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Part 21

"No!" screamed Obi-Wan as the prince fell and he charged Qui-Gon's attacker, leaping over the prince's body. He struck madly, his adversary easily meeting each blow with his staff. Obi-Wan continued to land a volley of hits, all blocked. A part of him knew that he'd lost his focus, his strikes were weak, ill-timed and easily anticipated as if he were a novice swordsman, but there was little he could do about it. Hyper-aware of his charge, lying in the muck behind him, bleeding from what looked like a mortal wound, he felt his control eluding his grasp.

Eventually his exhaustion and the mucky ground conspired against him and his feet slipped out from under him. It allowed his adversary time to run his staff through one of the quillions of Obi-Wan's sword, yanking it from his hand. Obi-Wan scrabbled back toward the prince's body, watching as the assassin came toward him, circling his staff, making it wail.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see a glint of sunlight off the broad blade of the prince's sword. Eyes never leaving his adversary's he reached to his left, grabbing the sword and rising to his knees, plunging the heavy blade into the man's stomach.

Malevolent eyes looked down at him in surprise as the man dropped his staff to clutch at his belly. Obi-Wan grabbed the hilt of Qui-Gon's sword with both hands and pulled it out of the assailant's body. Planting himself more firmly, he ran the sword through the enemy a second time, angled up through the ribs.

Blood poured from the man's lips, mingling with the odd patterns tattooed on his face, and his eyes grew glossy, dead.

Breathing heavily, Obi-Wan turned and crawled to the prince. Qui-Gon lay at an odd angle, blood covering his stomach, his eyes closed. Obi-Wan laid his head on the prince's chest, relieved to feel it moving with regular breaths. Tearing open Qui-Gon's tunic, he discovered a wound just above the navel. He put pressure on the wound with one hand, using the other to tear material from the bottom of his own leggings, glad that he'd managed to convince the Prince that he'd be more comfortable riding in his own clothing; the order's uniform of simple home-spun linen made an excellent bandage.

He tied it as tight as he dared and then, sitting as comfortably as he could at the prince's side, he laid both hands over the wound and closed his eyes. There was no way he was going to be able to heal the wound immediately. He was tired and the healing sapped energy, the larger the wound, the more energy was needed to complete the task. On top of that he had to get them out of here, find someplace to hide until Qui-Gon was well enough to ride. He had played the fool once today to Valorum, he would not do it again -if more men were sent to ensure the first ones had completed their task, they would not find Qui-Gon and himself among the corpses and tombs.

He concentrated on the prince's wound, picturing himself enter the man's body at his wound, encouraging cells to grow and attach themselves to each other. It seemed a hopeless task. The tattooed man's blade had bitten deep into Qui- Gon's belly, slicing through flesh and nicking the intestines, and the wound was filthy inside and out. Men rarely lived after such a wound to the gut; Obi-Wan had seen even Pater Mundi fail to heal less serious injuries.

Qui-Gon was already feverish, his cheeks taking on an unhealthy flush, and sweat beaded on his forehead and chest. He moaned, struggling restlessly, tearing open the edges of the cruel wound still further.

"Be still," Obi-Wan begged, touching his face. He had no thought of failing his Trials, no thought that he would not be accepted as a Knight of his order. He only cared for Qui-Gon, dying in his lap. Qui-Gon moaned, catching his arm in a bruising iron grip.

"You're going to be well." Obi-Wan laid his hand over the wound, reaching deep inside himself for all the strength he could muster, and lost himself in the flow of energy.

Moving almost in a dream, he stood and went to the body of his horse, retrieving his water bag, and returned to the prince's side, rinsing the wound as well as he could. Then he knelt, laying both hands over the skin and ignoring the flow of blood, closing his eyes and losing himself again in the energies of healing, feeling it move and knit beneath his palms.

He pulled himself back before it was done, feeling his energy level draining rapidly.

He blinked, looking up through the trees, he judged by the height of the sun that several hours had passed. He had to get them away from here. Now.

Urgency fuelled him, moving him when his body would have him lie down and sleep. He pulled Qui-Gon's sword from their attacker's body, cutting the jerkin that displayed Valorum's colours from the dead man. A quick search produced his own poignard and he sheathed it with unsteady hands.

He whistled for Sebulba, not knowing if the stallion would come to his call, or even if the smell of blood had driven the horse far enough that the whistle would not be heard.

He nearly fell on top of the prince, sliding in the muck, barely catching himself from landing on the wound. Chewing his bottom lip, he pondered the best way to carry Qui-Gon without re-opening the wound. In the end he slid his hands beneath the Prince's arms and pulled him to the edge of the clearing, the large body sliding easily over the blood- soaked mud.

He could hear Sebulba whinnying in the distance and he whistled again. The stallion approached reluctantly, nostrils flaring at the scent of blood and excrement that hovered in the clearing. Obi-Wan left the prince to approach the beast, looping the reins around a convenient branch.

He used Qui-Gon's heavy, notched broadsword to cut two saplings and lashed them together with strips cut from his own tunic, forming a crude travois. He padded it with interlaced branches and Qui-Gon's own cloak, then tugged the moaning man onto it and tied it behind Sebulba. Grimacing at every moan when its ends struck a rock or root, he led the horse from the clearing.

Part 22

They couldn't afford to travel far this way, not with every jolt and bump in the path wringing a hoarse moan from the prince. He tried to ease Qui-Gon's journey but the need for him to lead Sebulba prevented him from providing an effective buffer against roots, sticks, and rocks.

Obi-Wan set his jaw grimly, listing worst-case scenarios. If there was a second party of soldiers. If those soldiers had hounds. His and Qui-Gon's lives depended on terrible whims of chance. Still, if there were dogs, no hiding place would be safe. If it were merely men, the less ostentatious a shelter they chose, the better.

He finally settled on the half-rotted trunk of a huge tree. Resting the travois next to the trunk, he hastened to chop away some boughs with his sword. He propped them up, forming a crude lean-to, forming a concealing shelter. The sky was clear, and he was glad there would be no rain. Given the time of year, the night would probably be chilly but not bitterly cold. As he gave Sebulba a hasty rub-down, he wished he could build a fire, but it would be safer not to risk someone seeing the smoke against the clear night sky.

Resting on his haunches next to the prone form of the prince, he placed one hand on the broad chest, the other against Qui-Gon's forehead. The prince's skin was hot, though his chest still rose and fell with relative ease. Obi-Wan was pretty sure he could heal the prince once his energy was restored; what worried him was that Qui-Gon could be dead before then.

He sent a quick pulse of healing through his hands and then forced himself to leave Qui-Gon's side in order to forage. He didn't have to go far before he had enough fir branches to make a tolerable bed, as well as a number of wild mushrooms.

Water was another matter altogether; his skin was empty - he'd used it all in his attempt to clean the prince's wound. An extra half-hour of searching proved fruitful as he discovered sweet cactus fern growing in small clumps at the base of a small hill. The juices the plant hoarded could keep both himself and Qui-Gon in enough liquid to last them several days. He broke off a limb and squeezed it, trickling the milky fluid into his mouth. It tasted wonderful, quenching his thirst and washing the dust of battle and the acrid bite of fear out of his mouth. He plucked several more segments to have ready for Qui-Gon when he needed them, then decided it was past time to return to their shelter.

Qui-Gon had thrashed while he was gone and new blood stained the cloth around the wound. He decided he couldn't risk foraging again until after his charge had improved. Breaking off a small limb of the sweet fern, he wrung it over Qui-Gon's open mouth, gradually trickling fluid into him. He would need a great deal of liquid to replace the blood he'd lost, but more than a trickle at a time would choke him.

Qui-Gon calmed as though sensing his return and lay still, though his breathing had worsened, rasping in a sound of pain with every inhalation. He looked pale, his cheeks sunken, but his breathing remained constant. His hair had matted into tangles around his shoulders and Obi-Wan swept it back off his skin, noticing in the process that Qui-Gon was no longer sweating. His flesh felt taut and dry, too hot... a fever, and that meant infection.

He would need even more liquid to combat the effects of the toxins in his system.

Obi-Wan squeezed harder, wringing a last few drops out of the sweet fern, then sighed. It still held liquid, but he would have to chew the stalks and suck the rest from inside; he only had a limited supply with him so he would have to find a way to share that with Qui-Gon.

