Author's Note: This chapter is dedicated to She-Elf23 for two reasons - first of all, your kind reviews have been absolutely amazing, and have made this whole project worthwhile so far, so thank you for your incredible support. Secondly, because you inspired this whole chapter. I was really struggling to come up with an idea for "Explosion", until I read the line: "Throwing this idea out there as a suggestion...maybe one where Obi is a Padawan with Qui-Gon and it's on the mission where they're guarding Satine and of course Obi gets hurt in some fashion. Might be intriguing to explore." And this is the result. It's a lot longer than I thought it would be! So... here you go, She-Elf23, I hope this lives up to your expectations!
Explosion
In a small cantina in a backwater town in the middle of nowhere, three road-weary travellers swathed in thick, hooded cloaks entered through a side door. Two of them found a table in a corner, both sitting with their backs to walls, keeping a wary eye on their surroundings from beneath their cowls. The third, a taller, bearded man, went to the bar. Summoning the woman behind the bar and showing her a few tokens of currency, he procured three meagre servings of hot soup, a small loaf of crusty bread, and a jug of water. He carried their provisions over to the table; the first of the figures fell upon the food with desperate hunger, her thin fingers snatching up the spoon, shovelling the broth quickly into her mouth.
"Thank you, Master," whispered the other figure, accepting his bowl a little more graciously.
"Eat slowly, young ones," the older man cautioned them; "we do not wish to draw unnecessary attention..."
"It's been two days since we last stopped for a meal," the young woman, little more than a girl, hissed through clenched teeth, "and at least three weeks since I had anything vaguely hot... you will forgive me, Master Jedi, for my lack of proper table manners."
Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn managed a wry curl of his lips; "No offence was intended, young Duchess; I merely suggest that if we savour what little we have, it will better satiate your hunger."
The girl narrowed her eyes; even her hunger and months on the run had not eradicated her haughty demeanour and precocious nature, but she nonetheless heeded his words and slowed her consumption of their scant meal. Qui-Gon broke the bread into three pieces, giving the larger two to the younger pair sat before him. He pretended not to notice as his fifteen year old Padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi, surreptitiously spooned a little of his broth into the young Duchess Satine Kryze's bowl, even as she was preoccupied with the bread, tearing off a mouthful and closing her eyes as she chewed it.
They ate in silence for a while, savouring every precious mouthful of their food, not knowing when they might have the luxury of eating again.
"Mandalore used to be such a beautiful planet," Satine murmured, wistfully, at long last, mopping the last of the broth from her bowl with a chunk of bread Obi-Wan had handed to her from his share; "we had jungles, forests, mountains, oceans... the wars have left us with so little. Only sand, and dust, and death..."
"But with peace, things could be different," Obi-Wan insisted, optimistically, "you could rebuild... the Republic could help..."
"I want no help from the Republic," Satine huffed, indignantly, "nor any other third party. When I am restored to my rightful place, I shall lead Mandalore as a peaceful, independent planet. This shall be our new way."
Qui-Gon said nothing, but shared a knowing look with Obi-Wan. It was the same conversation that they had been having, on and off, for several long, arduous months. Civil war between the New Mandalorians and the Martial Traditionalists had been raging for years, devastating the planet and decimating the population. The once lush world was reduced to a barren, inhospitable desert, littered with domed cities and scattered settlements. As the leader of the New Mandalorians, Duchess Satine had been the advocate of peace, overthrowing Mandalore's violent past. However, her refusal to take up arms and fight – citing it as a contradiction to her pacifist ways – had meant that her people were always on the back foot, at the mercy of the ruthless attacks of the Traditionalist warriors.
The two Jedi had been sent to protect the Duchess in an effort to reach a peaceful settlement to the civil war, offering the Traditionalists a chance to set up their own society and government on the orbiting moon of Concordia, leaving the tattered Mandalore to its more peaceful denizens. However, the peace talks had quickly soured, and the Traditionalists had turned their ire on the Duchess and her bodyguards. Outnumbered and outgunned, with the pacifists refusing to fight back on principle, the two Jedi and the Duchess were quickly overrun, forcing them instead to flee with her into the wastelands.
They had not stopped running for seven months and, to make matters worse, they were constantly pursued by bounty hunters, keen to claim the ransoms placed on the three fugitives. There were not many bounty hunters who could best a Jedi, let alone two, but that did not stop them from trying. After so long on the run, they were constantly tired, footsore, bruised and battered from several scrapes and near-misses; half-starved, and simply running from place to place with no end in sight. They begged, borrowed and occasionally stole to keep themselves fed and watered, finding occasional allies and shelter in the towns they wandered into, but they were inevitably tracked down and hounded out by either bounty hunters or Martial Traditionalists.
It had also not escaped Qui-Gon's attention that his Padawan and their young Duchess had formed quite the friendship... they bickered as often as not, but there was something about the way they looked at each other that had caused the older Master to give his young apprentice more than one cautionary lecture about not forming attachments. While he had no concerns that Obi-Wan might behave in any way improperly, or risk his future with the Jedi order, he knew that their mission could not end soon enough to remove temptation from the younger Jedi's path. Obi-Wan had assured his Master he would be careful not to form an inappropriate attachment, and Qui-Gon did not doubt his promises, but still... the two young ones were always a little too close for comfort.
"Where to next, then?" Obi-Wan asked, at last, glancing up at his Master in askance, "Something tells me we can't stay here for long..."
"You are correct, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon admitted, "I sense it too – there is distinct hostility here to outsiders. We must move on to the next settlement as soon as possible."
"Master, we have company approaching..."
The three figures automatically dipped their heads, hiding their faces, as a stocky middle-aged woman with tattooed arms drifted over to their table bearing a tray, clearing away the bowls.
"Can I get you folks anything else?" the woman asked, in a bored tone.
"No, thank you," Qui-Gon replied, "we have no more credits to spare. Is there anywhere we can shelter to sleep for the night?"
"Huh. Not if you got no credits... I suggest you get out of here and clear my table for some paying customers."
"Very well..."
Qui-Gon gestured to his young charges, who reluctantly pushed themselves to their feet, and followed him out of the tiny cantina, back out into the dusty road. Everything was tinted red by the domed ray shield that rose above them, sheltering the tiny outpost from the worst ravages of the desert storms. They walked the streets for a while, until they found an alleyway, tucked between two squat buildings, the end of which was blocked off by a tall fence.
"This will have to do," Qui-Gon gestured with his hand, "you two; try to get some sleep. I will keep watch. I will wake you in four hours, Obi-Wan. In the morning, we will move to the next town, where we may find allies."
"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan moved obediently to the back of the alley, where he sat with his back against the fence.
Satine lay beside him, her head pillowed on Obi-Wan's thigh, as she wrapped her cloak around herself and curled up in the sand in an effort to sleep. The young Jedi chose instead to meditate, leaving Qui-Gon sitting on the floor at the mouth of the alleyway, deliberately lax and looking for all the world like another homeless war veteran, though his keen eyes and Force-enhanced senses kept a diligent watch on their surroundings.
They had been moving from town to village to settlement like this for months, avoiding the bigger cities, sometimes finding pacifist allies who would offer them food and lodgings until the bounty hunters found them again; other times finding only hostility and rejection. It was draining all of them, and Qui-Gon privately wondered just how long they could keep going. They were duty bound to keep the Duchess alive at all costs in the hope of her resuming governance of a newly peaceful Mandalore, but with each passing day, it seemed less and less likely that they would achieve their mission – if they survived it at all.
