bear some aspects in common with Kleranom venom.”

Qui-Gon blanched. That meant Xanatos’ capture was related to his mission, which meant the smugglers had known he was coming. “This is disturbing news,” he murmured.

“It’s worse than you think,” Phol muttered. She called up a graphic to a nearby screen. “One of the substances may be no more than a by-product of the other as it metabolizes. I’m not even sure it should be listed as a separate item, since it is basically an inert, degenerated form of the other. The one that troubles me is this.” She called up a graphic depicting a complicated molecular bond. “I need to run some more tests, but it appears to act as a mild paralytic. One that doesn’t affect muscle or nerve tissue.”

Qui-Gon hid his irritation. “I don’t understand.”

“What could be the purpose of a paralytic that does not affect the victim’s ability to move either voluntary or involuntary muscles?” Healer Phol enlarged the graphic. “I investigated more closely, and discovered that this substance seems to be targeted to midichlorians.”

“A Force suppressant, then?” Qui-Gon said. “That doesn’t make sense. Xanatos was wearing a Force-suppressing collar when I found him.”

Phol frowned. “That is what I was going to ask you about. You removed the collar before he arrived here?”

“Yes.” The sight of it had been more than Qui-Gon could bear, even deactivated. “But why use a Force-collar and this mystery drug? And why would anyone go to the trouble of smuggling such a dangerous lifeform to produce a Force-suppressant? There are other sources of such drugs that would involve less risk and expense.”

“That’s just it – the midichlorians are not disabled by it.” Phol pointed to the graphic display, which showed what Qui-Gon assumed were some of Xanatos’ midichlorians. “They still function, but with less efficiency. The change would probably go unnoticed. Victims would be likely to assume that they were merely tired, or that some other influence was affecting their connection to the Force.”

Qui-Gon found a seat near him, feeling as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

“Whoever is producing this is targeting Jedi.” He centered himself, releasing his anxieties. Negative emotions wouldn’t help Xanatos, or the Order. “They used my Padawan to test it.”

“Possibly,” Phol agreed. “They could have done it without his awareness, just by taking blood samples. Force knows they administered enough drugs while they had him. It breaks down fairly quickly, and his midichlorians seem to be recovering. It’s a good thing you reached him when you did, or there would have been no trace of it left.”

Qui-Gon released his anger to the Force. It took longer than it should have. “Do you know if there are any long-term effects?”

“Not yet. I have done some simulations, and it appears that it would have to be administered in low doses for a prolonged period to have noticeable effects.” Phol picked up several data pads from her work station. “I have to present my findings to the Council shortly, but there is something here I think you should have.”

She opened a storage compartment and drew out a metal box. Qui-Gon took it from her and opened it.

Inside was Xanatos’ lightsaber, gleaming as though it had never been used. Qui-Gon looked at the Healer, unable to voice his questions.

“It was… with him,” she said softly. “I had it serviced. He will want it, when he’s ready.”

Qui-Gon couldn’t speak. He closed the box and held it to his chest. He was not thinking of his Padawan as he fought back tears. He was struggling to release his rage, knowing it was wrong, even dangerous, for a Jedi to desire the destruction of another being as much as he did in that moment. Healer Phol laid a hand on his forearm, squeezing lightly.

“Thank you for your help, Master Jinn.” Without another word, she left.

Alone in the observation area, Qui-Gon turned toward the glass separating him from the bacta room. He could feel Xanatos through the Force, his signature muted but strong. The young Knight’s strength would soon return, but the path of his healing would be a long one. Qui-Gon took some comfort in the thought that Xanatos had not suffered in vain.

“Padawan,” he whispered. “You may have saved us all.”

Bruck sighed and stretched. It felt good; his body had grown sore from the stillness. “I have to move, Lehanna-ma,” he said to his teacher. “I will run mad if I don’t.”

“I sensed your agitation.” Her voice was more musical than any Lentrebi Bruck had ever heard. It soothed him in ways he would not have thought possible a ten ago.

“I have found the limits of my comfort regarding Lentrebi meditations, at least.” He stretched out flat upon the grass, groaning, but there was laughter in his tone when he spoke. “I cannot sit a moment longer.”

Lehanna-ma laughed; Bruck felt her mirth more than heard it, like someone plucking at the invisible strings running through him. “I am not surprised,” she said, with a hint of playfulness. “Such a hasty little being, you are.”

Bruck pulled the chronometer from his pocket and held it above his face. He had been meditating for...three standard days! He dropped the chronometer in shock. It smacked him between the eyes. He didn’t feel the need to eat, or sleep or even relieve himself, though the last remnants of the man he had been insisted this was not possible. More than anything, he wanted to run and jump, maybe practice his aerials. So he did.

Barely pausing to stuff the chronometer back in his pocket, he launched himself into the air. He flipped and twirled, laughing as he did so. He lit upon one of Lehanna-ma’s stouter branches and wrapped his arms around her trunk.

Lehanna-ma was one of the most ancient Lentrebi, among the first to achieve sentience. Her name meant “mother” in their language. She had been rooted for millennia when Master Leem first split the seed, and now she carried his graft.

“I love you, you know,” Bruck said, bubbling with amusement.

“Yes,” she answered. “And I love you.”

Bruck was already climbing through her branches at full speed, headed for the highest bough. Her bark did not hurt his bare feet as he scrambled higher. It felt so good to move, he thought he could fly.

“I wouldn’t try it, if I were you,” Lehanna-ma cautioned, still laughing. “Your recovery seems to be complete. Creeb would not relish starting over. That tickles!”

“Pardon, my lady,” Bruck said politely. He no longer minded when a Lentrebi read his thoughts. It was not an invasion, the way it would have been had he been scanned by a humanoid telepath. On some level they were one, and always would be.

Bruck reached his goal, and stood with perfect balance on a swaying branch. The pale graft of his master now rested in Lehanna-ma’s lofty embrace, where he could absorb the most radiant energy from the Lentrebi suns while he recovered. Bruck ran a bronzed hand over the silvery bark. “When will he wake?”

“By the next pollination season,” Lehanna-ma said. “You will return to do him honor.”

Bruck frowned. He still found it disconcerting the way Lehanna-ma spoke of the future with certainty. The next season was not due for a hundred standard years, give or take.

“I will try,” he said at last.

Lehanna-ma laughed, sounding like a brisk wind through leaves. Bruck felt it inside, too, like a hundred thousand bubbles of joy bursting throughout his flesh. No humanoid had ever experienced Lentrebi laughter that way, a reminder of how different he had become.

“What- what am I?”

“You are Bruck Chun al-Leem, Knight of the Republic.” Her voice was still light as a caress, but carried sober undertones. “You are both more than you were, and less than you will be.”