He made a hasty mattress out of the fir branches, leaving his meager meal in one corner and then returned to the prince's side. He moved Qui-Gon as carefully as he could, but the short trip into the makeshift lean-to nonetheless elicited moans of pain and he was sure the wound was further damaged.

Obi-Wan sat with his legs apart, the prince cradled between them, head on Obi-Wan's stomach. He reached across the Qui- Gon's body to rest his hands on the wound, closing his eyes and using the last of his flagging energy to encourage the cells to knit together, closing the wound again.

Exhausted, but satisfied the prince would survive at least the next few hours, he closed his eyes and fell into a fitful sleep, leaving the chewed fronds for the horse.

Obi-Wan woke with a start, blinking in the darkness. The moon had risen, its pale light slivering into their hideout through the limbs he'd cut.

Qui-Gon lay deathly still in his lap, and for a heart- sickening moment he almost thought the prince was dead, but he was still warm, his chest rising and falling slowly. He moaned softly, and Obi-Wan reached to soothe him, stroking his tangled hair automatically. The stallion nickered nervously in the background, but Obi-Wan paid it no mind.

"Thirsty," Qui-Gon husked. He tried to move, then grunted with pain. "Hurts!"

Obi-Wan stroked his forehead and popped a piece of sweet fern into his mouth, chewing it to extract the nourishing fluid. He bent over to let it trickle from his mouth to Qui-Gon's where it dropped awkwardly onto the prince's mouth, oozing away onto his chin. Sighing, Obi-Wan accepted the necessity to close the distance between their lips.

Qui-Gon's tongue darted out to lick his cracked lips, then he lifted his head, sealing their mouths together, sucking greedily at the precious moisture. Obi-Wan nearly jerked back as the eager tongue lapped at his lips, then reminded himself of his greater duty, remaining still, chewing to free more and more of the liquid for Qui-Gon to drink.

He felt oddly giddy, lightheaded and strangely reckless. He was keenly aware of the prince's heavy bulk lying between his legs and partly on top of his body, and the sensation both pleased and discomfited him. The angle was awkward, and their noses bumped one another's chins, but that did not diminish the intimacy of the gesture, and Obi-Wan realized he would have done far more than this in the interests of preserving the prince's life, had circumstances required it.

And enjoyed it, came the niggling thought.

He pushed it away, aside from his vows, he was too honorable a man to take advantage of another in that manner. The prince was at his mercy, injured and quite likely dying, Obi-Wan himself the only obstacle between Qui-Gon and death.

He pulled away as he exhausted the moisture of the frond he chewed and Qui-Gon's hand flailed against his leg. "More," begged the prince in a hoarse voice.

"Shh, easy," soothed Obi-Wan, sliding his palm over the prince's cheek. "I've got you." He fumbled for another piece of the fern, chewing it and then feeding it to the prince, mouths locked together in order to avoid losing any of the precious moisture.

In the morning, after he'd finished with Qui-Gon's wound, he'd have to find more of the fern, or better yet fresh water, but until then, every single drop the plant yielded had to be consumed.

In the meantime he tried not to think of how soft the prince's tongue was as it slid into his mouth, searching for the liquid, or how solid the prince felt against his body.

It took a long time before all the reeds, save two that Obi- Wan tucked aside for morning, were sucked dry. The prince seemed to settle and though his skin was still hot and dry, his breathing had eased considerably.

Obi-Wan ate his meager meal of mushrooms, the deep, earthy taste filling his belly, and then lay back, his head cushioned by the rotting wood. He deliberately calmed his breathing and forced himself to sleep; he would need all the energy he could muster in the morning if Qui-Gon were to have a chance to live.

Part 23

Dawn light crept through a chink in the lean-to, making Obi-Wan blink awake. Qui-Gon still lay on him, the prince's head pillowed on one of his thighs; the position looked uncomfortable and Obi-Wan's leg had fallen asleep, hanging like dead weight. He bit his lip, dismayed; if they had been attacked he would have been useless to defend them. He sat still, trying to flex his toes and work some blood back into the aching limb. Qui-Gon felt the motion and his forehead pinched in a frown, his lips moving. They parted, his breath making a faint mist as it escaped them, and Obi-Wan felt a flash of memory-- the sensation of that warm breath, and the surprising silk of the lips under his own. And then hot liquid velvet lapping inside his mouth, touching his tongue...

He hardened a little just from the stray thought, and his eyes widened with dismay. That sensation was part of what had made Sira make those soft ecstatic whimpers when Qui-Gon kissed her. That tongue had teased blood to the surface of her flesh, and Shmi's, bedding the two so close together that the women both bore the marks at once! And here he was, feeling carnal lust for the prince... for his charge... for a man! And worse yet, for a man who had so little respect for his partners and for himself that he bedded a new one whenever it suited his fancy, moving on to the next and the next completely without thought or guilt!

Obi-Wan set his chin. He would have to purify himself thoroughly when he had the chance. But for now, the prince was still ill; Obi-Wan would have to find another time to accept and then release his confusion, lust, and anger. First on the agenda was a small measure of liquid, both for himself and the prince.

Digging into his meager ration of the sweet cactus fern, he broke one open, letting the liquid fall into the prince's mouth. He didn't want to risk feeding the prince from his mouth at the moment, with his body already responding so eagerly to the man. Chewing on the fern, he swallowed the rest of the liquid himself.

The feeling was returning painfully to his leg and so he carefully moved Qui-Gon until he lay completely on the ground. Folding his legs in front of himself, Obi-Wan closed his eyes and began to breathe deeply, gathering his strength. He pushed his worries and doubts aside along with the discomfort of the hard ground beneath him and the pins- and-needles feeling in his leg.

He reached out blindly, finding Qui-Gon's wound and laying his hands down upon it. While it was not worse than the day before, infection had set in and spread alarmingly. He didn't want to waste another moment, so he laid his hands on Qui-Gon's bare skin and mustered all his concentration, pouring energy into the process of healing.

He ignored sweat dripping over his eyebrows and onto his lids, his mouth working slightly as he felt the blood surging through Qui-Gon, healing the last of the torn flesh. The infection would take longer to subdue, but now that the tissue had healed, Qui-Gon could begin recovering strength to fight it on his own. Finishing before he could dangerously exhaust his energy reserves, Obi-Wan stood, swaying a bit; he was stiff from the lingering chill of the air and exhausted from the depth of the healing.

This time he led Sebulba with him, and dared to extend the radius of his search by a few hundred yards, but the forest was frustratingly barren of streams or springs. If he'd had the leisure, he would have set out water catchers the previous evening. He knew how to gather water when there was none-- he could have dug a two-foot pit and placed a stone in the middle of a sagging oiled skin suspended over a camp cup, or at worst he could have set out cupped leaves and then licked the moisture they gathered. But Qui-Gon had been his concern, and there was the cactus fern.

If only he'd realized how badly he would react to using it...

Obi-Wan sighed, then retraced his steps to the fern grove, letting Sebulba graze for moisture and breaking off a considerable supply while trying to make the grove continue to appear undisturbed by human hands. When he was satisfied that he had done all he could, he led the horse back to Qui- Gon's side and tethered it. Steeling himself, he broke off a piece of fern and began to chew.

To his relief and dismay the prince responded very differently this time to the enforced kiss. Obi-Wan had to force Qui-Gon's mouth open with his own lips and even when he began to trickle the liquid into him, the prince barely managed to swallow.

The fever was taking its toll and didn't seem to be improving at all. Obi-Wan would have to risk venturing further afield to find some water. He debated going immediately, but ultimately decided that he was too weak from his efforts at healing Qui-Gon and his earlier foraging. Instead he laid himself out alongside the prince, lying close to the fevered body.

Again, with nothing more than his exhaustion to distract him, his body reacted to the nearness of the prince. Angry with himself, he turned his back to the prince, but the new position left his backside exposed to the heat of the man, which only served to increase his unwilling arousal.

Turning, he faced the prince, watching the soft rise and fall of Qui-Gon's chest, noting the way the fever had pulled the prince's skin tight. Already Qui-Gon had begun to lose weight, cheeks beginning to hold the sunken look of the invalid.

