Armistice
Scene 3
Apprentice healer Phiatalleika Esoro – more formally known as Padawan Esoro, and informally known as "Phia", a moniker bestowed upon her by affectionate crèche masters in days bygone - twisted her long, jet-black hair into a knot and fastened it behind her head with a supple wooden pin. The knot came undone promptly every half-hour, and was on this account a constant source of reprimands. Master Vokara Che had, in fact, just this morning suggested that the hair was itself a shameful sign of vanity and a dangerous distraction. But then, Master Che has beautiful blue lekkui in lieu of any hair, so her diatribe against unnecessary personal ornaments had fallen upon suitably meek but not entirely sympathetic ears.
Phia was not a stranger to opulence. She had been delivered to the Jedi Temple fifteen years previous wrapped in the extravagant brocade of the Minzhu ruling family in the Shae-Wei system. She did not remember anything of her exalted heritage, and had worn nothing but the simplest linen since that day, but perhaps some of the fighting warlord spirit of her forbears was passed down with that priceless raiment now consigned as curiosity to the Archives collection. She had no intention of shearing off her ebony crown simply because her superior had pointedly hinted that this would be proper.
It would take an outright command to sway young Phia's will – but Vokara Che was no pushover, nor one to look lightly upon mutiny in the ranks. If healers, even those as inexperienced as Phia, were not at a premium of demand, both here and across the war-ravaged galaxy, the young Jedi might have found herself in dire straits indeed; but as things stood, her insubordination merely earned her a week's worth of late-night shifts in the Halls of Healing.
Boredom was its own severe discipline. She sighed heavily and checked the chronometer yet again. Long past midnight but not nearly close enough to dawn. She crossed the wide, cool central courtyard with its fountains and soft lighting, and entered the corridors beyond. Her task was simple: to see to the immediate welfare of those currently under the healers' care. Since every patient resident was either deep in a healing trance or soundly asleep beneath the more uncivilized influence of pharmaceutical agents, this meant she was at loose ends for most the night – duty-bound to remain awake, while lacking any stimulation to encourage her body and mind to cooperate with that mandate. A subtle punishment, indeed.
She was almost glad – in a selfish manner – when a late-night visitor appeared at the reception desk, cloak's cowl pulled up and mental shields drawn so tight he might as well not have been there at all.
"Do you need help, Master?" she inquired of the guest.
The hood was lowered. "I'm so sorry to disturb you," the newcomer said, only his extremely wan complexion and a certain tight edge to his voice betraying anything amiss. Phia's tentative mental probe slid off adamantine defenses, finding no purchase.
She frowned. "I'll – I'll tell Master Che."
"There's no need-"
"But there is!" she interrupted, immediately blushing at her rashness. "She said I was to fetch her personally if you came again."
The visitor released a very slow breath, brows twitching upward wryly. "I see."
"I'll be right back. Won't you – why don't you sit, Master? Before you collapse."
She was favored with that same half-humorous, half-admonitory look. "I made it this far, Padawan. I think I can manage not to embarrass either of us with a dramatic scene."
"Oh." Phia gaped, opened her mouth to make some equally ineffectual stuttering reply and then turned tail and fled. She slipped into the small alcove adjacent to the head healers' office, where the redoubtable Vokara Che stole her brief hours of repose.
"Master?" Phia knelt beside the low palette, nudging at her mentor with the Force.
The elderly Twi'Lek opened liquid amber eyes and levered herself up on one arm. "What is it, child?"
"It's – Master Kenobi is here. I think he needs help again."
Vokara Che rolled off her sleep couch, spry and immediately wakeful. "Who brought him in this time?" she demanded, throwing on an umber robe over her flowing night shift.
Phia stood, shaking her head. "Nobody. He came by himself."
This simple revelation arrested the senior healer in mid-stride. "Stars' end," she breathed, hastening out the door in alarm. "Foolish man, he's probably on the brink of collapse."
Her apprentice scurried in her wake. "He said he made it this far, there was no need to –"
"And you listened to that nonsense?" Vokara Che scoffed. She stormed into the tranquil foyer like a scudding thunderhead and seized the subject of this discussion by one arm. "Sweet Force, have you no sense in that purportedly brilliant head of yours?" she addressed him, brusque as ever.
Phia took up a supportive position on the Jedi Master's other side, bracing herself as he wavered where he stood. They made it halfway down the nearest corridor and entered a narrow doorway on the left.
"This way. Here. Now – off with that cloak, lie down, yes. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate this pain?"
"…Five?" Master Kenobi gritted out, eyes closed.
"That's a nine," Vokara Che barked over her shoulder. Phia obediently tapped the electrostylus across her datapad's surface.
The healer splayed both elegant hands over her patient's temples. "Shields down," she ordered, hissing a little as he complied with the order. "How long?"
Deep centering breath for both of them. Phia reeled in the mere echoes within the plenum, nausea creeping in despite her control, the ghost of a migraine throbbing behind her own eyes.
"Ah… early this evening," Master Kenobi mumbled, sheepishly. "I don't really-"
"No, you certainly don't," the Twi"lek agreed, caustically. "Phia – healing crystals and twenty units of somataphine. Quickly."
The wide eyed padawan hastened down the corridor to the supply room, deftly re-twisting her escaping knot of black hair into place and fastening it with its ornamental pin.