Bruck closed his eyes, raising his face to the sun. It tasted perfect, and it no longer seemed strange to him that he could taste the sunlight. He wondered if any place in the galaxy would ever feel so much like home as the highest boughs of Lehanna-ma, under the suns of Lentrebi Prime. Yet he could not stay.

“I must go back,” he whispered, realizing that he did not wish to leave. Lehanna-ma was silent, letting Bruck pore over all he had seen and experienced during his meditations with her. His heart clenched as he recalled a vision of Xanatos in a bacta tank. “You saw him?”

“Yes.”

“Will he-“ Bruck paused to steady his shaking with a deep breath. “Will he accept me, when he knows the truth?”

“That is for him to decide,” Lehanna-ma answered. Bruck knew she was withholding something.

“But you know what will happen,” he said.

“You think so?” Her amusement was contagious. Bruck could not be angry with her, though he tried for one stubborn moment.

“You are worse than Master Yoda!”

“Oh, yes,” she answered brightly. “Much worse.”

Her laughter swept him away at last-—he couldn’t resist it. He would leave soon, to meet his destiny. But a part of Lentrebi Prime would go with him, deep within the tough, fibrous thing his heart had become.

The sound of his com chiming startled Qui-Gon from his thoughts as he headed back to his quarters. He stopped to answer it, in no rush to return to those rooms or the young man waiting within.

“Qui-Gon,” said the voice of Finis Valorum. “I know it is short notice, but could you possibly meet me for midmeal?”

“Certainly,” he answered, masking his relief. Kenobi would be able to order food from the refectory, so there was no reason for him to go back to his quarters. A few hours’ reprieve. “Where?”

“The club. I will tell them to expect you.”

“I will be there shortly.” He had met Finis there on a few other occasions, usually when he wanted to discuss sensitive matters or to ensure a minimum of interruptions. Qui-Gon made his way out of the Temple and into the Senate district. Half-formed thoughts buzzed in his mind along the way.

He was doing the right thing about Kenobi, certainly. There could be no future in a relationship with him, though Qui-Gon had to be honest with himself that a future was exactly what he wanted. The situation was intolerable. The Council would present the findings of the Jedi investigation to the Senate as soon as Xanatos was well enough to complete the picture for them. When that was over Kenobi would be free to make his way in the world, and would most likely never look back.

If he could give the young man a fresh start, well, that would fulfill his personal obligation. Once he was gone, Qui-Gon could begin to rebuild his serenity. If the Council would allow it, perhaps he could leave field work behind and spend more time teaching at the Temple. Perhaps he should consider taking a new Padawan, provided the Council didn’t censure him. The possibilities for the future were numerous.

It was a shame that so little of it appealed to him at the moment.

Maybe he would be censured, or forced out of the Order. If that were to happen, what would he do? Surely there were several grateful planetary rulers all over the Galaxy that would be anxious to have his insight and experience. Perhaps that would not be so terrible; surely the words “former Jedi Master” would be impressive on a resume.

The prospect thrilled and horrified him. If he were no longer answerable to the Jedi Code, then attachments would not be forbidden to him. He could settle down somewhere with green things and water, maybe have a family of his own. True, he was not terribly attracted to women, but he could build a happy family with an understanding woman…What the hells am I thinking? he chastised himself. Such a situation would soon be at least as miserable as any he could have with Kenobi.

Perhaps he was simply destined to want things he could never have.

“You are a million parsecs away, Qui-Gon,” Finis said, laying a hand on his shoulder. They had both just arrived, but Qui-Gon hadn’t noticed his old friend standing a short distance away.

“I suppose I do have a lot on my mind.” Qui-Gon said as they were shown to a small, private dining room.

“Being a former Chancellor still has a few perks,” Finis said with a self-deprecating smile. Qui-Gon was glad to see that his old friend seemed to have maintained a decent humor despite his recent losses. A well-dressed Twi’lek waited at a discreet distance. They took their seats and ordered their meals quickly, and the attendant left.

“How is Xanatos?” Valorum asked once they were alone. “I heard that he was injured.”

“He is recovering,” Qui-Gon said, not wishing to say much on the subject of his former Padawan. “I take it you received my message concerning Kenobi.”

“Yes,” Finis answered. He paused to take a drink, collecting his thoughts. “What has come over you, Qui-Gon, that you would contact me to help you find work for a prostitute, of all things?”

“Kenobi is a very bright, resourceful young man, Finis.” Qui-Gon had anticipated some resistance, though he had tried to downplay Kenobi’s professional training in his message. “He is Force-sensitive, and a fine pilot. Without his help, I would not have found Xanatos in time. I believe he could be useful as a pilot or as a body guard, with minimal additional training. His apprenticeship in an Ipturan brothel has little bearing on his abilities, or the content of his character.”

Finis placed his glass on the table and looked at Qui-Gon with one quizzically raised brow. “I read your message. I was ready to trust your assessment, until I tried to com you at your quarters this morning.”

Qui-Gon’s heart sank. He should have spoken about this to Kenobi. Being surprised by Valorum could not have brought out the best in him. Considering the way Qui-Gon had left things between himself and Kenobi…Little gods, what did he do? “I had not had the opportunity to speak with him about this yet.”

Finis smiled. “Qui-Gon my friend, I appreciate your desire to improve the lot of beings less fortunate, I really do. The young man is quite attractive, and I’m sure you have not overstated his abilities.”

Qui-Gon knew the qualifier was coming, and tried to forestall it a bit. “He didn’t know I had contacted you. Surprising him no doubt set off his defenses, Finis. I don’t know what he said to you, but I’m sure it was no more than a momentary lapse into his old self-protective habits.”

“In the world of politics, events can be turned rapidly by such lapses. Even if he were a low-level aide or a pilot on my retainer, I could not take that kind of a risk.” He took a deep breath and let it out before continuing. “I could not be associated with someone who could speak that way to a stranger of my position, Qui-Gon. How would I ever be able to predict his behavior?”

Qui-Gon considered protesting, but Finis was right – the boy would be a liability to anyone in politics. “I understand. And I apologize for anything insulting he may have said to you.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Finis said with a grin. “When a man rises to my former position, people treat him with such respect and deference that he can forget he is no more worthy than another man. It’s good to be put in your place once in a while.”

“Kenobi certainly excels at that, I agree.” Qui-Gon grinned, wondering what Kenobi had said, but also glad he didn’t know. “I’m sure he’ll make his way in the Galaxy, with or without my help.”

“Yes,” Finis agreed. “About that…I checked out his personal information through resources available to me, and I think I may be able to help him along a bit. Only for the sake of our friendship, mind you.”

Finis reached in his pocket and passed two tickets across to Qui-Gon. “Tickets to a party in honor of our new Chancellor. Tonight. Perhaps Kenobi could network a bit, pick up a few clients.”