His shirt was torn and rucked up past his nipples, which were a pale pink against the unnatural pallor of his skin. The scar, brightly pink, like a garish splash of paint, stood out, livid within the white expanse of the prince's abdomen.

Examining such details seemed to have little affect on his newfound ardor and Obi-Wan questioned himself. Why was he feeling this way? Had the prince's lewd activities and sexual innuendo had such an affect on his mind that his body was now affected by the man's mere presence?

Obi-Wan frowned. He had never had a problem with his vows of chastity, beyond the natural inclinations of a teenage boy; when those hormonally charged days had been left behind, Obi-Wan had carried on quite secure in his ability to turn his sexual energies to more fruitful endeavors. Why then was he reacting this way to a man who annoyed and frustrated him no end? A man who was spoiled and arrogant. A man who had little regard for Obi-Wan himself except as another body, a servant to protect him and possibly a bedmate to satisfy his baser urges.

Obi-Wan hated to think that he himself was reacting with that same baseness to the prince's presence now that the man was completely at his mercy. Surely he himself was not a man to have such physical responses without some emotion to spur them on. But that would mean-- no, he was tired and had narrowly escaped from the fighting with his own life, while the prince lay, barely clinging to life thanks only to Obi-Wan. It was only natural that he would begin to feel a closeness to the man, things were certain to go back to normal when the prince was once again his annoying self.

Obi-Wan purged his mind of his thoughts, slipping first into a light meditation and from there into a healing sleep.

Part 24

Obi-Wan rose with the dawn, feeling much refreshed; his deep, healing sleep had rid his body of its all-encompassing exhaustion. The morning was warmer than the previous one, birds singing in the branches, and he gazed down at Qui-Gon, who lay quiet. Obi-Wan laid his hand on the prince's forehead and snatched it back with alarm. Qui-Gon was burning up with fever.

The prince was disturbed by his touch, and moaned faintly, a husky breath. His body wasn't fighting the infection and Obi-Wan began to wonder fearfully if the soldier's blade had been poisoned.

One thing was for certain: they needed more water than the cactus fern could provide. Qui-Gon needed to drink deeply and Obi-Wan needed to bathe him so that evaporation would cool his skin. Adults frequently reacted poorly to such high fevers; sometimes there was damage to the mind associated with such illness.

He gave Qui-Gon what water he could from the remainder of the fern that he had gathered, then rose. He was going to have to risk the trip now; there was little more he could do to heal Qui-Gon using his natural enhancement techniques. Qui-Gon was a strong man; perhaps he could withstand the ravages of the fever for yet a while.

"Rest quietly, my Prince. I must go to fetch water."

Qui-Gon shifted restlessly and Obi-Wan accepted that as an answer. He looked for Sebulba, who had tugged loose from his makeshift tether and wandered to graze at the underbrush. Obi-Wan sighed, realizing he'd forgotten to feed the animal. The horse was churning up the ground and eating away the camouflaging leaves, making their campsite obvious to anyone who drew near it.

He'd have to deal with that when he could; maybe he could bring back something for the stallion to eat. He took out his brown cloak and departed, using it to camouflage himself as much as possible against the natural hues of the forest floor.

It was a long trip, longer than he remembered. They'd come a great distance in their reckless plunge through the forest and toward the graveyard, spurred by fear and dismay. Obi- Wan walked it cautiously, keeping an eye out for any signs of sentries or other soldiers, but saw nothing. When he arrived at the edge of the forest, he was further reassured-the roadway looked bare as far as his eyes could see in either direction.

He remembered clattering through at least two streams-- or perhaps one which meandered-- during the desperate gallop. He should be able to fill their water skins there. Turning toward the water he remembered, Obi-Wan kept cautiously to the edge of the woods, hugging the cover it provided in case anyone should happen along the rolling dips and hills in the road and surprise him.

It took him a half-hour's walk to find the stream again, trickling peacefully between muddy banks. He dipped the water skins full from a pool in the nearest bend, drank his fill, and then dipped them again. He tied them carefully to his belt, wishing he could have risked bringing the horse to carry them back. It would have been both easier and faster, and Sebulba too could have drunk, leaving more water in the skins that could be used solely for the prince.

He was about to head back when he realized the forest had gone still. Crouching against the trunk of a tree he listened carefully, finally making out the drumming of horses' hooves.

"They came this way, my lord," called a voice and Obi-Wan realized with dismay that they were headed right for him.

He skimmed up a nearby tree, barely reaching the first leaves for cover when a party of a half dozen men on horses passed below him. They colors they wore were the all-to- familiar blue and grey of Valorum's estate and the man himself sat among them, grim-faced and silent.

It was as bad as he feared; they were following the obvious trail that he and the prince had left in their wake during their mad dash through the forest with their ambushers in their wake. He could only hope that they would not pick up the trail leading away from the scene of the battle, but covering their tracks had been the least of his concerns at the time.

He trailed them silently as they made their way to the grave site. Obi-Wan shivered at the sight of the high stones, the memory of the battle washing over him. He'd made a terrible error in judgment, letting the prince travel virtually unaccompanied to Valorum's, and it had nearly cost them their lives. It still could come down to that; even if Valorum's men didn't discover the second trail, the fever could take Qui-Gon.

He could hear very little as the men went over the grave site, but they were obviously upset, Valorum especially.

"Damn it Bakay, are the prince and his man among the dead?"

Obi-Wan couldn't make out Bakay's reply, but he was shaking his head.

"Then find out where they went," snapped the Lord, his face growing grimmer.

Obi-Wan held his breath, but his hopes were dashed when an excited yell sounded from one of Valorum's men. "I've found their trail, my lord!"

Part 25

Obi-Wan mouthed a silent curse and fell in behind Valorum's party, staying as far back as he could. Nobody appeared to be looking back, their attention focused forward on the scout who led the , and as the breeze shifted, Obi-Wan realized he too could hear the excited words.

"There was a horse, dragging something, and a man walking. I taste blood in the mud... I think someone was injured. The prints are from one of the light horses... those would be the prince or his bodyguard, I think, based on the earlier tracks we followed. None of the horses shod with a crossbar came this way." The man straightened, gazing keenly into the forest. "I believe the man walking was the bodyguard, milord. His boots are smaller than the prince's."

"That would make the wounded man...." The voices faded and Obi-Wan cursed the fickle forest breeze that carried them away.

He worked his way forward quickly; he would only have one chance to head them off. The thoroughness of Valorum's guide was both a blessing and a curse; it would be harder to fool the man, but at least Obi-Wan had the time to try.

At about the midway point between the site of the battle and the hollowed-out tree where he'd left Qui-Gon lay a large patch of brambles that he'd had to cross with the Prince. They had walked some way north, hoping to go around it, but in the end he'd been forced to push his way through. He would attempt to make it look as if they had given up finding a way around the briars before the point where they'd actually crossed them, and instead headed back in the general direction of the main road.

If Valorum's man fell for the ruse, Obi-Wan would attempt to cover their real tracks behind the bramble patch so that even when they realized they were on the wrong trail, they would be unable to pick up the real one.

The prince had not been fit to move that morning, certainly not with any speed, and Obi-Wan doubted there would have been that great a change. Obi-Wan spared a moment to worry about his charge. He had already been gone far longer than he'd intended and Qui-Gon desperately needed the water Obi- Wan carried in the skins. He had no way of knowing whether or not the prince was still alive. Of course the answer to that would matter little if Valorum and his men discovered their bolt-hole.

Using a bunch of brambles fashioned into a broom of sorts, which had only cost him a few dozen scratches, Obi-Wan swept away the tracks beyond their fictitious turning point. On his way back he randomly dropped stones and leaves, as well as bits and pieces from his makeshift broom.

The spot he'd chosen as their turnoff was where they'd rested a few moments, making it a natural place for them to have turned. Hastily curving a small tree branch to match the shape of Sebulba's shoe, Obi-Wan began to make a new trail. The ground here was mossy and hard-packed, he would only need to leave the odd horseshoe imprint and boot track. Reproducing the odd drag of the Prince's pallet proved to be more difficult. In the end he lay on the ground and dragged his legs behind him, even going so far as to cut one of his fingers, leaving a small blood trail along with the other signs.