After a restless and uncomfortable night, the three of them picked themselves up, placed their breathing filters over their faces, and struck out into the desert once more. The winds picked up the sand, swirling it around them in blinding flurries, but they had long since learned to wrap themselves in their cloaks and stick close to each other, as either Qui-Gon or Obi-Wan took the lead, keeping the Duchess between them, following the Force through the desolate landscape. They did not dare rest in between shelters, knowing the desert would swallow them whole in no time. They paused only to allow them to try to purge some of the dust from their breathing filters, for what little relief the tattered masks allowed them from the acrid air, or to take small sips of water from their flasks. When Satine's ran empty first, as it always did, Obi-Wan never failed to give her his instead, rewarded as ever with a gentle smile and a whisper of thanks. Qui-Gon pretended not to notice this as well. He was getting awfully good at pretending not to notice things... honestly; he was starting to feel more like a chaperone than a Jedi Master.
Finally, after a day and a night of walking, they happened upon the next town, passing through the ray shield with great relief. Satine immediately led them to a house with a small, white symbol painted surreptitiously in the corner of the door.
"Here," she said, "pacifist sympathisers... we may find shelter here."
Without waiting for permission from her Jedi guardians, she raised her hand and knocked on the door. After a few long moments, it cracked open, and a wary eye peered out at them.
"What? What do you want?"
"Please... we saw the sign on your door. We seek only shelter – and perhaps a little food and water, if you can spare any."
"I don't want no trouble."
"We do not come to bring any," Satine replied, softly, "we will move on in the morning, if you so wish."
"Do I know thee, child?"
"No, don't..." Qui-Gon raised his hand in warning, but it was too late – Satine dropped her hood, revealing her face.
The eye at the door widened in shocked recognition; there was a brief scrabbling noise, and the door opened, as a gnarled old hand reached out, grasped Satine's wrist, and dragged her inside with surprising strength.
"Get in here!" the old man hissed, "Quickly now, afore someone sees thee..."
Satine stepped inside as regally as if she were entering the palace of her childhood; Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan entered a little more cautiously behind her as the old man closed the door, locking it for good measure.
"Duchess Satine," he knelt before her, reverently, "I am honoured to welcome you into my humble home... if I may ask; who are these men?"
"My Jedi bodyguards," Satine waved her hand, "Master Qui-Gon Jinn and Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi. Tell me your name, kind sir."
"I am Cortain Kudura, my lady... it is my humble pleasure to be your host. Please, come this way... I will fetch you food, and drink. You may rest here..."
The hunched old man took them through to a living area, where he closed the curtains against prying eyes and waved the Duchess into a faded old couch, apologising profusely for the lack of real comfort. She waved him off, telling him truthfully; "this is the most comfort we have seen in some time – we are grateful for your hospitality."
She sank tiredly onto the couch, and patted it; "Obi-Wan – come, sit with me, you must be as exhausted as I am, it feels wonderful to rest."
"I am sure," Obi-Wan finally lowered his hood, and spared her a tight smile, "but I cannot rest yet... Master, I sense danger here."
"There is danger everywhere on Mandalore these days," Satine snorted, derisively, "honestly, you Jedi, it is a wonder you have not worried yourselves into early graves. Here, we are safe, even if only for the moment, and I for one intend to enjoy it."
"We would be remiss in our duties if we were not vigilant in every moment, your Highness," Qui-Gon responded, smoothly, somehow keeping the weariness out of his voice, "and Obi-Wan is right... I sense a warning, in the Force. We should not stay here long."
"We need food, and water, and rest, Master Jedi," Satine pointed out, "without them, whatever danger you sense will no doubt be tenfold in the face of our fatigue and weakness."
Qui-Gon inclined his head in silent agreement, but nonetheless took the seat closest to the door as Obi-Wan positioned himself near to the window, despite Satine's disappointed look in his direction. After several minutes, their host returned, bearing a tray of bread, meat and cheese, along with three beakers of a red liquid.
"There is more food should you require it, and the kotoya berry juice is from my own hydroponics bay in the basement – it's about the only fruit that still grows on Mandalore these days."
"Thank you, Cortain," Satine smiled, warmly, "this is most generous of you. I cannot recall the last time I tasted anything so sweet..."
She drank deeply from the cup, before turning to the food and tucking in. Cortain watched her for a few moments with a nod of satisfaction, and then glanced across at his other two guests.
"Will you not partake, Master Jedi?" he asked them, curiously, "You are no doubt weary from your travels... news may travel slowly in these parts but it is known that the Duchess has been missing for several months now. You have done well to keep her safe."
"It has not been an easy road," Qui-Gon admitted, "but we go where the Force commands."
"And it commanded you to my house?"
"I commanded them here," Satine corrected, "I saw the pacifist symbol on your door."
"Ah... yes. My son... he sympathised strongly with your cause."
"Is he here?"
"No, my lady. He died in the war... he was at a peaceful rally in the town square when he and his friends were attacked by Traditionalists."
"I... I am sorry to hear this," Satine lowered her eyes, genuine regret and grief in her tone, "there has been so much loss... the only way to end our suffering will be a peaceful end to the war and a unification of our people with pacifist ideals. I strive for the day when never again will lives be lost in needless conflict on Mandalore."
"A lofty ideal, my lady," Cortain agreed, his voice sounding hollow, "perhaps unattainable... ah, but I am just a tired old man. I will leave such idealism to the young."
"Are there Traditionalists here?" Obi-Wan asked, cautiously.
"They are everywhere, young Jedi," the old man shrugged, "just as there are pacifists. They all leave me alone, as they know the symbol on the door was for my son, and I have kept it in his memory. I have no interest in fighting, especially at my age... they just leave me alone..."
"True pacifists share your desire not to fight," Satine said, earnestly, as Cortain refilled her beaker, "that will be our new way."
"Then I fail to see how you're going to get rid of the Traditionalists if you're not willing to fight them," Cortain shook his head, "they will just keep killing until they have wiped out everyone who disagrees with them or stands in their way."
"I fight with non-violent means," Satine raised her head, defiantly, "diplomacy will always find a way. I lead by inspiring others and showing them there is a better way. With a gun in my hand, they have cause to shoot me. But with just words on my lips, they have no choice other than to listen."
"Or, they could just shoot you to shut you up," Obi-Wan flashed her a cheeky smirk, and was rewarded with a glare in return.
"Diplomacy will always prevail," the Duchess reiterated, stubbornly.
"Of course, my lady," Cortain bowed, "if you'll excuse me, I will just check on my vaporators... if I have enough water, I can make us some tea."
Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan shared a slightly surprised look; tea was a rare commodity, and it had been some long time since they had drank anything other than tepid water or the desert berry juice. After several minutes passed with no sign of their host, finally cowing to his hunger, Obi-Wan began to reach for the plate of food, and then froze. Qui-Gon's eyes widened fractionally, as he half-turned towards the door.
"Master?"
"I sense it too, Obi-Wan... come, Duchess, we must leave this place, immediately!"
Having learned better than to argue with her Jedi protector, Satine immediately pulled her hood up, not hesitating to snatch what was left of the bread and stuff it into a pocket inside her cloak. The two Jedi summoned their lightsabres to their hands, but did not activate the blades.
"Stay close to me, your Highness," Qui-Gon took Satine's arm and drew her nearer, shielding her behind him, even as she cast a slightly longing look back at Obi-Wan.
The tall Jedi pushed the door open, stepping out into the street; only to be confronted by a dozen armoured, helmeted figures, dressed in the traditional armour of the Mandalorian Martial Traditionalists. Qui-Gon's lightsabre immediately activated, casting a luminous green glow, pushing Satine behind him even as he stepped out into the street.