“Two tickets?”

“Yes.” Finis looked uncomfortable. “You don’t think I’d have him there as my personal guest, do you? You know I make no judgments about your inclinations, but I do not share them. Not to mention that it would be best for me to avoid scandal right now. I’ll be there, of course, but if Kenobi attends, you will be holding his leash. That is the best I can do.”

Qui-Gon accepted the tickets with a nod, and thanked Finis warmly, but his heart clenched at the thought of accompanying Kenobi to such a function.

The meal continued amicably enough, but Qui-Gon was distracted by thoughts of what might await him when he finally returned to his quarters.

Qui-Gon took a deep breath, surprised by his own cowardice.

“I can’t open the door, but I know you’re there.” Kenobi’s annoyed voice came to him, slightly muffled by the door between them.

Qui-Gon palmed the lock, feeling a bit sheepish. Kenobi was lounging in his favorite chair, which also happened to be Qui-Gon’s favorite as well. He was spooning muja jelly directly from the container. He licked the spoon thoroughly and pointed it at Qui-Gon.

“You have been a busy Jedi, haven’t you?”

“I went to see Xanatos.”

Kenobi put the spoon and the cup on the small table. “How is he?”

“Recovering,” Qui-Gon said. “Still in bacta, though. Healer Phol thinks they may be able to let him out this evening, but probably not until tomorrow.” He sank into the chair across from Kenobi, feeling his age.

Kenobi was silent for a moment. Qui-Gon found it oddly comfortable to be with him in silence, despite the pressure of all that had not been said. Part of him wished this moment would not end, that they could sit together and never have to say or do any of the things that would put their separation in motion.

“Some guy named Valorum commed,” Kenobi said, bringing an inevitable end to Qui-Gon’s complacency.

“I know,” he answered. “He finally reached me. We had midmeal together.”

Kenobi picked up the muja cup and spoon, letting it absorb more of his attention than necessary. “Sounds nice.”

“He’s the former Chancellor of the Galactic Senate, you know.”

Kenobi shrugged. “Seemed a bit of a tight ass, if you ask me.”

“I should have told you that I sent him a message. I thought maybe he could help you find employment, or at least make some introductions.” Qui-Gon looked down at his hands.

“Employment?” Kenobi raised a brow. “By which you mean something respectable and boring?”

“Perhaps I did have hopes of you finding a position that would be less risky than prostitution.” Qui-Gon sighed. “It was foolish of me to make enquiries before I spoke with you about it.”

Qui-Gon held his breath, ready for the tongue-lashing that was sure to follow. Kenobi looked at him and put down the muja cup. He slipped from the chair and knelt by Qui-Gon, laying a hand on the Jedi Master’s.

“That was a very sweet thing to do.”

Qui-Gon stared, mouth suddenly dry, as Kenobi lifted his hand and kissed his calloused palm.

“I’m sorry if I made things difficult for you, by offending your friend.” Kenobi lowered his eyes, pressing Qui-Gon’s hand to his cheek. “I can’t help myself, sometimes.”

Qui-Gon began to laugh. It started deep in his belly, and shook him as it made its way up and out his mouth. “Gods, I can imagine what you said!”

“Well…”Kenobi began to laugh, too, quietly at first, then so hard he rocked back and sat on his bottom. “I was rather rude, but he started it.”

Kenobi raised his chin in that proud, stubborn way he had, and Qui-Gon laughed all the harder.

“What?” Kenobi seemed a bit surprised by this reaction. “I thought you’d be angry.”

Qui-Gon stifled his mirth. “I was a bit disappointed. Finis Valorum is a good man, who deserves the respect usually afforded his station. But… I have encountered a lot of powerful beings over the years, and never felt the freedom to speak my thoughts without a diplomatic filter. Being able to speak your mind is a great gift.”

Kenobi slipped closer, this time placing his warm hand on Qui-Gon’s knee. “You might not be so amused if you knew what I said.”

“Apparently, he doesn’t hold it against you.” Qui-Gon reached in his belt pouch and retrieved the data-chits Finis had given him. “Why should I?”

Kenobi looked wary. “What are those?”

“Invitations to a rather large Senate social event,” Qui-Gon answered. “A gala in honor of the new Chancellor.”

Kenobi stood up, eyes moving from Qui-Gon’s face to the chits and back again. “Two?”

“I’ll be going with you.”

“Still can’t let me out of your sight? I though I had earned your trust by now.”

“You have earned mine,” Qui-Gon answered. “But not the Council’s or Valorum’s.” Qui-Gon had asked Master Yoda for permission to ease the restrictions on Kenobi, but his request had been denied. The door was keyed to his palm for entry, not exit. That was the extent of the Council’s leniency.

“I see,” Kenobi said. “When is this little shindig?”

“Tonight, actually,” Qui-Gon said. “They will be serving finger foods. I was going to ask if you wanted to have latemeal first.”

Kenobi’s reaction took him by surprise. The young man squeaked and began rushing back and forth.

“I have no time to prepare! I have to bathe and…Do you think any of my refugee rags will be suitable? This is terrible!”

“I didn’t realize it would be that difficult. I-I’m sorry.”

“Oh, it’s only my future livelihood on the line, you needn’t concern yourself.” He rushed into his room and then out again, heading for the ‘fresher at top speed.

“Kenobi.” Qui-Gon half-expected the younger man to ignore him, but he stopped to listen. Qui-Gon was suddenly uncertain what he meant to say. “You… don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

“I want to go.” Kenobi’s lips pressed to a hard line. “This is an opportunity for me to meet a more upscale clientele than I could have hoped for otherwise.” He didn’t meet the Jedi’s eyes. “You said it yourself— I can’t stay in your rooms forever.”

Qui-Gon ignored the gnawing ache in his chest. I don’t want you to leave, he thought as he watched Kenobi turn and disappear into the ‘fresher.

He stood there a moment, staring at the door, lips forming words he dared not speak. Spoken or not, they tasted bitter.

Not long after Kenobi disappeared into the ‘fresher, a package arrived from Finis Valorum. Qui-Gon opened it to find a set of clothes in the younger man’s size. A dark green silk tunic with a complicated design woven into it that only showed when the garment shifted in the light, a pair of black leggings and black leather boots. There was even a small case with sundries that Kenobi might use to adorn himself. Quite stylish, yet conforming to the sort of understated sophistication that old political families like Valorum’s favored. Qui-Gon knew Kenobi would be pleased.

Valorum’s generosity was most considerate, even though Qui-Gon knew dictating Kenobi’s clothing was little more than a pre-emptive bit of damage control on Finis’ part. Still, if Qui-Gon had not been certain that Finis’ affections did not tend toward his own gender, he might have been jealous. Perhaps he was, anyway.