He had only completed several dozen yards of the false trail when he spied Valorum's group arriving at the point where his ruse began. Ripping a piece of his leggings, he wrapped it in a stone and flung it as far as he could.

He held little hope that the trail would hold them for long, but perhaps it would be long enough for him to erase their real tracks. Stealthily making his way to where they had crossed the brambles, he noted it was beginning to grow dark. Though it would be several hours before it was too dark for Valorum and his men to continue, the encroaching darkness would hinder the tracker's ability to stay with the trail.

Obi-Wan heaved a sigh of relief when the search party veered to follow the false trail. Perhaps Valorum's man was not so competent as he seemed; he appeared to be following the branch-stamped tracks without hesitation.

However, just as quickly as his spirits rose, they were dashed. After several yards of following the scattered imprints Obi-Wan had left, the man abandoned his horse to study the ground closely. He could not see any more than that from his vantage, not without a risk of exposing himself to someone's view. But within minutes, the entire party was retracing their steps, and he knew that the tracker was worth whatever Valorum paid him. It was most unfortunate that his competence had to work to the detriment of the prince's safety.

His desperate ruse had gained perhaps ten minutes at best, not nearly enough for darkness to discourage them from pursuing the trail for the night. Something else would have to be done.

Back at the junction of the real trail and the false one, they conversed tensely, in low voices. Some of the men drew out hard trail biscuit and gnawed, listening to the quiet words. Obi-Wan sighed deeply. Now they knew they were being watched, they would also be aware that they had to be very close to their quarry. However, the pause for meal and planning gave him a small respite. Given luck, it might be just what he needed.

He sank to his heels, squatting and bracing against the trunk of a tree, and settled his mind, glad of Pater Mundi's lessons in achieving one's center in times of great stress. After only a few seconds, he could begin to sense the ripples of energy around him. The tense, jangling discord of the men. His own nervous concern. The peaceful steadfastness of the trees; small flickers of brightness from birds and tiny forest animals-- and more.

He reached out toward a presence on the edge of his conscience. Vague feelings of aggression and territoriality, combined with hunger, danced on the fringes of his awareness. Aware that there was a price for meddling directly in the stream of nature, he nevertheless reached out to them. Food. Luscious and abundant, and water to drink. Near the man-animals. He made pictures of the words, felt interest from the predatory minds he had sensed. He only hoped they were not lethal to humans-- such as bears or wolves. Animal deaths as a result of this abuse of power would be fearsome enough on his conscience without human deaths added to them.

They party had resumed the proper path now; he felt them drawing near and melted back further into the woods, glad that the onset of night added to the camouflage of his robe. He would not want to be between the search party and the... boars, he realized, hearing a low grunt. Wild boars. Dangerous to man and horse alike, but without the aggression and natural weaponry of many large predators. Still, this party was ill-equipped to deal with them; they carried no spears, and were probably not riding horses trained in the hunt.

He heard one of those same horses whinny nervously, warning its rider, but the shy was ignored. Then suddenly angry squeals broke out-- Obi-Wan could feel the boars, feel their anger that the man-animals were guarding the food they wanted and needed. The boars, secure in their numbers, decided to charge, not fearing the horses. They knew that these tamed animals would run rather than fight.

Then a horse screamed its panic and Obi-Wan saw it rear. Another joined, and suddenly the disciplined knot of men erupted into chaos as the leading animals bolted and the others followed suit. Many bolted into the briars, drawing curses from their riders and pained whinnies as they thrashed mindlessly through the underbrush to escape the threat of the long-tusked boars.

Others bolted back out of the forest, resisting their riders' attempts to turn them. Valorum and his tracker had been on the forest floor examining the marks of the trail; Valorum managed to mount his steed before his attempt to master it failed. The beast crashed into the forest with the tracker clinging at the stirrup, not caring to be left to the tender mercies of the wild pigs. His desperate bounding leaps prevented him being dragged, but Obi-Wan winced, knowing that could not last for long.

Their enemies scattered, the boars milled, seeking the food Obi-Wan had promised. They pawed the ground, snuffling with their snouts and turning over the rich loam. Obi-Wan watched, glad that none had been shot or stabbed in the panic, but he could not assuage their growing anger, bewilderment, and feelings of betrayal-- it was as though their instincts had lied to them; they could not understand.

He bowed his head, acknowledging his guilt, but his duty had been the greater obligation. He would have to confess this sin to Pater Mundi; mental domination-- especially when it involved lying to a lesser being who could not understand the value systems that made it necessary-- was all but forbidden by the Order.

Dismissing his guilt for later, he decided that by the time Valorum managed to regroup and gather his men, it would be too late for them to resume their search for himself and Qui-Gon that evening; they would have to return to the estates or camp. Luckily none of the horses had bolted toward his and Qui-Gon's own small camp.

Obi-Wan found the trail beyond where the boars had obscured it, and made certain that no vestiges of it remained to be followed in the morning. Patting the water skin that slapped against his hip, he was glad to see Sebulba's silhouette against the darkening forest. The horse scented him and whickered uneasily; Obi-Wan's heart shot to his throat as he heard a low, rasping moan respond to the sound.

He vaulted the tree hastily, eyes greedily seeking Qui-Gon. He realized with dismay that the prince had thrashed, tossing off his cloak. His hair was matted with dirt and leaves, and his face was white and haggard, except for his cheeks, that had flushed bright, burning with hectic color. Obi-Wan fell to his knees at the prince's side, noting with alarm that he seemed to have lost flesh during the day-- the fever was ravaging him from the inside. His eyes snapped open, burning brightly in his haggard face; he seemed not to recognize Obi-Wan, reaching for him.

"My Mirim," he rasped. "I wronged you, my wife..." Qui-Gon caught Obi-Wan's wrist in a deathly strong, earnest grip. "Forgive me, that I may die with a clear conscience? I do not deserve it, but I would ask this mercy..."

"It's I, Obi-Wan," he tried to reclaim his wrist, but the prince's grasp was too strong. "I've brought water, and you aren't going to die." He felt hysterical emotion rising in him-- the first time he had ever felt panic so strongly; some part of him split away to analyze it clinically for what it was. The rest of him stared into Qui-Gon's delirious expression, touched by his pain.

"Shmi... promise me... take care of our son..." Prince Qui-Gon commanded, his eyes wandering vaguely. Abruptly the unnatural strength seemed to leave him and his eyes sank shut, his grip on Obi-Wan's wrist finally loosening and falling away completely.

Obi-Wan scrabbled for the water skin, cursing.

Part 26

The most pressing matter was to cool the prince down. There was no time for finesse; grabbing the waistband of Qui-Gon's leggings in his hands, Obi-Wan tore them from the prince's body and then did the same with the bloodied tunic. Using the prince's own leggings, he wet the material down and began to wipe Qui-Gon's skin.

The proud face was drawn and sunken, the color of fine bone porcelain and the skin beneath his fingertips and cloth felt as delicate as that same china. And hot. A plague had swept the kingdom some one hundred years ago and several of the older members of the Order had been among those offering solace and comfort to the dying. They told tales of men burning up with fever so great that it caused their skin to catch fire, death becoming a welcoming end to their unbearable suffering.

Obi-Wan had always discounted these accounts as tales told to scare the youngest members of the Order, but the heat of the prince's skin made him wonder if perhaps they were true. Certainly he had never encountered anyone with such a high fever and he began to worry for the prince's faculties, should he live.

Working as quickly as he could, Obi-Wan kept his cloth wet, running down the prince's body, that small detached part of him, noting that despite the color and weight loss, Qui- Gon's chest and abdomen were still muscled and his sex lay heavily against his thigh, large even while quiescent.

Taking a small measure of water into his own mouth, Obi-Wan closed his mouth over Qui-Gon's. The prince's lips were dry and like rice paper, Obi-Wan felt as if too much pressure upon them would rip the skin open, but he pushed his tongue between the prince's lips, parting them, and then dribbled the water from his mouth to Qui-Gon's.

The prince choked, the water spilling out of his mouth and dribbling down his chin, disappearing among the short hairs of his beard. Pushing his panic to the deepest corner of his mind, Obi-Wan took another drink and tried again, letting only a drop or two pass from his mouth into Qui- Gon's.