"Hand over the girl and nobody gets hurt," one of the figures spoke, in a deep voice.
"Walk away," Qui-Gon told them, hearing Obi-Wan's lightsabre igniting just behind him and to his right, "we have no wish to harm you, but we will defend ourselves."
"So much for pacifist ideals," sneered an armoured woman, "let's take 'em down!"
Qui-Gon immediately spun his lightsabre, deflecting the barrage of blaster bolts that came his way, effectively defending and shielding the young Duchess behind him, as he stepped them out into the street, keeping her at his back and the soldiers in front of him. Obi-Wan followed, but pressed into the offensive, driving back their attackers as Qui-Gon sought a means to escape. They sent blaster bolts back at their attackers with expert sweeps and parries of their lightsabres, dropping them to the floor one by one, as Qui-Gon finally reached an intersection between two narrow streets, and was able to push Satine into a sheltered doorway, affording them both a little more cover. Obi-Wan Force-leapt and somersaulted over their attackers; effectively trapping them between the two Jedi, forcing the Traditionalists to fight on two fronts.
There were just four Traditionalists left; one fell to a deflected shot from Qui-Gon, another to a well-placed strike from Obi-Wan's lightsabre. A Force-push from the Padawan sent a third flying backwards into a building, knocking him senseless. The fourth pulled something from her belt, and Qui-Gon realised, too late, what the woman was holding and what she intended to do... and Obi-Wan was standing far too close to her.
"Obi-Wan! Look out!"
His warning, and the warning from the Force, came far too late. The woman held up a shrapnel detonator in her right hand.
"For Mandalore!"
She pressed the switch.
The detonator exploded.
Qui-Gon instinctively turned away, shielding his eyes and face with his thick cloak as he covered Satine with his own body; she clung to him in fright as the detonator exploded with a loud, percussive boom that shuddered around the square and shook the houses around them. Qui-Gon was far enough away to avoid injury but close enough to feel the heat of the blast even through his cloak, as fragments of debris rained down upon them. As the hail of shrapnel ceased he turned, straightening up, squinting as he peered through the smoke. Small fires burned around them, the ground scorched and blackened around where their final attacker had been standing; there was little left other than scattered fragments of armour and stains in the dust that did not beg for closer inspection.
Coughing and spluttering in the smoky, dusty air, Satine kept one hand clutching the sleeve of Qui-Gon's robe even as he held her behind him, wary of further attack.
"Where is he?" she demanded, coughing and scrubbing her hand over her dirty, sweat-and-soot-stained face, "Where's Obi-Wan?"
As the smoke cleared, Qui-Gon's eyes fell upon a slumped, motionless figure, lying only a few yards away, shrouded in a familiar brown travel cloak.
"There!" he pointed, and launched himself across the street, the Duchess close on his heels, "Obi-Wan!"
The Jedi Master dropped to his knees beside his Padawan, and then, with great care, reached out, both with his hand and with his mind. The training bond he shared with the younger Jedi was ominously silent, but thankfully still intact. Obi-Wan was not dead, but definitely unconscious; and the Force was practically screaming at Qui-Gon that something was seriously wrong. With a gentle hand, he grasped Obi-Wan's shoulder, rolling him over.
"By the Gods!" Satine whispered in shocked dismay, her hands going to her face in horror.
"Oh, Force..." Qui-Gon murmured, under his breath, with only marginally more self-control.
Obi-Wan had clearly seen the threat and tried to turn away, but had been caught on the edge of the blast. The right side of his face was stained with blood and dirt, lacerations from debris scoured into his temple, cheek and jaw. Fragments of metal were embedded in some of the wounds; his right arm was similarly littered with shrapnel, wounds and burns, down his right hand side, and even into his leg. Qui-Gon swallowed his revulsion and released his fear into the Force when he saw a particularly large fragment of sharp metal embedded just above the right knee.
"Is... is he...?" Satine could not finish the question, and Qui-Gon shook his head, quickly.
"He is alive," he assured the girl, "but his injuries are severe; we need shelter and help to treat them..."
"Cortain..." Satine turned back towards the house, but froze as three new figures came running towards them, "uh... Master Qui-Gon..."
"Hold steady, young Duchess – I sense no warning from the Force."
The lead of the three new arrivals skidded to a halt in front of them, gasping breathlessly.
"You pacifists?" he said, quickly, his face hidden by a thick hood and breathing filter.
"Yes," Satine nodded, blinking back sudden tears, "my friend is hurt..."
"Come with us. Hurry!"
Sensing they had little choice, Qui-Gon hastily gathered Obi-Wan into his arms, lifting the boy as carefully as he could, mindful of his extensive injuries. With a nod to the Duchess, they fled down the alley, surrounded by their three rescuers. They were led down winding streets and then ushered into a small door in the back of a building. One of their cloaked allies lifted up a hatch, hidden in the floor, revealing a steep staircase. They descended quickly, finding themselves in a small cellar, lit with a sickly glow from a dim bulb suspended from the ceiling. The three figures immediately dropped their hoods and pulled off their breathing filters, revealing three lean and dust-stained faces, all in their mid- to late twenties – a dark-haired woman with a scar across her cheek; a blonde-haired man with his left arm missing from the elbow down, and a raven-haired man with piercing green eyes.
The one-armed man yanked down a bunk that was folded up against the wall, patting the thin mattress flat as the woman flung a pillow onto it, the other man opening a chest of drawers, yanking out bandages and blankets.
"Put him here," the woman gestured, beckoning to Qui-Gon, "my name is Najira. The guy with one arm is my husband, Arnott, and that's my brother, Tywan. We are New Mandalorian pacifists – we assume you are, too?"
"Yes," Satine lowered her hood, to three collective gasps of recognition; "we are indeed. I am known here?"
"Of course, Duchess," Najira inclined her head, as Qui-Gon carefully lay Obi-Wan down upon the bed, "we are relieved to know you are still alive, at least..."
"No thanks to the Traditionalists," Satine sighed, tiredly, "thank you for coming to our aid... these are my protectors, Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn and Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi... how did the Martialists find us so quickly? We were in a safe house..."
"Cortain Kurdura," Tywan spat, knowingly, "let me guess – fed you some story about his son dying at a rally so you'd trust him? Yeah, he never had a son. He painted the symbol on his door to lure refugees and others seeking asylum. He immediately summons the Traditionalists and turns his 'guests' in for the bounty money. The old symbols are no longer safe, your Highness."
Satine blinked back her tears, as Qui-Gon perched on the edge of the bed beside his unconscious Padawan. The Jedi Master stretched out his hand, touching his long fingers to Obi-Wan's forehead, and closed his eyes.
"What's he doing?" Arnott asked, glancing across at Satine in confusion, "The boy's injuries look serious – we need to assess and treat him as best we can... I'm afraid our medical supplies are severely limited, there won't be much we can do for him."
"He is treating him," Satine assured them, "I have been travelling with these Jedi for many months and their powers are... impressive. We have been in a number of dire situations where I have seen them aid each other in this way... Master Qui-Gon is using the Force to check Obi-Wan's injuries and see if he can help him to heal more quickly."
For his part, Qui-Gon tuned out the chatter and curious questions of their saviours, focussing only on Obi-Wan as he drew on the Force. The boy's injuries were extensive... too extensive. His Force-healing abilities were limited at best, and they were all exhausted, with limited energy reserves after their months of running and scant diet. After completing his scan, he sent as much healing energy as he could into his young Padawan, before pulling back.