A Jedi could never lavish a lover with expensive gifts the way a politician or a scion of a wealthy old family could. Those would be the sort of people Kenobi would meet tonight, and no doubt win over in short order. If he could keep a civil tongue in his head.

They would give him what he wanted; he would soon surround himself with beautiful things. He could almost see it now, Kenobi floating like a feather through that intoxicatingly superficial world, admired for his fine skin and sensual wit. Those people could give him the things he wanted; in return, Kenobi would give his patrons what they wanted.

Qui-Gon rubbed his temples, fighting back the beginnings of a headache. He laid out the clothing where Kenobi would see it when he emerged from the ‘fresher, and went to the com console. He had to let it read his thumbprint before it would allow him to enter the code for Healer Phol. Not a huge annoyance, but it reminded him of the layers of security that kept Kenobi a virtual prisoner.

Despite the role he’d played in saving the lives of two Jedi Knights, his access to the com was still restricted to commissary and refectory service. This how the Order thanks him for his help. Qui-Gon had to acknowledge this was also largely his fault; if Kenobi had assisted a Jedi more in favor with the Council, the results might have been different.

Stewing over such things was not productive; Qui-Gon forced his thoughts back to the present just as the com line connected.

“Phol here,” the Healer answered tersely. Her tone softened when she saw him. “Master Jinn.”

“Is there any change?” It was an effort not to sound as weary as he felt.

“He’s roused a few times. We’re having some difficulty controlling his pain. Some of the stimulants made him hyper-sensitive, I think. We’ll have to be careful when we bring him out of the bacta.” She glanced down at a data pad. “His midichlorians are recovering, though his connection to the Force may not be at full strength for some time.”

“Com me as soon as he is ready to leave the tanks. I want to be there.”

Phol nodded. “Of course.”

He switched off the com and entered his sleeproom. Perhaps some rest would help. There was time; he wouldn’t need to dress for the gala for over an hour. He forced himself to relax. Kenobi would be gone within a ten and his decision would irrevocable. It was better this way, for both of them.

As he allowed his mind to drift into a restful meditation, he almost believed it.

Durante gasped for breath. The pain had stopped, but he still lay upon the cold, polished floor. “How could I have known that Jinn and that whore were so close?”

“There is no way you could have anticipated it,” Darth Sidious said, lowering his hands. Durante hoped that meant that the blue lightning portion of tonight’s program was at an end. “That is why you live.”

Durante pressed his forehead to the floor at Sidious’ feet. “Thank you, My Lord.”

The Sith was silent for a moment, but Durante dared not move.

“I want you to return to the operation on Malum Four.” His voice was no more than a hiss of threat. “Do not leave unless I specifically order it.”

That didn’t please Durante, not at all. He’d just lost his favorite diversion, and had not had time to acquire another. He’d been happy enough to let Fawks go, and it had been part of what Sidious wanted for the Jedi’s release. Durante didn’t understand why the Sith had insisted that the pretty Knight be sent back to his kind—-if he hadn’t done that, then no one would know about their little drug development plan. Yet Durante was not stupid enough to point that out.

“Yes, My Lord Sidious.”

“The Jedi may know a bit more than I wished, but it is an inconvenience only.”

Durante allowed himself to look up from the floor, just a little. Sidious was standing with his back to him, looking out over the Coruscanti cityscape, deep in thought. His guard was down.

“Don’t even think about it, you diseased sack of putrescence.”

Durante pressed his face to floor again, expecting more pain. When it didn’t come immediately, he breathed again. This deal was getting worse every minute.

“You may leave now,” Sidious said.

Durante waddled to his feet, making as much haste for the door as his bulk would allow, still keeping his eyes on the Sith. Sidious raised a hand and Durante froze.

“Go directly to Malum Four. No stopping for new toys on the way.” He chuckled maliciously. “You are still being punished.”

The fat man finally managed to exit his audience with the Sith, his fine clothes scorched and soiled. Yes, this deal was becoming unbearable.

Qui-Gon roused with a feeling of unease that even his brief meditation had not eased. He checked the chrono. There was little time for him to ready himself for the gala. So much had happened in the last month—-he had to admit he was curious about recent political changes. Qui-Gon feared the nature of the Galactic Senate had changed with Valorum’s ouster. His administration had been plagued by unfounded claims of nepotism, but he had never manipulated galactic events to best suit his family’s interests, no matter what the rumors suggested.

The new Chancellor was an unknown quantity to Qui-Gon. A Senator from the recently disputed planet of Naboo, he had been elected in part by a sympathy vote while his home was being starved by a Trade Federation embargo. The Council had sent Master Leem and his apprentice to negotiate a settlement, and it had all gone to seven hells.

This had all transpired while Qui-Gon had been on leave to Iptura. There had been enormous, sweeping changes in the nature of his world while he had been off on his own, getting friendly with a squid. Then there was Kenobi, and the possible Kleranom smuggling that led to his former Padawan’s current state.

So much personal and professional upheaval, all set to the backdrop of political changes that, for once, had nothing to do with Qui-Gon. Perhaps that was the Force’s way of telling him it was time to retire from the field. He could teach at the Temple, maybe. But what if the Council decided to censure him?

Qui-Gon shook his head, deciding it didn’t matter. He would face each moment as it came, and right now, he had a party to attend. He dressed quickly in his formal robes and brushed out his hair before retying his toplock with a strip of cloth that matched his robes. At least as a Jedi he didn’t have to worry about fashion trends.

When he emerged from his chamber, he found Kenobi standing at the door to the balcony, looking out at the capital. The light framed him, setting his gingered hair alight.

He turned when Qui-Gon entered. His hair was loose, but carefully styled. The dark clothing accentuated his pale skin and hair without overwhelming them. His eyes were defined by lightly-smudged kohl.

Qui-Gon had never seen him look better, and that was saying something.

Kenobi held out his arms, looking down at the clothing he wore. “What do you think?”

Qui-Gon found it difficult to speak. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Kenobi nodded, as if his silence confirmed certain suspicions. “Good.”

“You look stunning.” Qui-Gon couldn’t help but smile. “You should thank Finis for his generosity.”

Kenobi’s brow tightened, and he nodded soberly. “I owe him an apology. He has been more than generous. You must be a very dear friend for him to do this after the way I acted.”

“Finis has more than one reason for doing everything he does,” Qui-Gon answered. “He is a politician, after all.”

The familiar line appeared between Kenobi’s brows. “Do you mean to say that he might be interested in becoming a patron of mine?”

“I don’t think so, no.” Qui-Gon found that a sobering thought. He should make some things clear to Kenobi before he acted on misinformation. “He is not inclined to appreciate males.”

Kenobi shrugged. “Good to know.”