He gently massaged the prince's throat, coaxing the man into swallowing and then dribbled a few more drops down the parched throat. Drop by drop Obi-Wan fed Qui-Gon until all the water had evaporated from the prince's body, whereupon he wet the man down once more and began again to siphon the liquid into Qui-Gon's mouth.

He repeated the cycle several times, stopping only to water the stallion, who had moved close and nosed him in the ribs, trying to get to the sloshing water skin.

Finally the water ran low. Gathering his strength and energy to himself, Obi-Wan cupped the prince's head in his hands and placed his forehead against Qui-Gon's. He poured as much healing power into his charge as he could, leaching his own energy into the prince's body as much as he was able. Unsure if his efforts had been successful, but exhausted in body, mind and spirit, Obi-Wan lay down next to Qui-Gon and fell into a fitful slumber.

It was nearly dark when he woke again. He was warm, his body recovered from its arduous duties the previous day; he snuffled and burrowed deeper into the warm covers that blanketed him. His eyes flew open as he remembered their circumstances, discovering that his 'warm blanket' was in fact made of living flesh. The prince had shifted in the night, turning to his side and wrapping himself around his bodyguard. Seeking his body heat, Obi-Wan told himself, perfectly natural under the circumstances.

Still, that didn't explain why his own body was curved into the prince's hold, his own shaft heavy with the first stirrings of arousal. The last time he had woken in such a state he'd been a teenager, still working to control his body's reactions. Since then all such energies had been released and gathered back for more useful endeavors.

His next discussion with Pater Mundi was going to be long and painful. They should have sent an older monk, confirmed in the order and experienced in dealing with the outside world. Not a green boy who apparently had little control of his passions and had no idea how he would be tried by this mission.

It only confirmed his suspicions that someone in the monastery was sympathetic to the interests who were trying to see to the prince's death. Obi-Wan firmed his jaw. Whether he was fit or not, he would expend his last breath trying to see that his task succeeded. His own failings were troublesome, but not yet crucial impediments to his chances for success in protecting Qui-Gon...

Qui-Gon, who was nestling close to him as though he were Sira! The prince seemed to be dreaming, murmuring beneath his breath, his arms curving possessively around Obi-Wan's slim form, one hand trailing down his back to his hips. It made Obi-Wan's shaft tingle and fill, and he pushed at the prince's chest gingerly, trying to ease himself out of the gentle embrace. But Qui-Gon was strong in spite of his bout with the fever, and Obi-Wan could not dislodge him.

This is how Sira felt in his arms, the thought flashed giddily through his mind. Engulfed. Desired.

That was enough to persuade him to abandon thoughts of escape without waking the prince. He pried his way out with determination. The fever seemed fully gone, perhaps a result of the fresh water and the last healing he had done, but Qui-Gon was still weak-- otherwise, Obi-Wan suspected he could not have extricated himself without cooperation.

Qui-Gon's eyes blinked open, squinting against the morning light, and he looked up at Obi-Wan. He seemed calm, rational-- clearly he recognized Obi-Wan's face, not thinking he saw some specter of a departed wife. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Then he swallowed with a dry click and tried again, raspy but audible.

"Do you have water?"

"I used what I brought to bathe you and break the fever, and spared some for Sebulba." Obi-Wan responded, looking at his dry water skins with dismay. "But there is cactus fern."

Qui-Gon tried to raise himself to look, but slumped back, apparently exhausted by that and by his effort to hold Obi- Wan close.

Obi-Wan grabbed a stem of fern and began to chew quickly, spitting out the pith and holding the water in his mouth. He bent to Qui-Gon, touching their lips together. The prince's mouth opened and Obi-Wan let the liquid flow between them, feeling Qui-Gon's hand come up to steady his head. The prince's tongue darted forth, seeking more of the moisture; Obi-Wan sat back and chewed again, then repeated the process, again feeling the warm hand come to rest at his nape.

He relaxed eventually, growing used to the prince's acquiescence and the awkward intimacy of the gesture. Qui- Gon's belly growled as the water reached it, dry tissues craving more, and Obi-Wan worked to satisfy them, forgetting himself in the rhythm of what he was doing-- until he finished one drink only to find that the hand at his nape suddenly seemed to be made of lead, too heavy to move.

His eyes flew open with shock; Qui-Gon's tongue was in his mouth, and it flickered about, exploring behind his lips and darting past his teeth to touch his own tongue. It was far too late to shut his mouth and exclude it. Off-balance, he could not wrench away; Qui-Gon's other arm came up and imprisoned him, locking around his waist.

The prince drank-- of him. Obi-Wan squirmed without result, a frantic protest muffled in his throat, silenced by the slow determined strokes of his prince's warm tongue and the moving pressure of his soft lips. He felt his penis come urgently to life, and Qui-Gon snugged their bodies together tightly, rocking against it. Obi-Wan protested again, a wordless cry, feeling the prince's sturdy thigh sliding between his legs-- and for a moment, he was no longer sure if the sound he made was a demand for freedom or a plea for more.

Then Qui-Gon rolled him to his back and continued to devour him lazily, and Obi-Wan abruptly understood. His healing had worked to disperse the fever and remove the remainder of the illness; the prince's display of extreme weakness had been only a ruse. A ruse designed to make him complacent and give Qui-Gon the chance to do this, to take this from him unwilling.

Fury rose as swiftly as lust. He could not kick or bring a knee to bear, but his thigh was sufficient, and he used it to its best effect, snapping it upward and mashing the prince's testicles roughly. Qui-Gon released him with a bewildered, pained yelp, rolling away to protect his sensitive genitals.

"A man who would feign continued illness in order to take sexual advantage of the comrade who has tended him as he lay at death's door does not deserve the care that brought him back from it!" Obi-Wan sputtered, rolling to his feet. He kicked the rest of the sweet fern to Qui-Gon's side and rose, stalking over to the horse. The broad body concealed his face from Qui-Gon's gaze and he stood there for a moment, shaking, his body confused and aching. He wanted to go back. Sith, he wanted to lie in Qui-Gon's arms again. He let his head tilt forward, his forehead resting against Sebulba's sleek ribs.

Control. He must regain control.

After a minute of measured breathing, he raised his head. "Since you are feeling so well, we will be away from here. It is dawn, and Valorum's search party will have regrouped in the night. They will be moving shortly. I assume you can ride!" His voice sharpened with resentment.

In answer, Qui-Gon staggered to his feet. His tunic was bloody, sliced and torn, his leggings gone, and he made a poor, decidedly unregal figure as he gathered his cloak and the water skins. Obi-Wan flipped the saddle blanket onto Sebulba's back and cinched the saddle on, then gave Qui-Gon a boost into it, feeling a small stab of vengeful pleasure when the prince winced as his tender underparts slapped into the seat.

"I will walk behind and attend to our tracks," Obi-Wan informed the prince sharply, and they set out without further speech.

Part 27

Qui-Gon took his direction from the scant remains of their trail in, happy it was there as he had no idea where they were. He squinted at the dawn, wondering how many days he'd lost -his bodyguard's cheeks had been rough with more than a day's growth, but whether it was two days or two weeks, Qui- Gon didn't know.

He'd awoken with the boy in his arms, warm and real after disturbing dreams that included a madman with strange markings on his face. He'd also dreamed of his late wife, Shmi, and his bodyguard making slow love to him each in turn. But it seemed that they hadn't been dreams at all. Thinking on it he could clearly remember the ambush and the battle among the gravestones; the casual cruelty in the eyes of the man with the red and black tattoo as he had attacked, his knife slipping into Qui-Gon's body and the burst of pain.

One hand flew to his belly and he looked down, amazed to find only new pink skin where a gapping wound should be. He pressed experimentally, finding the area tender but not sore; he doubted there would even be a scar. Eyes narrowing he twisted around on the saddle to look back at his bodyguard. Kenobi was some ways back, working diligently to erase all signs of their passage. The boy had done this to him, kept him alive and healed what surely had been a fatal wound.