"He is badly hurt," he said, unable to keep the dismay and fatigue out of his voice, "aside from multiple lacerations and contusions from the shrapnel, he has several burns to his arm and leg, a severe concussion, a broken right arm and several broken ribs. We need to remove the shrapnel from these wounds, cleanse them, suture, and bind them with bacta dressings... he will need time to rest and recuperate. Are we safe to stay here?"
"You can stay as long as needed," Najira inclined her head, "but I'm afraid we have very limited supplies... Tywan, will you go out and see if you can procure us some bacta? At the very least enough to treat his burns, they are at the most risk of infection. I will fetch some water... Arnott will assist you here."
"Thank you," Qui-Gon nodded, as the dark haired siblings left together, and the blonde man used his one arm to start laying out medical supplies.
Qui-Gon turned his attention to the most serious wounds first; there was so much to do, but he needed to prioritise preventing any further blood loss.
"Duchess Satine," he said, softly, "will you assist me?"
"Of course, Master Jedi," the Duchess was at his side in an instant, her eyes wide and bright with tears as she looked upon the injured Obi-Wan, "what can I do?"
"Clean the blood from his face and head; bind the head wound as best you can and use the adhesive sutures if you need to. I will remove the shrapnel from these wounds and bind each in turn."
"There's so much blood..."
"You must focus, young one," Qui-Gon had no qualms in being strict, his concern for his Padawan outweighing any residual desire to remain polite and respectful, "he needs our help immediately or his condition will only deteriorate further."
Satine nodded and set to work. Arnott handed her a roll of bandages and a sealed packet of adhesive suture strips, frowning slightly.
"I'm afraid we don't have any tweezers or forceps or the like," he said, in a soft, lilting voice, "I'll try and find some pliers or something you can use to get the shrapnel out of his wounds, but it won't be easy..."
"I thank you, but there is no need for such tools," Qui-Gon shook his head, gently turning Obi-Wan's right leg to get a better look at the ugly piece of shrapnel sticking out above his knee.
Picking up a folded piece of cloth that would serve as a dressing pad, the Master held out his hand, channelling the Force, and, with great care, drew the piece of jagged metal out of the wound. Obi-Wan stirred and moaned aloud in pain, jarring back towards consciousness as agony flared through his leg. Qui-Gon cast the piece of metal aside, pressing the folded cloth to the wound as blood welled up immediately, applying firm pressure to stem the bleeding. Obi-Wan hissed and writhed beneath his touch, as Qui-Gon quickly held out his right hand again, the left maintaining pressure on the wound.
"No, Obi-Wan... do not regain consciousness just yet. Sleep, my young Padawan, while we tend your injuries..."
Unable to resist the Force-suggestion sent to him by his Master, Obi-Wan immediately stilled, his head slumping back onto the pillow, and Qui-Gon returned his attention to binding up the wounded leg with crepe bandages and strips of cloth. He pulled back Obi-Wan's singed cloak, using a sharp piece of metal to cut through the sleeve of his tunic, revealing the burned flesh beneath and the unnatural bend in his forearm. Using the Force, he carefully straightened the arm, hearing both Arnott and Satine hiss in sympathy and dismay as the bones snapped back into place.
"Arnott, I need something to splint his arm to prevent the break from moving," Qui-Gon said, softly, "do you have anything we can use?"
"I'll see what I can find," the one-armed man nodded, quickly, stepping away to rummage through the crates and cabinets cluttering the cellar.
While the man searched, Qui-Gon gently corrected Obi-Wan's broken ribs with the Force, using what little healing powers he had to fuse the bones to prevent further movement, but knowing they were far from mended. He was relieved to find that, although there had been pressure on the right lung, it had not punctured, but he knew without doubt that Obi-Wan was in for a long and painful recovery... if he recovered at all. Infection was virtually a guarantee and the boy was already exhausted, severely malnourished and dehydrated. Qui-Gon could feel, through the Force, how weak his Padawan had become, exacerbated by blood loss and trauma.
There were footsteps on the stairs; while Satine jumped, startled, Qui-Gon paid it no heed as there was no warning of danger from the Force. Sure enough, Najira returned, carrying a tray bearing a large jug full of water, a couple of beakers, a bowl, and a washcloth. She set the tray down on a crate near to the bed, and tipped some of the water into the bowl. Qui-Gon thanked her, dipping the cloth into the water, and using it to cleanse the dirt and debris from the wounds as best he could, using the Force to draw out odd pieces of debris and shrapnel as he sensed them, while Satine followed him, wrapping bandages around the torn and lacerated skin, tears running silent and unchecked down her pale cheeks as she worked.
Arnott provided them with two lengths of metal prised out of a broken crate, which served as rudimentary splits, allowing Qui-Gon to set and tightly bind the broken arm, noting with dismay that the fingers of Obi-Wan's right hand were already swelling and mottled with bruising. Without bacta or proper healing, it would be some time before he would be able to use the hand again.
Najira eventually drew Satine away, their work completed and the supply of bandages nearly gone, easing the girl down onto a dusty arm chair nestled in one corner, pressing a beaker of water into her shaking hands.
"You should drink something, my lady," the woman told her, gently, "when night falls, you can come up to the house, where there is a fresher and I can provide you with some clean clothes to wear... you are welcome to stay for as long as we can keep you hidden."
"Thank you," Satine sniffed, gratefully, dabbing her eyes with the back of her hand, "how can we ever repay you for your kindness? I'm afraid we do not have much in the way of credits..."
"It is our honour to serve, Duchess," Arnott replied, gently, with a slight bow, "what is ours is yours, your Highness... our reward will be to see you restored to the palace, bringing in a new era of peace for Mandalore. You are not the first refugees we have afforded shelter here... we seek only peace."
"That is ever my aim," Satine sighed, as she cast a forlorn look at Obi-Wan; "though it seems violence follows my every turn these days."
They all froze into silence at the sounds of footsteps above them; the hatch was lifted, and there was collective relief as Tywan slowly descended.
"Did you get it?" Satine asked, urgently, her eyes wide, "Did you find any bacta?"
"It's not much," Tywan admitted, pulling a small vial from inside his robes, "I had to trade my blaster and a litre of water for it... I hope it's enough. Arnott, you're gonna have to lie low for a couple of days; had to tell everyone you were in the street and got burned in the blast. Took the opportunity to say I saw three cloaked figures hightailing it north in a stolen speeder while I brought you back to the house."
"Good work, brother," Najira smiled, her scarred face lightening with approval.
"Thanks," Arnott sighed, but nodded in agreement, "well, if I'm recuperating here for the next few days, you might as well have this..."
He unclipped the blaster from his own holster, handing it over to his brother in law, who accepted it with a nod, turning the vial over to Qui-Gon.
"You have my thanks also, Tywan," the Jedi Master nodded, "this will be of great assistance... if I can ever repay you, I shall."
"I just hope it's enough to treat the poor kid..."
Qui-Gon carefully opened the vial, and dipped his fingers into the viscous gel. He carefully and sparingly spread it over the worst of the burns littering Obi-Wan's arm, neck and chest, which seemed to have taken the brunt of the explosion. Having used nearly half of the small vial, he recapped it and set it to one side, saving the rest for later. He sighed, closing his eyes, and released his pent-up worry into the Force, before sending another wave of healing energy into his Padawan, directing it to the burns as best he could. He wanted nothing more than to simply abandon the war-torn planet, take the nearest ship and fly straight back to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, where he could place Obi-Wan in the care of the Masters in the Halls of Healing, with their crystals and remedies and ample supply of bacta and bandages... but that would mean abandoning the Duchess to almost certain death, along with the pacifist sympathisers like Najira, Arnott and Tywan. He could not do that... just as he could not face the thought of losing Obi-Wan.