“You should also know that, while Coruscant and most Republic worlds are fairly open about sexuality, most members of the Galactic Senate prefer their personal lives remain discreet. They are frequently in the public eye, after all.”

“I did not just fall off the tuber cart, you know.” Kenobi gave him a wry look. “I’m well aware of the differences between an Ipturan brothel and the rest of the galaxy, though suppose I haven’t given you much indication of that fact.”

Qui-Gon nodded, but he wondered just how well Kenobi understood the world he was about to enter. It would do no good to question him, though. It would arouse his defensiveness at this point.

“Shall we go?” He offered the younger man his arm, and Kenobi took it with a smile.

Kenobi did not wish to arrive early or be too hungry when they arrived, so they made a short stop by the refectory for some food. Everyone they encountered stared at them, but this time Qui-Gon rather enjoyed the attention. Kenobi seemed to as well.

“Every being in this room envies one of us,” he said with a prankish smile.

Qui-Gon couldn’t help but smile back. “Mostly me, I’m sure.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.” Kenobi reached over the table, gently picking a crumb from Qui-Gon’s beard. The touch was slow, deliberate and sensual, as was the way he held the Jedi Master’s gaze when he raised the crumb to his own lips.

“We’d better go now,” Qui-Gon said, marginally aware of how his voice quavered when he spoke.

“As you wish, Master Jinn.”

Kenobi rose, and Qui-Gon followed him out of the refectory in a haze of frustrated lust. Those leggings fit him a little too well, he thought. He wasn’t sure how he was going to manage the rest of the evening without giving in to temptation. Kenobi had made both his interest and his willingness quite clear.

Qui-Gon had to admit that he wanted the younger man, but they lived in two different realms. Their paths had intersected, but this time together would be all too brief. He wanted more than a memory to hold, and that was all that Kenobi could ever be to him. It didn’t seem fair, but any youngling in the crèche could tell you that life was not fair.

It wouldn’t be fair to Kenobi, either. How could he take what was offered, and let him go? Surely it wouldn’t do the younger man any good. Perhaps Kenobi’s interest was nothing more than a desire to repay a debt. Qui-Gon had tried to be a friend to him.

As he watched the young man move through the Temple toward the transports to the Senate complex, he couldn’t help but admire him. So young and self-assured, so desirable… What could he possibly see in an old Jedi Master? Surely his desire was nothing more than duty. Kenobi was too proud to feel as if he owed anyone without trying to make things even.

Qui-Gon had been a fool to think anything else.

“What’s the matter, Qui-Gon?” Kenobi turned to him as they settled into the transport. “You look as if you’d rather be anywhere else.”

“Just thinking about my Padawan.” Qui-Gon had his shields up, certain Kenobi wouldn’t read the lie through the Force. Apparently, he didn’t.

“He’ll be fine now,” Kenobi said, touching Qui-Gon’s hand. “He’s strong, and the healers know how to help him.”

“I know,” Qui-Gon sighed. “I just wish it could have been different.”

Kenobi looked out the window of the transport, but seemed unaffected by the view. His _expression was grave. “If you hadn’t had me to look after, they might have sent you to investigate.”

“If I hadn’t had you to look after, there wouldn’t have been anything to investigate.” Qui-Gon smiled when he spoke, but Kenobi remained serious.

“I’m glad you didn’t leave me with Orima.” Kenobi’s voice was barely audible over the transport engines. “Even though the price others have paid is high.”

“What happened to my Padawan was not your fault.” Qui-Gon believed it. “The Council chose to send Xanatos, but they could just as easily have decided to do nothing. Do not carry the weight of decisions that were never yours to make.”

Kenobi nodded, though he looked as if he might argue the point. “In any case, I’m very grateful for all you’ve done for me, Qui-Gon.”

The Jedi Master forced himself to smile, gazing out the transport window as if the man hadn’t just confirmed his suspicions. “There is no need for gratitude, Kenobi. What I have done for you I would have done for any being in need.”

Kenobi tilted his head back and laughed. “If you say so. Does everyone you rescue get kissed the way you kissed me in the lift?”

Qui-Gon shifted in his seat. “You know they don’t.”

Kenobi grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief as he reached over and twirled a strand of Qui-Gon’s hair between his fingers. “So, I wasn’t just another typical mission for the great Master Jinn?”

“No,” Qui-Gon answered. “I have come to think of you as a true friend.”

Kenobi moved closer, speaking softly. “Do you kiss your friends like that?”

“Sometimes.” Qui-Gon grinned at the younger man, despite himself.

“Lucky bastards.”

The transport slowed, jostling them. Kenobi’s lips brushed Qui-Gon’s chin, but the thwarted kiss didn’t seem to bother him.

“You’re a horrible tease,” Qui-Gon said. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Silly Jedi.” Kenobi scoffed. “It’s not a tease if one intends to make good on one’s promises.”

“I don’t recall hearing any promises.”

“Every kiss is a promise, Jinn.” Kenobi’s broad smile returned, brilliant in the light of the setting suns. “I thought you knew.”

The transport came to a full stop, and they made their way to the walkway.

“Where is this party, again?” Kenobi had stopped on the side of the avenue, watching with interest all the beings bustling past them.

“A short distance this way,” Qui-Gon answered. “Follow me.”

“Anywhere, Master Jinn.”

When they arrived, Qui-Gon gave their chits to the protocol droid at the entrance. He felt Kenobi take his arm as they entered and the droid announced their names. He looked a little pale.

“Is something wrong?”

“Just a bit nervous, I guess.” Kenobi graced him with a smile reminiscent of a grimace of pain. “I’ve not been to a function like this since my training cycle was complete.”

Qui-Gon glanced at him, but decided he did not want to know what his training cycle had been like.

The space that had been chosen for the gala was the grandest available in the Senate District, designed with huge ceilings in the main hall, which served as both a ballroom and seating area. At one end were tables laden with every form of delicacy imaginable, where smartly dressed beings served the guests from shining trays. The far end was occupied by a full orchestra, providing music though there was no one dancing at the moment. The hall was lined with labyrinthine strings of sitting rooms, balconies and alcoves. No doubt there would be at least as much business as frivolity taking place before the night was over.

“Perhaps we should find your friend,” Kenobi suggested. “I would like to thank him for his generosity. And apologize for insulting him.”

Qui-Gon could feel the anxiety radiating from Kenobi, though he appeared as calm and relaxed as any of the beings present. Qui-Gon spotted Finis, who seemed to be in a private discussion with another dignitary.

“I think it would be better to wait a bit. He seems busy at the moment.” Qui-Gon hesitated. “Would you like a drink?”

“That sounds good.”

“Why don’t you wait here and let me brave the line?” Qui-Gon was a little concerned about his companion’s pallor. Kenobi raised no objections as he took a seat near a pillar at the edge of the hall. “Any preference?”