He heard Kenobi's words again; "A man who would feign continued illness in order to take sexual advantage of the comrade who has tended him as he lay at death's door does not deserve the care that brought him back from it!" It had been harsh payment indeed, though it grated that Kenobi had automatically thought the worst of him.

He straightened in the saddle, wincing as his abused genitals rubbed against the leather. His memories of the time between the attack and waking up with his arms full of Kenobi were hazy and unclear, but surely the boy had kissed him. He knew before their mouths met this morning what Kenobi would taste like, this was not the first time his tongue had licked at that mouth.

The boy had not fought him, not until he rolled him onto his back, and he could still feel the brand of Obi-Wan's hard length against his thigh. He shook his head and tried to sort out his memories and dreams, disturbed by his inability to distinguish what was real from what was not.

Perhaps Kenobi had been feeding him water from the sweet fern all along, and his delirious mind had mistaken the meaning of that... his heart sank. That must surely be what had happened. His dreams and reality had tangled themselves confusingly, and as a result he'd pushed too hard, made his move too soon.

He sagged a little in the saddle, feeling weary. It would be a long time before he tasted that mouth again, he suspected. It might even be a long time before Kenobi was ready to speak to him civilly once more. And there was only the memory of Kenobi's arousal to cling to as evidence that his bodyguard didn't completely despise him.

They emerged into the sun and soon Qui-Gon's head was swimming, spinning dizzily with each lurch of the saddle. They stopped at a stream and Sebulba drank heavily; Kenobi filled their water skins wordlessly and gave Qui-Gon one so that he could quench his own burning thirst. Then they proceeded, a little slower than before, avoiding the road. The angle of the sun told Qui-Gon that they were headed back toward the castle.

He sighed, his posterior aching with every shift against the saddle's stiff leather. It was going to be a long trip back. He just hoped it would be uneventful.

Part 28

By the time the castle walls hove into sight over the horizon, Qui-Gon had begun to think he could not endure much more. His bottom was rubbed raw, his head ached miserably, and he felt weak as a kitten. The sight only served to tire him more; he realized that sheer adrenaline and stubbornness were keeping him in the saddle, and that he had no energy reserves left to draw on.

He felt himself sway; his bodyguard cursed and then vaulted up behind him, steadying him with warm, solid arms. Qui-Gon was too weary and desolate even to appreciate the sensation of the lean, strong body pressed snugly against his, holding him upright.

In his weakened state he surely would have fallen from the horse had Kenobi not been keeping him in place. Sebulba whinnied and snorted, tossing his head and sped his pace again, though his flank was covered in sweat and Qui-Gon could feel the great beast's muscles quivering with strain. It reminded him that, though the worst injured, he had not been the only one deprived of food and drink, but there was no betraying tremor in the arms that were wrapped around him.

A shout from the castle gate presaged their opening wide, a flood of people ran down to meet their wounded prince. Qui- Gon felt too tired to answer the inquiries bombarding his ears, and was glad when Obi-Wan spurred Sebulba steadily through the masses, shaking his head impatiently at queries, saying only "He is tired but well."

They came to a halt inside the stable courtyard, finally pressed in too tightly to move. The chamberlain who served the crown prince was there; Qui-Gon caught his eye amidst the multitude. The chamberlain gestured for quiet, and an expectant hush fell. "Duke Valorum sent word that the prince never arrived." The chamberlain shoved through the throng to Sebulba's stirrup. "What happened?"

"Prince Qui-Gon was attacked," Obi-Wan's voice carried strongly, then paused for the swell of shocked voices to rise and fade. He reached inside his cloak, and drew out the vest. "Our attackers wore this livery."

The chamberlain went white. "Valorum's men!" The courtyard exploded in horrified chatter and wailing.

Obi-Wan sat still, supporting the prince inside his arms. "Let messengers be sent to summon Valorum to court," he commanded, and the roar went silent, everyone wanting to hear his words. "I would hear his explanation of this." Qui-Gon could only imagine the expression on his face; it caused those nearest to back away, then chaos exploded again in the silence.

The chamberlain snatched the nearest person and barked instructions; soldiers immediately began to scatter.

"Have men bring a litter!" Obi-Wan shouted over the din. "The prince requires rest and hot broth!"

Qui-Gon felt a small surge of resentment at the way Kenobi was ordering his people about, but he was too weary to protest. When a path opened to let through two stable-boys with a litter between them, Qui-Gon allowed himself to be helped down into it with relief.

He wanted a hot bath, but by the time he found the energy to voice the command, they had cleared the courtyard and were moving down the hallway, Kenobi striding at his side, one hand wrapped around the edge of the litter. Looking up into his bodyguard's face, he tried to read Kenobi's emotions, but Obi-Wan's ffire for the evening meal.

She already had a small tub and several sponges laid out for a bath and if it hadn't taken too much effort, Qui-Gon would have smiled at the efficiency of his staff.

Kenobi took the tray from her and laid it on the small table and then stripped away what remained of Qui-Gon's clothing. Was it his imagination, or were his bodyguard's fingers not as impersonal as they had been the day they'd met when Kenobi had tended his scratches? Hiding his disappointment as Kenobi stepped back and let Sira tend to him, Qui-Gon paid more attention to the boy stripping from his own clothing than he did to Sira's familiar touch.

She took her time, carefully running the sponge over his entire body; it felt good to be rid of the grime and blood of their ordeal. If he hadn't been so tired he would have enjoyed watching Kenobi's quick sponge bath, even more than being given his own, but the morning's journey and his recent injury took their toll.

He listened as Kenobi recited a clear and detailed account of the attack and the following days to a scribe. Almost before he knew it, his own bath and Kenobi's ended and Kenobi slipped on a pair of clean leggings. In moments, his bodyguard was dismissing Sira as he helped settle Qui-Gon back against his pillows.

"He won't be needing your further services tonight," he informed her curtly. Her eyes snapped with irritation, but she left silently, flouncing her skirt. Qui-Gon watched the by-play with tired interest, wondering if it meant a flicker of jealousy, or just Obi-Wan's usual suspicion. He could not tell.

Kenobi brought the tray and sat on the edge of his bed, filling a spoon and testing the broth. He rolled it on his tongue carefully, then nodded and laid the tray on the prince's chest. He began ferrying the soup from bowl to mouth efficiently, with a surprising amount of skill and few drips. Qui-Gon had little choice but let himself be fed; the weight of the full bowl on his chest ominously promised to spoil his comfortable mattress if he struggled.

The broth tasted better than anything Qui-Gon could remember, rich and meaty. His stomach growled as he swallowed, and Obi-Wan let him have a few bites of bread from the loaf Sira had also brought, first tasting the slice carefully. Finally Qui-Gon could eat no more; he felt his eyelids sinking heavily. Obi-Wan took away the bowl, and drank the remnants himself, swallowing quickly. He gnawed the bread as he moved about the room, and Qui-Gon realized he was laying out his pallet.

The prince promptly raised himself to an elbow, albeit shakily, and frowned. "I have been rude. You should have a proper bed."

Obi-Wan shrugged, not looking at him. "This is no hardship."

Qui-Gon sighed and began to kick feebly at the blankets covering his legs. "I'll summon the servants to bring you a mattress."

"That you will not!" the bodyguard informed him tartly. "You can't even stand."

Qui-Gon proved him wrong, thought he had to clutch at the bedpost to do it. He was keenly aware of his disheveled state, but he drew himself up as much as he could, finding what dignity he had remaining. However, the bell was across the room. He eyed it, knowing he could not relinquish his hold on the bedpost, and unwilling to crawl.

Kenobi stood by his blankets, looking exasperated. He folded his arms impatiently, waiting for Qui-Gon to concede. An idea struck the prince, and he sat back down on the mussed bed. "If you will not have my hospitality, then you will have my apology." His stomach tightened unpleasantly around the meal of bread and broth, but he made himself continue. "I did not feign illness this morning, or intend to trick you. I had... dreamed, and I believe I was... confused." Damn the boy, why did the words taste so bitter? He continued manfully. "In my illness, I misunderstood you offering me water. I believed that you had also kissed me, and would welcome more." He felt his cheeks redden, something he could not remember happening since he was still a lad. Doggedly, he plowed on. "Reality and dreaming mingled, with unfortunate result. I crave your forgiveness."