Qui-Gon opened his eyes, to find Satine sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, her left hand resting gently on Obi-Wan's upper right arm, her right hand gently stroking back the Padawan's short, spiky hair, toying sometimes with his braid or short ponytail.
"Will he... will he be alright?" she asked, sadly, her blue eyes red-rimmed and weary as she glanced across at Qui-Gon.
"It is... too early to tell," the Jedi Master admitted, tiredly, "he is severely injured; he has lost a lot of blood and he is very weak."
"Here," Najira appeared behind them, clutching a thick, warm blanket, "use this; you need to keep him warm or else he'll go into shock."
Satine took the blanket with a nod of thanks; Qui-Gon stood, allowing her to spread the blanket over the young Padawan, tucking it around his chest with tenderness, her gaze lingering momentarily on his face.
"He looks so pale," she murmured, sadly, "and so... thin. This is all my fault... I should have heeded your warning, Master Qui-Gon. You have never been wrong before... I was just so tired, and so hungry..."
"We are Jedi," Qui-Gon replied, softly, folding his hands before him as he towered over the Duchess and the Padawan, "we go where the Force leads us... and we do not dwell in the past, only in the moment. Obi-Wan will sleep now for some time. When he awakens, he will be in a great deal of pain, and we have no pain relievers. I must rest – he will need my strength in the Force to help ease his wounds, and my own energies are nearly depleted."
"I'll fetch down another mattress and some blankets," Tywan spoke up, "we'll make you up another bed down here, and find you some food as well... I'll be back shortly."
He stood, as Najira began moving aside some of the crates and old furniture, Arnott clearing the floor of any smaller clutter, making a space by the wall under the stairs, opposite to Obi-Wan's bed. The old armchair was moved to the back wall between where the two beds would be situated, though Satine made no move back towards it, choosing instead to remain perched by Obi-Wan's side, her thin fingers still toying with his Padawan braid.
"Duchess Satine," Qui-Gon's voice was gentle, "I suggest you also try to rest a little; I should like to turn off the light; it has been a long time since we able to seek proper rest, and we should take full advantage. I sense no danger here."
"Oh..." she cast a regretful look at Obi-Wan, before nodding in acquiescence, taking a seat in the armchair, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the bread she had taken from Cortain's house.
She eyed it, broke it in half and handed some to Qui-Gon, who accepted it with thanks. They ate, as Tywan returned with the mattress and bedding. He dropped it on the floor and left again; Najira stepped in and made up the bed, as Tywan returned with a few dried ration packs.
"It's not much, but with that bread it'll at least fill your stomachs and you can sleep easy," he shrugged.
"Thank you, Tywan," Satine accepted a packet, tearing it open quickly, "again, I am at a loss as to how I can repay you, but rest assured, you will be rewarded when I am able."
"It is our honour to serve, Duchess."
They ate the rations and drank some of the water, grateful for the nourishment, before turning to the matter of rest, their fatigue overwhelming them.
"Perhaps you should take the bed, your Highness," Qui-Gon gestured to the mattress, as Najira nodded in agreement, "I can easily meditate for a few hours to regain some strength..."
"Absolutely not," Satine replied, firmly, taking a seat in the armchair as imperiously as if it were her throne in the palace, "you said it yourself, Master Jedi; we seem safe here, and Obi-Wan will need your strength to heal, not mine. I insist upon you getting some proper sleep. I will be perfectly comfortable here and I will have my turn to sleep when you are rested."
Qui-Gon huffed an amused sigh, and inclined his head; "Very well... if you insist, your Highness."
"I do," Satine smiled, wryly, "and I will wake you if... if necessary..."
She cast another worried glance towards the recumbent Obi-Wan, as Tywan, Najira and Arnott took their leave, returning to the house above. Qui-Gon settled himself on the mattress and, with a wave of his hand, the light was extinguished. In the darkness of the cellar, the young Duchess drew her knees up to her chest, pulled her cloak around herself, curled up against the side of the armchair, and closed her eyes to the bleakness around her.
As night fell, Najira was true to her word, creeping down into the cellar to rouse Satine, leading her to the house above, where the young Duchess was treated to the opportunity to bathe and dress in clean clothes; a simple tunic and trousers, a far cry from the dresses and robes she had worn in the palace. She was just grateful to be clean, and dry, and warm, and well fed for the first time in several weeks. It had been a long time since they had been afforded such shelter with their allies. Plenty of people sympathised with her cause but with so many people having so few provisions, not many could afford to be – or were willing to be – generous with what they had.
Satine sat and conversed with her hosts for a few hours, before they retreated to their own beds and she slipped quietly down to the cellar once more. Moving carefully in the dark, she froze when she heard a noise, her heart pounding in her chest as her palms prickled with sweat at the anticipated threat. Then, she heard it again; a low, soft moan, filled with pain.
Obi-Wan, she realised, he must be waking up...
Without hesitation, she fumbled for the light switch and flicked it on, the dim bulb sputtering to life, as she crossed quickly to the young Jedi's bedside, kneeling on the floor and gently resting her hands on his upper right arm, hoping to reassure him with her presence.
"Obi-Wan?" she whispered, softly, "Can you hear me?"
The Padawan only groaned again, wordlessly, his eyes flickering rapidly under closed lids. His face was all-too-pale beneath the angry red lacerations, a stark contrast to his pallor. Bruising was beginning to appear around the head wound, his right eye was swollen, and mottled contusions were also appearing on his jaw and down his neck. There was movement behind her, and then a familiar, comforting presence loomed over her, no doubt alerted by the activation of the light and his Padawan's distress.
"Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon sat down carefully on the edge of the bed by the younger Jedi's head, placing the fingertips of his left hand gently upon Obi-Wan's left temple, "Padawan... easy now..."
Another groan, and Obi-Wan's eyes fluttered open, alighting first on Satine, who smiled warmly in relief, before his gaze flickered up to his Master, and then back to the Duchess. He tried to raise his right hand and immediately hissed in pain; a movement that triggered a wave of agony from his other injuries, and he would have cried out if Qui-Gon had not quickly pressed his hand over the Padawan's mouth.
"Hush, Obi-Wan, hush... I know, dear one, I know it hurts, I am sorry... please do not cry out, we do not want to alert anyone to our presence here... your ribs are broken; take slow, shallow breaths... that's it, focus on the Force and try to release your pain... I will help you. Meditate with me a moment..."
Qui-Gon closed his eyes, his fingertips moving back to Obi-Wan's temple, and Satine watched as Obi-Wan tensed against the pain again for a long minute, before finally relaxing a little, his breathing evening out, matching his Master's calm demeanour. Eventually, Qui-Gon lifted his hand away, but Satine did not miss how he gave his apprentice a small, sad smile, and kept his hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder.
"Th... thank you, Master..." Obi-Wan's voice was little more than a husky croak, as his licked his dry lips, "p...please... have... have we any water...?
"I will fetch some," Satine leapt to obey, snatching up their jug and pouring some into a beaker.
Qui-Gon gently lifted Obi-Wan's head a little, the boy lacking the strength to hold himself up, as Satine brought the cup to his lips, helping him to take little sips, until the cup was almost empty.
"Thank you," Obi-Wan whispered, his eyes closing against a wave of pain as he was carefully lowered back onto the pillow, "are... are you both alright? Where are we, Master?"