“No,” Kenobi answered, sagging a little.

“Are you well?”

“No—I mean, yes. I’m fine.” Kenobi smiled, though the worry line between his brows deepened. “I’ll be fine. Just get me that drink.”

Qui-Gon nodded and turned toward the bar.

“Nothing too strong,” Kenobi called after him.

He nodded again. One step later Kenobi spoke again.

“But nothing too weak, either.” Qui-Gon thought he heard Kenobi mutter something about looking like a lightweight.

“Trust me,” Qui-Gon admonished.

The wait for drinks was actually quite short. The press of beings around the bar appeared to be composed of those unwilling to stray too far from their source of free intoxicants. The bar was impressive, with many unusual and costly beverages from all parts of the galaxy offered up for free. Qui-Gon wondered what the budget would be for a party this size that offered so much rare and expensive refreshment.

As with the food, the drinks were not served by droids. At least this excessive display was providing employment for many beings in the service industry. His chest clenched as he realized that was exactly why he and Kenobi were here, as well. To find buyers for Kenobi’s services. He scowled at the Chaldean bartender as he collected Kenobi’s Rygellian ale and his own chai.

It was a waste. All of it.

A waste of resources, a waste of time. A waste of Kenobi.

There was a young human male speaking with Kenobi when Qui-Gon returned with his drink. Qui-Gon recognized him as the Senator from Alderaan, Bail Organa. He stood and greeted Qui-Gon before excusing himself.

“He seemed in a bit of a hurry,” Qui-Gon commented.

“I believe I shocked him,” Kenobi said with a rakish grin. “Not that I said anything untoward.”

Qui-Gon raised a brow.

“It was fine until he asked me what I do for a living. It seemed to discomfit him a bit.” Kenobi took a deep drink of his ale. “This is good.”

“Best in the galaxy,” Qui-Gon muttered. “What else did you talk about?”

“Nosy, aren’t we?” Kenobi grinned in a way that seemed almost indecent to Qui-Gon. Perhaps there was something indecent about Kenobi’s mouth, or perhaps the indecency existed in its effect on Qui-Gon. He was glad he had decided to drink only chai.

“Senator Organa is on a committee that oversees government relations with the Jedi Order.” Kenobi had decided to answer his question instead of teasing him further. “He had heard something about the kleranom smuggling, though not about our involvement. They have already formed a subcommittee to hear evidence, he said.”

“Will he be on the subcommittee?”

“I don’t think so.” Kenobi frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“Alderaan is a very prosperous, peaceful and influential world, which has long been a staunch supporter of the Order.” Qui-Gon looked into his cup, perhaps in the hopes that something in it would give him idea how to finish his thought without giving Kenobi sensitive information. “There are indicators that the kleranom smugglers may be tied to something that could negatively affect the Jedi.”

“It doesn’t bother me that there are things you can’t tell me.” Kenobi gave Qui-Gon an exasperated look. “But I do wish you’d be less clumsy about not telling me.”

“Sorry.” Qui-Gon chuckled. “At least you seem to be feeling better.”

“I am.” Kenobi looked thoughtful. “It was the strangest thing. For a moment I felt as though my head were ringing like a bell.”

“Were you hearing things?” Qui-Gon tried not to show his concern, reminding himself that Kenobi neither needed nor wanted someone to hover over him like Namlit over its chick.

“No,” Kenobi chuckled. “It felt sort of like my skull was vibrating on its own. Not as pleasant as that makes it sound, though.”

“Doesn’t sound pleasant at all.”

“Maybe not,” Kenobi answered, tilting his head to the side. “But a vibrating skull could come in handy in my line of work.”

Qui-Gon managed not to spray chai on his formal robes, but it was a near thing. He swallowed hard, and when he was certain he could speak without coughing, he said, “Perhaps now would be a good time to find Finis.”

“A fine idea, Master Jinn.” Kenobi stood, smoothing his fine clothes and looking far too pleased with himself. “Lead the way.”

He found Finis in a moodily-lit alcove chatting amicably with a Chagrian dignitary who moved away as Qui-Gon and Kenobi approached. He greeted Qui-Gon warmly.

“This is my friend, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Qui-Gon said. “I don’t believe you have been formally introduced.”

Finis extended his hand to Kenobi. “Nice to meet you.”

“It is an honor, Senator Valorum,” Kenobi said as he shook the proffered hand. “I must apologize for my earlier behavior. Your generosity has been overwhelming.”

Kenobi managed not to seem sycophantic, yet his gratitude was obvious. Qui-Gon marveled at the young man’s unexpected ability to rise to such occasions. He seemed light=years away from the streetwise, defensive whore that had lately inhabited his skin. He would make an excellent courtesan. He would have made a better Jedi.

Qui-Gon’s thoughts taunted him. Why should he wish for something that could never be? He knew the answer, and it was a purely selfish one. If he had been a Jedi, then perhaps we could have been together.

“Not at all,” Finis demurred. “It is the least I could do for someone who has done the Republic such service.”

“What service might that be?”

Qui-Gon turned to see that the newly-elected Chancellor Palpatine had approached them. His attendants hung back, keeping respectful distance.

“Greetings, Chancellor,” Valorum said. If his presence bothered Finis, he hid it extremely well. “Allow me to present Master Qui-Gon Jinn and Ser Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“Oh, yes!” The Chancellor brightened, turning to Qui-Gon. “I have recently been briefed on the goings-on concerning Knight Chun’s illness and other matters. You both have my gratitude for assisting Knight Chun. My homeworld and I owe him and his late master a tremendous debt of gratitude. It is an honor to meet you, Master Jinn.”

Qui-Gon smiled and bowed, but said nothing. The man was charming and seemed completely sincere, but Qui-Gon felt ill at ease around him. Perhaps it was merely that he was the man who had displaced Valorum, whom he admired.

The Chancellor turned to Kenobi. “And you must be the... civilian who has been assisting the Jedi, Ser Kenobi. It is a pleasure to meet you.” He placed Kenobi’s hand between both of his as the young man bowed a greeting.

“The pleasure is all mine, Chancellor.” Kenobi’s words were courtly, nothing more, or so Qui-Gon told himself.

Palpatine smiled pleasantly at the younger man, then turned his gaze to Valorum. “You are quite the lucky man to have such charming company.”

“Kenobi and Master Jinn are both here at my invitation.” Once again Qui-Gon could not feel the slightest bit of discomfort from Valorum, even through the Force. No wonder the man was such an excellent politician, and formidable sabacc player. “Neither of them is my escort.”

“Oh, I see,” Palpatine said, his grin broadening. He still held Kenobi’s hand between his two.

Valorum’s chief aide came near and whispered in his ear. His brow knit for a moment, and then he turned a pleasant face back to Qui-Gon and the rest. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen. There is something demanding my attention just now.”

