Not Today

by Becky

Title: Not Today
Author: Becky (bhoadley@gmail.com)
Archive: master_apprentice, others ask
Category: angst, POV
Rating: PG
Warnings: no sex, some blood.
Spoilers: Post TPM
Word Count: 378
Summary: Obi-Wan's still got work to do, and so does Qui-Gon.
Feedback: Yes, please, any constructive comments welcome.

That didn't sound human.

The sharp, breaking, and some how almost liquid sound. Not entirely... humanoid, actually was the far better descriptor. Possible saying it seemed insentient. It was so hard to find a good word in a galaxy occupied by so many forms of life. Even calling it animal-like carried certain inaccuracies and assumption.

Then pain slammed the air from his lungs, the sound stopped, and he realized it had come from him. Human after all, then. The thought carried wry amusement, and sardonic wit. It also carried a good deal more shock than pain, though he was sure something must surely have hurt if he'd made that sound at-

He staggered backward. Off the blade that had impaled him, just below the sternum. Metal scraped bone. He gritted his teeth, breath hissing between them and heard the rush of blood in his ears and felt it hot against his skin. Darkness swam at the edges of his vision and he sank to one knee, curled forward protectively around the uplifted one. One hand touched the floor to maintain his balance (balance! his mind laughed) light sabre lit, and held between his palm and the floor.

He could still feel the presence of the sword's owner. Hovering unseen and unheard just beyond the reach of dimmed senses.

Pain came finally, and fear.

I'm going to die here.

You are not going to die here.

I am not going to die here.

You still have work to do.

I still have work to do.

A deep breath, against the pain. Oxygen and Force being pulled into his body. Both vital. Neither nearly as much the rekindled hope brought by the, still, much loved presence of his master in one too brief exchange. The heat of healing, and the blue white explosion at the equally explosive exhale and he was on his feet with only the blood stains on his torn clothing to show that he'd ever been injured. His sword was in his hand and he was-

Dancing back into the fight.

He was going to give himself to a sword, yes. Or a sabre. He was certain at least of that much.

But it wouldn't be this sword, and it wouldn't be in this place, and it wouldn't be today.

It wouldn't even be death.