"We are both unharmed, Padawan," Qui-Gon replied, warmly, "we have found shelter with pacifist allies, and we are safe, for now. We will stay here for as long as we are able. You were badly hurt in the explosion, Obi-Wan, and you need time to rest and recover..."
"My arm... my leg... chest hurts..."
"Your arm is broken," Satine spoke up, her voice cracking with sympathy, "Master Qui-Gon has splinted and set it for you. You had some shrapnel in your leg and you have broken ribs, with a lot of burns, cuts and bruises, but you're going to be alright, Obi-Wan. We will take care of you..."
Her fingers tightened slightly on his arm as Obi-Wan dragged in a shuddering breath, wincing as it aggravated his damaged chest, shivering with pain.
"We... we cannot stay long, Master," Obi-Wan's face tightened with distress again, his left hand working free of the blanket to clutch at his aching ribs, "they will find us... the bounty hunters, the Traditionalists... they always find us... not safe to stay..."
"It is for now," Qui-Gon replied, reassuringly, "we will stay for as long as we can, Obi-Wan. If we are found, we will deal with the situation as it arises. For now, you must try to rest and recover... now that you are conscious, we can attempt a healing trance. It will aid your recovery and hopefully close some of your wounds... are you ready, young one?"
"Y...yes... Master..."
The complete trust Obi-Wan placed in his Master was obvious, and Satine took a respectful step backwards as Qui-Gon placed his hand on Obi-Wan's chest, closing his eyes and concentrating. Obi-Wan took a couple of shallow, shaky breaths, sparing Satine a quick, pained smile, before he, too, closed his eyes. It took only a moment for the two Jedi to synchronise their breathing, and then Obi-Wan suddenly relaxed completely, surrendering to the unconsciousness of a healing trance. As Satine watched, it seemed that already some of the bruising to his face was beginning to fade, and it may have just been a trick of the light, but the cuts on his face seemed less swollen, and not quite so livid. She had expected Qui-Gon to step back, the trance achieved, but the older Jedi remained where he was, eyes closed, still concentrating, and she realised that he was still lending strength to Obi-Wan, pushing more healing energy into the younger Jedi than he was capable of summoning for himself.
Uncertain as to what else she could do, Satine stepped away, heading over to the other mattress on the floor. The blanket was still warm, and she wrapped it around herself gratefully. Overcome by exhaustion, she glanced across at the other bed; the last image she saw was that of the Jedi Master bowed over his Padawan, bonded together and doing his utmost to ease the younger Jedi's pain. Feeling safe for the first time in a long time, Satine allowed herself to drift off to sleep.
Satine was awoken several hours later by footsteps on the stairs and she rose quickly in alarm, only to relax at the sight of Najira, carrying a replenished jug of water and three dried ration packets.
"It is morning," the woman murmured, by way of explanation, setting the offerings down on a crate, "have you slept well?"
"Perfectly well, thank you, Najira," Satine nodded, gratefully, "what word from outside?"
"The people speak of the deaths of a dozen Traditionalists and the escape of three unknown pacifists to the North," Najira told her, with some degree of satisfaction, "there were a couple of minor injuries to people in nearby homes but nothing serious. Opinion is divided on who was at fault, but we do have a few other pacifist allies here. In this town at least, there is an uneasy settlement – everyone is too busy trying to survive to worry about fighting each other. I have asked a few of my contacts to see if we can procure a few extra rations and medical supplies..."
The older woman's gaze flitted across to the other bed; Satine raised her gaze. Obi-Wan appeared to be peacefully deep in his trance, and, as the Duchess crossed to his side, she was amazed to see the cuts on his face had faded away to little more than light-pink scars. The bruising was almost gone, but his arm, leg and chest were still bound with bandages, and she could hear a slight wheeze in every breath he took. In the armchair, Qui-Gon was sat perfectly upright with his eyes closed; whether the Master was asleep or meditating, Satine could not tell.
"These Jedi truly are miracle workers," Najira breathed in admiration, "when I saw the boy last night, I honestly thought... well. I am pleased to see he is recovering so quickly..."
"Thanks to you, your husband and brother," Satine conceded, "really, I am running out of ways to thank you for your kindness, Najira."
"It is only through helping each other that we will rebuild Mandalore as it should be, your Highness."
The two women shared a sad smile, until a sudden pounding, banging noise made them both freeze. Qui-Gon was on his feet in a split second, lightsabre in hand but leaving it deactivated for the moment, moving with such silent fluidity that Satine was startled again.
"Hey! Hey, what do you think you're doing?" Tywan's angry shout was muffled by the floorboards between them, but they could all hear several sets of footsteps moving rapidly above them.
"Search the house!" snapped another, unknown voice, "Rip the place apart if you have to!"
"You have no right... argh!"
There was the audible sound of a fist hitting flesh and the distinctive thump of someone falling to their knees, as Najira gasped, her hands going to her mouth in horror.
"Where are they? Where are the pacifist rebels you're hiding?"
"I... I don't know what you're talking about..."
"Liar! We've received word you've been bartering for food and medical supplies! Who are you hiding here?"
"No – nobody! I needed the bacta for my brother in law, he was injured in the bombing... and we always need food, there are three of us, and my sister is expecting a baby..."
Najira's hand twitched to her stomach instinctively, and Satine raised her eyebrows in surprise. Najira nodded, and held up three fingers. Satine nodded back her understanding, her eyes shining in the half-light of the cellar as she took Najira's free hand and squeezed it in gentle reassurance. Above them was the sounds of more thumping and banging, until a disgusted voice announced; "There's nothing here, boss. Just a guy upstairs in bed looking pretty out of it..."
There was a grunt of disgust, and the sound of another hefty blow being landed on the unfortunate Tywan.
"If I find out you pacifist scum are harbouring the fugitives who murdered my people, all three of you will be dragged out into the street and publicly executed," snarled the unknown man, "and I'll burn down the house of every known sympathiser in this town, do you hear me?"
"Y...yes, sir."
With a wordless snarl, the intruder swept out, taking his people with him. A long few minutes passed, before the hidden hatch opened, and Tywan staggered down the steps, into his sister's waiting embrace.
"Oh, Ty – are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Naj," he assured her, patting her back, "those bastards... good job your other half is a better actor than he is a cook... I don't think they'll be back for a while. They're probably going house to house on the off chance of flushing someone out."
"I thought they were under the impression we'd fled North?" Satine's hand fluttered in front of her lips, worriedly, "Why would they come searching here?"
"In a small town like this rumours abound," Najira replied, sadly, pressing her hand again to her stomach, "I am sorry, Duchess, it seems our efforts to find supplies for you have drawn attention... we will be more careful in the future."
"There will not be a future occurrence," Qui-Gon replied, firmly, clipping his lightsabre back onto his belt, "we will wait for nightfall and we will have to move on... we cannot risk your lives further by staying here."
"But... what about Obi-Wan?" Satine glanced beseechingly at the young Jedi and then up at the Master, "his injuries... he needs more time."
"I will leave him in his trance for as long as possible," Qui-Gon assured her, "but we cannot risk innocent lives or our own by staying here. If word has spread that we were here it will not be long before bounty hunters reach this town; I have no doubt they are already on their way. We must move on."
"Oh..." the grief and dismay in Satine's tone was evident, even as she made a visible effort to steel herself, "Najira... I am so sorry..."
"Don't be, your Highness. The fault is mine, I should have been more careful... I am the one who is sorry."
"We'll secure you a speeder," Tywan promised, "I know of one you can use, I'll take you to it tonight, you can use it to get far away from here. We'll give you as many supplies as we can spare. Run, far from here... and we will wait for the day you can return to the palace and rule Mandalore the way it is meant to be."