Palpatine barely noticed Finis’ departure. “So you assisted Master Jinn in his miraculous rescue of two Jedi Knights? A most remarkable feat for an Ipturan pleasure worker.”

Kenobi’s bland smile didn’t falter. Qui-Gon felt a surge of pride.

“Actually, I’m a certified courtesan.”

Palpatine looked surprised, and Qui-Gon wondered if the young man was about to be caught in a lie.

“Really? I was certain the briefing referred to a worker from an Ipturan brothel.”

“I was working out my contract there, but I completed my certification almost two years ago. I was trained by the Lady Aras Essa. She made certain my courtesan status was in place before she released me to serve out my contract on Iptura.”

Kenobi smiled, relaxed. Qui-Gon suddenly wished he read a bit more of the information contained in the packet he’d taken from Cragin. He was not sure whether or not Kenobi was lying. He had never heard of Lady Aras Essa.

But Chancellor Palpatine had.

“Lady Essa? That is impressive!” His bright _expression fell, a bit theatrically. “She was considered by many to be the most beautiful woman in the galaxy. Such a pity about what happened.”

Qui-Gon saw the line appear between Kenobi’s brows, and willed him to be silent. Palpatine obviously wanted him to ask, which was why Qui-Gon wished he would not. But the question was already forming on the young man’s lips.

“What do you mean, ‘what happened’?”

“Hadn’t you heard?” Palpatine looked surprised and pitying. Qui-Gon couldn’t say why, but he wanted to slap the man. “Her cruiser was taken by pirates late last year. No survivors were found.”

Kenobi took a deep, trembling breath. He remained outwardly composed, but Qui-Gon could feel his grief through the Force. Somehow, his voice sounded steady when he spoke. “What a shame.”

“At least it should put you in high demand, my boy.” Palpatine patted Kenobi on the shoulder in an almost fatherly gesture. “Many of her former pupils were traveling with her, I hear.”

Kenobi made an effort to smile.

“Have you a patron here on Coruscant?” Palpatine made it sound like a casual inquiry, but Qui-Gon suspected it was not.

“No, I haven’t.” Kenobi seemed to grow paler by the moment, but Palpatine took no notice.

“Perhaps I could assist you,” the Chancellor offered. “Even with a courtesan certification, it can take time for a license to practice on Coruscant to be approved.”

“That would be most kind.” Kenobi smiled weakly. As they spoke, Palpatine had turned his back to Qui-Gon, as if he did not exist, though he made no effort to speak so that he could not overhear.

“I find I am quite busy with my new position just lately,” he said. “I have so little time to socialize. Perhaps you could be persuaded to consider an exclusive contract? I promise you would lack for nothing.”

“I would be more than happy to have you as a patron, Chancellor, but an exclusive contract is an enormous commitment.” Kenobi spoke slowly. His tone and delivery were friendly, even solicitous, but Qui-Gon could tell his reluctance was more than circumstantial. “Plus, I won’t be able to find suitable lodging until after I testify at the hearings. Until then I am a guest of the Jedi Temple.”

“I see.” Palpatine’s face fell. Qui-Gon thought he caught a glimpse of real malice before the affable façade fell into place. He must be letting his emotions cloud his judgment, for the Chancellor was merely a lonely older man, as solitary in his service to the Republic as Qui-Gon himself. Still, the Jedi had to suppress the urge to step forward and tell the old man to sod off.

“Do keep my offer in mind, though, will you?” The Chancellor touched Kenobi’s cheek in that not-quite fatherly way. Qui-Gon would have sworn the old man glanced in his direction as he did so. He kept his shields strong and released his jealousy to the Force. It certainly wouldn’t do anyone any good.

“I will,” Kenobi said. “It is extremely kind of you.”

“Not at all, my dear boy. I suppose I’d best continue my rounds. It would be a shame if I didn’t have the opportunity to greet everyone who has come to celebrate my appointment.”

Kenobi smiled and nodded, standing completely still until the Chancellor was gone, and the last of his attendants had moved out of sight. Qui-Gon was beside him in a single step.

“I think I need some air,” he said, rubbing his brow.

When Qui-Gon began to lead him toward the nearest open-air balcony, he stumbled. Qui-Gon caught him easily enough, but he was deeply concerned.

“Perhaps we should go,” he said. “You should see a healer.”

As soon as they were alone, Obi-Wan turned in his arms and began sobbing uncontrollably, face buried against his tunics. Qui-Gon felt a little foolish – it wasn’t illness affecting Obi-Wan now. It was grief.

“I knew, Qui-Gon,” he whispered between sobs. “I felt it when she died. Cragin said I was going crazy, but I knew, and then her messages stopped. I told myself I was imagining it, but I knew.”

“Shhhh.” Qui-Gon carefully stroked his hair. “It’s all right.”

Obi-Wan looked up at him, bleary-eyed and flushed. “She should have been safe. Her ship had the best defenses money could buy, and guards. Gods! Why did she have to die? She never hurt a soul. She... she was kind to me.”

“Shhhh. She’s beyond the pain and care of this world now.”

“It’s not fair,” Obi-Wan whispered. “Why is she gone, when a vile space-slug like Orima lives, free to do... what he does. What he did to Xanatos and that boy that was with him. It’s monstrous.” He pushed away from Qui-Gon, looking up into his eyes. “How can your Force allow that?”

Qui-Gon looked down into Kenobi’s grieving countenance for a long moment, struggling to find words of comfort.

“I wish I knew. But we’ll stop him, Obi-Wan. I will, the Jedi will. You will, when you testify. We can’t bring back Lady Essa, but we can stop Orima Durante.”

Kenobi leaned on Qui-Gon once again, letting his silent tears flow until they stopped. Qui-Gon pulled a handkerchief out of his sleeve and handed it to him.

Kenobi took it, pulling away to wipe his face and nose.

“I must look a fright.”

Qui-Gon shook his head, thinking Kenobi was more attractive than ever.

“We can leave, if you like.”

“No.” Kenobi took a deep breath and set his jaw. “No. This is the best chance I’m likely to get for meeting potential patrons. I have to stay a little longer, if I’m going to find a better offer than Chancellor Palpatine’s – which I am determined to do.”

Qui-Gon couldn’t help but smile. He was glad that Kenobi was willing to reject a solid offer from the Chancellor of the Galactic Senate, if it didn’t suit him.

“We must find an appropriately visible location, but not too public,” Kenobi said, strength returning to his voice. No doubt he would make his former mentor proud, yet Qui-Gon was not comforted.

Xanatos dreams. His pain is a distant thing, far away, forgotten. He is warm and safe, weightless in the stillness of his own mind.

But he is not alone.