Obi-Wan stared at him for a long moment, calculating his sincerity and evaluating how much the words had cost him. "It is given."

Qui-Gon sagged with weary relief; apparently the equation had balanced.

Obi-Wan studied him again, pensive. "You must wish you could warm your bones with a bedmate, and I've dismissed Sira." He sounded chagrined. "I can summon her again, if you wish."

"No." Qui-Gon was too tired for that now; sleepiness had begun to descend on him again. He lifted his feet into the bed, and Obi-Wan came close to cover him. "I will not rest well knowing you are tossing on the stone," Qui-Gon grumbled as Obi-Wan fussed. "I would rest better if you stayed at my side, between me and any attackers." He was too tired to be crafty or persuasive, falling back on a pure truth that he would rarely have allowed himself to admit. Obi-Wan's hands stilled. "And I am too tired to trouble you," Qui-Gon concluded with a yawn.

"Very well." Kenobi's voice was quiet, and Qui-Gon was too tired to analyze his tone for deeper meaning. "I will be at your side to protect you. Rest without fear."

The last thing Qui-Gon remembered before sleep took him was the shift and rustle of the mattress as Kenobi's warm body slid under the covers at his side.

Part 29

Obi-Wan lay stiffly on the soft mattress, listening to the quiet susurration of the prince's breathing.

He'd been far more comfortable on his pallet, and even on the ground with nothing more than pine branches, leaves and his cloak for a bed; his body was unused to such luxury as soft bedding and the slide of silky sheets. Of course, his inability to get comfortable and find sleep himself had more to do with the man lying next to him and his own reactions to him than the decadence of the bed.

He had been taught to look at the world, and more specifically himself and his place in it, with brutal honesty and though he was obviously failing his calling quite appallingly in one area, he would not allow himself to do so in others. He was ashamed to admit, even to himself, that the prince had not been entirely wrong when he'd assumed that Obi-Wan was willing.

His own body had betrayed him, his shaft hardened at the proximity of the prince's body and aching, leaving him aware of an emptiness in himself that he'd never before felt. His mind may not have wanted Qui-Gon's kisses, but his body had welcomed them eagerly. His vows had never before been so sorely tested.

The late afternoon sun was pushing its way into the room, casting long shadows on the walls, but illuminating the bed and Obi-Wan turned to study the prince. He looked weary, still slightly dirt-smeared, and his cheeks were hollow with fasting and fever... but he was beautiful.

Silver touched his hair, and Obi-Wan knew how it caught the light when the long silky mane was fresh and clean, shining in the sun. His beard framed a handsome square chin, strengthening it still further, the wiry hairs neatly trimmed, giving him an air of distinction. His brow was heavy; he could look intimidating, stern, or simply regal.

He was masterful in passion, with sweat sliding down his bare, slightly weathered skin. With the veins in his arms in bold relief as he clutched another body. With his penis full of blood, hard and gleaming as it plunged in and out of a body, seeking pleasure. With his breathing heavy and soft sounds of passion coming from his throat. He was a generous lover; Sira's cries had not been those of an actress playing her part. She had enjoyed the prince's touch.

The thought of Sira brought him back to himself and Obi-Wan leapt from the bed to pace. His own penis was hard, throbbing; he'd been rubbing it with his fist. His body still betrayed him, his piety becoming a sham. Bracing himself against the rough stone wall next to the door, he closed his eyes and concentrated on releasing his arousal. The fact that he had accepted the prince's apology instead of confessing his own complicity in the morning's activities weighed heavily on him, one more confession he would need to make.

At this rate he would be an old man before his penance was complete.

More seriously, if he could not discover the source of these feelings and control them, his very calling was in jeopardy. He could not make full vows to the order until he could do so with a clear conscience and that meant having full control of his body and his faculties.

The cold of the stone finally penetrated, and Obi-Wan stepped away, his body once again under control.

Once this crisis was past, he would have to send to Pater Mundi for a replacement so that he could make his confession and mortify his flesh. He only hoped his request would not be seen as a failure, dashing his plans of joining the order as a full Knight.

Qui-Gon moaned softly, shifting restlessly. Returning to the bed, Obi-Wan slid again in between the soft sheets, touching the prince's arm with his fingers. Qui-Gon stilled immediately. A swell of emotion shivered through Obi-Wan with tender ferocity at the prince's response, and he bit back tears. It would be hard to leave Qui-Gon and return to the monastery, but the longer he stayed, the more he knew that it must happen. The skin beneath his hand felt warm and soft, but there was no way this could be construed as a sexual touch. Obi-Wan comforted himself as best he could with that small reassurance, nestling his head in the pillow.

He was tired almost to the point of hysteria, coming away from a very difficult battle and from the ordeal of healing and hiding, he reminded himself. Perhaps things would look better in the morning.

Part 30

Qui-Gon awoke, lapped in comfort, feeling as good as he had in recent memory. He lay quite still, enjoying the sense of ease in his bones and the warmth of his companion, tucked comfortably inside the crook of his body. He resisted thought and duty, letting himself drift on the fringes of sleep, lapped in perfect bliss. The body against his was hard and slim, and he basked in its solid warmth.

He sighed with contentment, nestling closer. So good, so rare, to have a man in his bed. His father had always disapproved, so most of his liaisons had been brief and unsatisfying, lacking true intimacy. He opened his eyes slowly, letting his gaze trace over the pale shoulder in front of him. Coppery hair, and a long braid falling across the boy's cheek...

Memory flared, and Qui-Gon froze with alarm. All he needed was for his bodyguard to wake now and accuse him of unwanted caresses! He began peeling himself away carefully, moving slowly so as not to disturb the young man if possible, half- afraid that the lad would snap awake at the first motion, thinking it a threat. He breathed easier as he withdrew; Obi-Wan remained still, his breathing regular and undistressed.

At last he was lying on his side, not touching his bodyguard. He heard the soft click of the servant's door opening and glanced over. It was Sira, a steaming kettle and mugs on a tray in her hands. He put his finger to his lips, not wanting her to wake Obi-Wan, but he felt the bed shift and looked back to find his bodyguard awake and alert, tense muscles slowly relaxing.

"Put them on the table," Kenobi told her. She did, standing back when she'd done, eyes darting from one to the other. Qui-Gon knew what she was assuming and wondered if Kenobi did as well. Another glance in the boy's direction found him calm, cheeks untinged by the heat of embarrassment.

"Has Valorum been remanded into custody yet?" Obi-Wan asked the girl. She glanced briefly at Qui-Gon and he gave her a quiet nod.

"A messenger arrived first thing this morning. He's on his way. The King wants everyone in the throne room an hour before mid-day."

"Thank you," replied his bodyguard. "You can go now." Qui-Gon hid his grin as the girl stiffened and turned to him. Before he could echo the dismissal Obi-Wan spoke again. "Your services are not required."

"I can see that!" she responded tartly, looking the boy up and down before turning her nose up, her disdain obvious in her stance. She curtseyed sweetly to Qui-Gon and left without another word.

"Now she's convinced we're lovers. The whole castle will know before Valorum is brought before my father," Qui-Gon said, wondering how the boy would react. His own reaction came as a surprise; rather than looking forward to enjoying his bodyguard's discomfort, he felt a pang and wished that it were true.

"Your father will know that it is not so," Obi-Wan commented enigmatically. He rose from the bed without further comment and began to dress without pausing to bathe. "It is late, and we do not want to be the last to the audience," he prodded Qui-Gon, looking down at his buttons.

The prince also rose, feeling remarkably refreshed; the long night's rest and the company had done wonders toward restoring him.

"You healed the knife-slash that tattooed lieutenant left on me," he remembered as he pulled off his sleeping tunic, catching a glimpse of his unscarred belly. That would not have been a simple healing, and it went beyond what Obi-Wan had claimed as the limits of his ability. Interesting.

Obi-Wan stilled. "Yes."

Qui-Gon lifted his eyes to Kenobi's gravely. "Thank you," he said simply. "Your kindness will not be forgotten." Centering his silver circlet on his head, Qui-Gon checked himself in the mirror. Though he was still a bit thin, he decided he looked adequately recovered. No one would realize how close Valorum's plot had come to success.