"Thank you, my friends," Satine's voice wavered with emotion, but her stance was determined, "your kindness will never be forgotten."
"Come, Tywan," Najira gestured to her brother, "let us gather what we can, then..."
The two of them left, and, with little else to do, Satine turned towards Obi-Wan, sitting on the head of the bed and resting her hand on his forehead.
"He feels so cold," she murmured, glancing sadly up at Qui-Gon, "is that normal for one of these... healing trances?"
"No... I fear it is symptomatic of his weakened condition," Qui-Gon sighed, as he sat opposite to her, at the foot of the bed; "the trance has only healed his more minor injuries; his leg, chest and arm still trouble me greatly. I truly hope Tywan can supply us with a vehicle; Obi-Wan will be unable to walk, let alone run. I cannot carry him and defend you at the same time, Duchess, should the need arise."
"We will not leave him behind!"
"I suggested no such thing, your Highness," Qui-Gon replied, firmly, "but if circumstances demanded it, I know Obi-Wan would insist I save your life over his. No, please... this is no time for an argument. It is my firm intention to get both of you to safety."
"Where can we go?" Satine's fear and frustration bled into her voice, as she curled her hands into fists, "It is hopeless, Master Jedi! Wherever we go we are hunted, persecuted, hounded and threatened with death. How am I supposed to unite my people if I am constantly running?"
"Everywhere we go we have also found shelter, food, warmth and assistance in some way," Qui-Gon reminded her, "kind people like Tywan, Arnott and Najira. Somewhere, there will be a town where the majority feel as they do, and you will have the safe haven from which to rebuild your strength and support. I have sought guidance from the Force; we will head East, and we will trust in the Force to guide us."
"You may trust in the Force, Master Jedi, but your mystic ways continue to elude me," Satine sighed, glancing sadly down at Obi-Wan as she absently stroked his hair, "you may continue to perform your miracles; I shall simply have trust in you, and myself, and in Obi-Wan..."
She leaned down and placed a gentle, tender kiss on Obi-Wan's forehead, caressing his cheek with her hand.
"When will he awaken?"
"If circumstances permitted it, he would probably not regain consciousness for another two or three days," Qui-Gon allowed some of his own dismay into his voice, as Satine glanced at him in surprise, "but he is far too weak from hunger and fatigue to maintain a trance for that long in any case... I will allow him a few more hours, and then I will awaken him. He will need to eat and drink before we try to move him for our escape..."
"Will he... will he be in any pain?"
Qui-Gon's expression flickered momentarily, allowing Satine the briefest glimpse of the older Jedi's love and concern for his Padawan.
"I am afraid that is unavoidable, your Highness."
"Oh," her hand went to her heart unconsciously, "oh, Obi-Wan..."
Qui-Gon discretely turned away, pretending not to notice the tear that tracked its way down the Duchess's pale cheek.
Far too soon, Qui-Gon stood up from the armchair where he had been meditating, and gestured for Satine to join him.
"It is time," he said, sombrely, "I will wake him..."
The Jedi Master took a seat at the head of the bed, and rested his fingertips on Obi-Wan's forehead. Closing his eyes momentarily, Qui-Gon concentrated; almost immediately, Obi-Wan drew in a sharp breath, which rapidly dissolved into a coughing fit. Qui-Gon's eyes snapped open as he caught the Padawan's shoulders with both hands, holding him down, as Obi-Wan choked and gasped, his left arm hugging his still-sore ribs, shuddering in breathless pain and shock at the sharp awakening.
"Easy, Obi-Wan, easy now... that's it, young one, focus on me... I am sorry, Obi-Wan, I had no choice but to wake you..."
"M-Master," Obi-Wan stammered out, at long last, as recognition washed over him, "have... have we been discovered?"
"Not yet, but we have come close," Qui-Gon told him, sorrowfully, "too close. We must leave."
"Ahh... Master... my leg..."
"I know, Padawan mine, I know. I am sorry. Our hosts are attempting to secure us a speeder; hopefully you will not have to walk far. We will help you. First of all, we need you to regain a little strength, if you can. There is food and water here, when you are ready."
"In... in a moment," Obi-Wan murmured, gritting his teeth against a swell of pain and nausea, "Master, I... I don't feel well..."
"I know. I am sorry. Your healing trance was nowhere near complete, but I have given you as much time as we can spare. It will be dark in only a few hours, and then we must make our move."
Obi-Wan nodded, swallowing back the nausea, taking a few shuddering breaths. His chest ached horribly, and there was a heavy feeling in his right side that spoke of congestion in his lung. His right arm throbbed mercilessly, despite the split and the bindings, and his fingers were still swollen, bruised and useless. His knee burned with pain, and he doubted he would be able to put much weight on the leg for long, though of course he was determined to try. As he lay there, fighting to keep the pain at bay and his breathing under control, Qui-Gon gently checked over his injuries and the bindings, noting that only the worst of the burns still lingered a little; he carefully used some of their bacta to treat the remaining scorch-wounds. He then changed the bandages around Obi-Wan's knee, adding the last of the bacta gel to the raw, open wound, grimacing at the sight of it before he folded a clean cloth over it and re-bound the injury.
His ministrations finished, he stood, and glanced at Obi-Wan's all-too-pale face, eyes half-lidded, clouded with pain and exhaustion.
"Can you sit up?" Qui-Gon asked, softly, "I will help you..."
Obi-Wan nodded, not trusting himself to speak. With Qui-Gon's gentle assistance, he was soon mostly upright; Qui-Gon took a seat on the bed and guided the Padawan to lean back against the wall, but kept his arm around the younger Jedi. Obi-Wan found himself being half-cradled against his Master, his head pillowed on the older man's shoulder, a supportive arm holding him upright, and he groaned aloud at his own pain and weakness.
"Stay awake, Obi-Wan," his Master's voice was little more than a breath in his ear; he hadn't even realised he had closed his eyes, "you must eat, young one... then you may sleep a while, before we leave. Duchess, if you wouldn't mind...?"
"I am already here, Master Jedi," Satine's soft, melodic voice came from his left side, and he felt the mattress dip slightly as she sat down on his other side, "Obi-Wan... I have food, and water, plenty for you... please, will you eat something? For me?"
He managed to crack his eyes open, his gaze meeting her blue-eyed, fair haired, beautiful face, and he felt his heart skip a beat at the pure, honest affection with which she returned his look. Guiltily, he dropped his eyes quickly, lest he give away his feelings; she smiled, forlornly. She opened a ration pack; revealing some kind of dried cereal bar, tasteless, but at least nutritious. She broke off a small piece and pressed it into his left hand. At his Master's murmur of encouragement, Obi-Wan slowly, stiffly, moved his arm and placed the morsel into his mouth, chewing and swallowing it carefully. His stomach protested and he shuddered, but he knew he needed the food, desperately. He could feel the tremors of weakness thrumming through his wasted muscles, his aching ribs sticking out through taut skin beneath his too-loose tunic, a testament to their months of living hand-to-mouth in near poverty.
Another morsel of food was pushed into his hand, and honestly, he almost lacked the strength to raise it to his lips. He somehow managed the feat, embarrassed by his own weakness but too tired to do anything about it. As he struggled to swallow the food, his head lolled against his Master's shoulder; he wanted nothing more than to slip back into blissful, pain-free unconsciousness.
"Obi-Wan... Padawan, you must stay awake... you need to eat."
A warm, tender hand cupped his jaw, and he felt the strength of his Master's presence in his mind, through their bond.