Xan? A familiar voice. A distant light. He turns his attention to it.

I’m coming. You’ll be out of bacta before I get there, but I’m coming to you as quickly as I can.

The light-shape is tall, stretched, with a fall of shaggy hair, so unlike the silken strands that voice brings to mind.

Bruck?

Bubbles of golden laughter burst in his consciousness.

Yes. Mostly, the voice answers. Can you feel me? I am with you.

He can feel it. Him. How?

Strands of fate -- more and less than that. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you feel the Light. Do you feel the Light?

You are the Light.

No, but it runs through both of us.

Xanatos cannot perceive the difference. He feels frustration, anger surge within him. The Light dims.

No! The Light moves closer. He feels the warm touch of it, like long fingers carding through his hair. Feel the Light. Feel me. Hold on to the memory of who you are, Xanatos. A Jedi Knight. A being of Light.

It is so beautiful, this Light, this Love he feels. Xanatos cannot breathe – it is beyond breath.

There is much pain ahead, my love, but you must hold to the Light. Will you?

He cannot remember words, but he knows he wants the Light, more than anything. Is he strong enough to hold it?

You will be, says the voice. I will help you. You will wake, soon, but you will remember the Light, yes?

Xanatos cannot answer as the cold, black grip of his flesh sucks him down. Down into himself. He opens his eyes in the viscous red embrace of bacta, and it hurts.

Qui-Gon stood in the shadow of a column, watching Kenobi smile as another well-dressed being approached him with obvious interest. A beautiful Twi’lek, perhaps sixty standard years in age, but still quite toothsome. A single piece of her jewelry could have bought Cragin’s brothel outright, contracts and all.

She came closer, exchanged a few pleasantries with him before Qui-Gon cleared his throat. Quite casually, he thought. She hadn’t seen him standing there. He watched as she slowly released Kenobi’s hand and made her way toward the refreshments. Kenobi turned, glaring across the distance between them. Qui-Gon looked around, as if trying to find the person responsible for upsetting Kenobi. Surely it couldn’t be the Jedi Master himself.

“A word, Master Jinn.” Kenobi moved more quickly than Qui-Gon expected. He had crossed the distance between them, grasped his arm and was pulling him around the back of the pillar onto a dark, open balcony.

“Is something the matter?” Qui-Gon said, genuinely disturbed by the fire in his young companion’s eye.

“YOU are the matter,” Kenobi hissed. “Must you lurk in the shadows, glaring at everyone who comes near me?”

“Glaring?” Qui-Gon was certain he had done no such thing, Not at all. “I am still supposed to look out for you, according to the Council.”

“Oh, and you always do as the Council directs.” Kenobi snorted. “So you must agree that I cannot be trusted?”

“No, Kenobi.” Qui-Gon said. “I do trust you. I do. But, well, I promised Finis I would... look after you.”

A muscle twitched in Kenobi’s jaw. “Does looking after me include sucking all the sexual energy out of a six meter radius?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m sure you know exactly what I mean.” Kenobi’s _expression softened, his face silvered in the dim blue light. “Listen to me, Qui-Gon. I...”

Qui-Gon waited for him to finish his thought, but he didn’t say anything for a long time. Kenobi’s shoulders drooped and his head bowed. Qui-Gon heard his faint, uneven breathing. When he looked back up, there were tears glinting in his eyes.

“This... this is not easy for me, Qui-Gon. I keep thinking of Aras, and how I thought she would be safe. I-I thought I could be safe, if I could be a courtesan, like she was, you know?”

Qui-Gon knew exactly what he meant, but the Jedi Master could barely give an answering nod. Kenobi looked so open, so fragile that Qui-Gon feared he would say the wrong thing, and he would close himself off again.

He sighed, and straightened his shoulders. “But this is what I do. It’s all I know, and I will be good at it. What choice do I have?”

“There are always choices, Obi-Wan-“

“Shhh.” Kenobi pressed a finger to Qui-Gon’s lips to stop him from speaking. “This is the problem. You say we can’t be together, even though you want me. I can accept that. Goes with the territory.”

“I only meant-“

“Shhh. Will you please shut your big gob and listen for once in your life?”

Qui-Gon opened his mouth and closed it again, discretion being the better part of valor when it came to Kenobi speaking his mind.

“All right then.” Kenobi paused, gathering his thoughts. “You can’t let yourself love me. You can’t risk the pain and failure you see as inevitable, even though I hope I have made it clear that I am ready and willing to take that risk myself. That’s your choice. I can accept that. But, damn it, Jinn! Don’t ruin this for me.”

“Kenobi, you—You’re worth more than this!” Qui-Gon’s mouth had gone dry. He hardly knew what he was going to say until he’d already said it. “How can you offer yourself to these beings who don’t care a whit for you?”

“Would you rather I offered myself on some street corner on the lower levels? Because that’s where I’m going to be if you keep sabotaging me!” Kenobi looked out over the skyline visible form the balcony. Qui-Gon saw a silver tear streak down his cheek. There was nothing he could say. Kenobi was right. He deserved this chance, and Qui-Gon was standing in his way.

“If you want to love me, then loveme.” Kenobi’s large eyes flashed as he once again met Qui-Gon’s gaze. His voice broke when he spoke, barely audible above the party noise and the wind. “But if you can’t love me, you have to let me go.”

Qui-Go swallowed hard, frozen in the moment. Finally he reached out and wiped the tear from Kenobi’s face with his thumb. He leaned in and kissed the salt from his lips.

They parted slowly, holding each other with their eyes. In that breathless moment, Qui-Gon opened his mouth to speak, not knowing what he would say.

The comlink in his belt pouch chimed, and Kenobi looked away. Qui-Gon hesitated, still unable to find the words he wanted. The words that would make everything simple for the two of them.

His com chimed again, insistent. He answered.

“Jinn.”

“Xanatos is waking, Qui-Gon,” Healer Phol’s voice said. “His injuries have largely healed, so we’ll be taking him out of bacta within the hour.”

“Thank you, Healer.” He switched off the comlink and put it away.

“I guess the party’s over,” Kenobi said, trying for a joking tone and failing. The younger man knew that Qui-Gon had to go back to the Temple, had to be there when Xanatos was released from bacta. Kenobi was about to miss his best chance at making a new life for himself, and Qui-Gon had nothing to offer him in its place.

“Not necessarily.” Qui-Gon reached in his belt pouch and brought out a credit chit. “There’s enough on there for transport back to the Temple. You don’t have to leave just yet, even though I’m leaving.”

Kenobi took the chit and tried to smile.

“I do trust you, you know,” Qui-Gon said. “And I want you to be happy.”

Kenobi nodded. “Thank you.”

Qui-Gon turned and left the gala, not allowing himself the luxury of looking back.

On to Part 10