"You are welcome," Obi-Wan responded as plainly, and Qui-Gon could see a flicker of pleasure in the pale blue eyes. He realized they were both wearing green today, the bodyguards silks slightly paler than Qui-Gon's own dark ones. He wondered if a feeling of kinship with his bodyguard had prompted his own selection, then set the thought aside. There were more important matters to be considered now than sexual relationships, frivolous or otherwise. Kenobi would be proud of him.

Squaring his shoulders, he led the way toward the throne room, wondering when Kenobi's opinion had become so important to him.

The hall outside the throne room was crowded with servants, each pushing for a better vantage point to see into the grand hall. Kenobi cleared his throat and they parted easily, leaving a path wide enough for the two to cross into the room.

Bad news travels quickly, he thought as he noticed a number of nobles among the audience; dukes and earls from the closest estates.

They all bowed as he entered and he nodded briefly, acknowledging their presence, but not singling any of them out. Most of them were hangers-on, wastrels, and fops; Valorum was one of the few with a head for politics and Qui-Gon was saddened that he was the one responsible for the attacks.

He could already hear muted whispers concerning his liaison with Kenobi working their way through the small crowd. Ignoring them, Qui-Gon pushed regally through and assumed his place on his father's right hand, with Kenobi standing slightly behind him. Qui-gon glanced back and watched those cool eyes scanning the crowd for a moment, then turned his attention to the King, who stood leaning heavily on his gnarled wooden staff.

"Glad am I that you are well, my son." Yoda nodded, his face somber. "Not so gladdened by what must happen now." Obi-Wan had been right, Qui-Gon realized. Yoda did not believe the rumors that were even now circulating throughout the room, or he would have mentioned them. After all, he had dismissed one other bodyguard summarily as soon as Qui-Gon bedded him.

"Are you well this morning, father?"

"More or less." Yoda evaded the question, turning his head forward. He nodded almost imperceptibly and a guardsman thumped the butt of his pike against the floor to quiet the assembly.

"Let Finis Valorum be brought forth." King Yoda's reedy voice filled the hall. "Let him justify himself in the face of the evidence We have to bring against him."

The doors in the rear of the hall opened, and Valorum stepped forth, flanked by twenty of the elite Castle Guard. He did not wear the ring that signified his position as a Duke, though he still wore his fine robes.

Qui-Gon picked his daughter's pale face out in the crowd; she wore ceremonial makeup that signified her noble status and her marriageable age. Palpatine stood close at her elbow, and patted her shoulder with an avuncular air of comfort that Qui-Gon did not trust for a moment.

Valorum too sought Amidala in the crowd, but his expression did not change when he found her. He inclined his head slightly and continued the long journey toward the throne. The sound of his boots on the stone floor echoed through the otherwise-silent chamber.

The king stared at Valorum for a long time; the Duke returning the look without flinching, head held high.

"Know you why you are here?" Yoda finally said, breaking the long silence.

"I have been falsely accused of attempting to assassinate the Crown Prince." Valorum's voice was quiet but clear.

"What proof have you to refute this?" Inquired Qui-Gon, keeping his voice level and calm. King Yoda gestured at a guard, who produced the livery vest Obi-Wan had taken from the body of their attacker.

Valorum examined it, going so far as to take it in his hands and sniff the leather. "This livery appears to be my soldiers'." He let the vest drop and raised his eyes to the King.

"The Crown Prince was attacked on your land by armed men who wore this livery. Do you deny this?" Yoda inquired.

"No." Valorum shook his head once.

"What have you to say in your defense?"

"Only that the livery must have been stolen, or duplicated, or that men of mine were hired for this purpose without my knowledge." Valorum gazed steadily at first the king, then Qui-Gon. "I invited the Prince to my estate with the best of intentions. I hoped to mend the rift that had arisen between us. When he did not arrive, I grew concerned. I led a party in search of him, hoping to aid him if his mount had thrown a shoe or if he had encountered some other minor delay." Valorum hesitated, and a frown marred his handsome face.

"My party found evidence of a battle; there were blood and tracks in a small burial ground in one of my woods, but no wounded or dead men there. The tracks there indicated that a substantial number had been dragged away, but we lost the trail in the grasslands. There were other tracks as well that I believe belonged to Prince Qui-Gon and his guard. We set out to follow them, hoping to lend aid if needed, but an unfortunate incident prevented us following them before nightfall. When we returned the next day, those tracks were gone. There was no sign of the prince or his guard remaining that we could follow."

Valorum lifted his head high. "I anticipated this accusation, and returning to my keep, I prepared to obey royal summons." He cleared his throat, looking dissatisfied and slightly defiant.

"And?" Yoda encouraged him to continue.

"I wonder why the prince... and his guard," Valorum paused to give Obi-Wan a chilly look, "chose to ride alone. I wonder how Prince Qui-Gon stands before us now, unscratched, when my best tracker claims that he must have been beset by no less than twenty men."

The court exploded into a babble of confusion; Yoda rapped his stick again angrily for quiet.

"Are you levying an accusation against the Crown Prince?" Yoda's voice cracked with the final word; he coughed into his hand for a moment and Qui-Gon was forced to steady him.

"I accuse no one. I merely point out that this entire event was too convenient to be as it seems. I believe someone has manufactured it with intent to harm my reputation." Valorum continued after waiting politely for Yoda to recover. "I offer as my only proof nearly fifty years of devoted service to you, my liege. We rode to war together when I was first raised a Duke. You saved my life in my first battle. I have not forgotten it. Nor the many times when I repaid you in kind."

"Nor have I." Yoda lifted weary eyes to him. "For reasons of uncertainty in proving this charge and your long and faithful service, I am exiling you from my kingdom instead of ordering your execution, Finis Valorum." He swayed, grief thickening his voice. "Your lands will not be confiscated and your heirs will retain their position in relation to the Jinn Throne. A steward will be appointed to administer them until your daughter is of age to govern. Be gone from Our lands by mid-week. You may not set foot on the soil of this kingdom again, on pain of death."

The court babbled again, excited; it was a light punishment. This time it took longer for the noise to recede. Yoda no longer had strength to pound his staff. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan slipped behind him, the prince stealthily lending support to his father.

"This audience is at an end," Qui-Gon boomed. "Let the King's justice be brought to pass."

The court dispersed slowly, Amidala joining her father, slipping past the guard to put her arm around his waist and walk with him, weeping. Her tears made tracks in the thick white makeup on her face. Qui-Gon thought that they indicated mingled sorrow and relief; the King might have ordered Valorum's execution on the spot. Neither of them could have known before his judgment whether they would ever speak to the other again.

Yoda's eyes followed them as they left. He too seemed distraught, and Qui-Gon swallowed hard around the knot in his throat. A King's justice was harsh, and not just for those he judged.

"Your Majesty." The familiar oily voice caused Qui-Gon's hackles to rise. Palpatine, lingering after the others. "If I may... as you know, my estates adjoin Lady Amidala's. I would be honored to guide her in administering them as a temporary steward until she is of age." He spread his hands gallantly. His paternal smile gave no hint of the words he had spoken earlier in the month of a marital union between himself and the young lady.

"Very well," Yoda wheezed before Qui-Gon could answer. "Let it be done. Your kindness is admirable." He seemed distracted by pain, his eyes slightly glazed.

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Palpatine bowed deeply, his velvet-lined cloak sweeping the floor. Qui-Gon did not miss the note of satisfaction in his voice, but had no time to waste on it. Yoda began to cough again, painful spasms wracking his frail body. Obi-Wan touched Qui-Gon's shoulder; footmen had arrived bearing a litter. They eased King Yoda onto it and the footmen carried him out toward his rooms, his personal physician clucking distressfully at its side as they hurried out.

Qui-Gon roused himself from his dismayed reverie when the doors shut, to find Obi-Wan looking after Palpatine with a faint frown marring his handsome features. "Amidala will regret your father's choice of stewards," Obi-Wan predicted soberly when the man had swept out of sight.

"I fear that you are right." Qui-Gon thought of his own loveless marriage, and the pain it had brought both to him and to his wife. "And yet, I have no power to remedy it." He paused. "At least I need no longer fear assassination."

Obi-Wan nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps," he judged. "We shall see."