I am sorry, Master... I am so tired. I am too weak...and it hurts so much...
I know, dear one. I am the one who is sorry... allow me to lend you a little of my strength.
No... you have already given me so much, Master...
It is mine to give, Obi-Wan.
A wave of warmth washed through him and he gasped as he felt the Force flow through him, momentarily pushing the pain aside. He stirred, blinking his eyes back into focus, as Qui-Gon nudged him a little more upright. Obi-Wan found another piece of the ration bar being handed to him, Satine's expression pleased and encouraging in equal measures. Determined not to disappoint her or his Master, he made a concerted effort to finish the meal. Eventually, the packet was empty, and his brief surge of energy was virtually spent. Qui-Gon passed him a beaker full of water; he held it clumsily in his left hand, the broken right arm resting awkwardly across his lap. He was shaking almost uncontrollably now, as the Master helped him hold onto the cup, drinking in small sips, until the water was gone. The cup was lifted out of his unresisting hand, as he slumped against his Master's supportive shoulder, shivering and gasping in pain.
"That's enough for now," Qui-Gon assured him, his left arm tightening its embrace on his wounded Padawan ever so slightly, "you have done well, Obi-Wan... sleep now. We will wake you when it is time to leave."
He did not need telling twice; he doubted he could have stayed awake even if he wanted to. His eyes were already closed as he felt himself being lowered back down onto the bed. Small, cold, yet gentle hands wrapped a warm blanket around his shoulders, caressing his cheek and stroking back his hair. There was a breath of air on his cheek and then the gentle touch of lips; a kiss was pressed into his cheek and a hand combed through his hair, as he sighed with relief, and tumbled into sleep.
"Come, Obi-Wan... it is time to leave..."
Blinking his eyes open reluctantly, Obi-Wan felt the now-familiar aching in his chest, arm, side and leg. He coughed, feeling his breath crackling in his chest, and was alarmed when the coughing would not stop, preventing him from drawing in a breath. Strong arms suddenly lifted him into a sitting position, holding him upright as a hand gently patted his back. Choking, he hacked and coughed until he finally drew in a ragged breath, tears stinging his eyes and blurring his vision.
"I'm not sure this is such a good idea, Master Jedi," said a woman's voice he did not recognise, "the boy clearly isn't well enough to travel... are you sure you will not stay a little longer?"
"We cannot risk your safety, Najira," replied a much more familiar voice from beside him, and he realised, distantly, he was being held upright in his Master's strong arms, "Obi-Wan... shallow breaths, Padawan, that's it..."
Finally getting his breath under control, Obi-Wan shuddered, feeling weak and light-headed, his whole right-hand side pulsing with pain. He managed to blink his eyes back into focus, and found himself staring into the concerned gaze of an older woman with dark hair and a scarred face. Satine was there, clad once more in her thick travel cloak, her expression one of dismay at his appearance, and he tried to straighten up again, nodding to the scar-faced woman.
"Hello there," he managed a ragged, hoarse greeting, "so... so sorry about all this... thank you for helping us..."
"Huh," the woman's face twisted in amusement, "well, there's nothing wrong with his manners, at least. My name's Najira – you must be Obi-Wan."
"What's left of him," the Padawan murmured, dimly aware that he was leaning very heavily against Qui-Gon's shoulder, seated as they were on the edge of the bed, "is... is it time to go?"
"I'm afraid so, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon inclined his head, "Najira and her family will be in danger if we stay. Her brother Tywan is going to lead us to a speeder we can use to make our escape... do you think you can stand?"
Obi-Wan nodded, easing himself off the edge of the bed. However, as soon as his weight hit his injured leg, it buckled beneath him and he bit back a cry of agony; he would have collapsed to the floor had it not been for Qui-Gon's cautiously supportive hold on him.
"It's no good – he can't walk on that leg," Tywan shook his head, "I will need to lead the way and check it is clear, or I'd take him myself... Master Jedi, can you carry him?"
"I can, but if we are caught, I will need my hands free to defend us..."
"I will help him," Satine drew herself up to her full height, determination shining in her youthful face, "Obi-Wan, lean on me."
"Oh... no... your Highness, I cannot..."
"You can and you will," Satine replied, resolutely, as she crossed to his side, "here – place your arm across my shoulders..."
Mindful of the splint and bandages around his right arm, Obi-Wan reluctantly wrapped the injured limb across Satine's narrow shoulders, his elbow hooked around her neck. She refrained from grasping his wounded arm, instead looping her left arm around his waist, taking hold of his belt for support, her right hand bracing his chest, trying to hold him upright. She could feel him quivering with barely-suppressed pain, his face pallid and expression taut. She could hear the way each breath hitched in his chest, and although he leaned into her support, she could tell he was trying desperately not to burden her with his full weight.
"Relax, Obi-Wan," she murmured, into his ear, "you are not that heavy and I am stronger than I look."
"Your strength is not in question, your Highness," came the soft response, "mine is currently the real issue..."
Qui-Gon nodded in approval as Satine squared her shoulders, Obi-Wan half-slumped against her but his expression just as determined. Reaching down, Qui-Gon lifted a backpack, shouldering it on – Najira and Tywan had filled it with what few ration packs and flasks of water they could spare, along with a few bandages and other supplies.
"One moment," Najira stepped forward, and began to fold the thick blanket from the bed, rolling it up before fastening it to the top of the backpack, "you can take this with you. I think you will need it..."
"You have been so kind, Najira, Tywan, and Arnott of course," Satine smiled at her, blinking back the tears in her eyes, "thank you again, from the bottom of my heart... and good luck with your child, they could not ask for better parents. You have my eternal thanks and my blessing."
"Take this, as well, your Highness," Najira slipped a small device into Satine's tunic pocket, "it is an emergency transponder on an encoded frequency. When you are ready, or if you ever need help, activate it. Any of our friends in your vicinity will respond to it. We will make sure of that. When you are ready... when you need us... call us. We will come."
Najira cupped her hands to her midriff and bowed low, before stepping back and gesturing to the stairs. Tywan led the way, followed by Satine and Obi-Wan, helped from behind as Qui-Gon followed them up. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, Obi-Wan was already gasping breathlessly, shaking from the exertion, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, leaning heavily on Satine's shoulders, his good arm wrapped protectively around his chest, hand cradling his hurting ribs.
"You can do it, Obi-Wan, I know you can," Satine murmured to him, softly, as Tywan gave them a moment for him to catch his breath, "I'm here... it's not far to go, okay? You can do this; you're going to be fine..."
Obi-Wan coughed, nodding his head, weakly, feeling his Master's hand briefly on his left shoulder. His Master was offering his strength through the Force once again, but Obi-Wan gently shielded, rebuffing the offer – Qui-Gon was as tired and malnourished as the rest of them and his energy reserves were not unlimited. Obi-Wan did not want to be the cause of both of their collapse, especially with Satine's... the Duchess's life at stake. Qui-Gon did not press the matter, though his grip tightened minutely in support. Then, the hand was taken away, before lifting the hood of Obi-Wan's travel cloak, pulling it over his head and disguising his face. Satine and Qui-Gon similarly drew up their own hoods, before the Jedi Master nodded.
"We are ready, Tywan – lead the way."
A door opened and they stepped out into the street; Tywan first, followed by the two teenagers, with Qui-Gon guarding their rear, lightsabre in hand and ready to activate at the first sign of trouble. Tywan led them through side-alleys and down narrow streets, avoiding the main roads, flitting like shadows through the sprawling town, freezing and melting into hiding at any hint of sound or movement, cowering away from the odd person they saw out, unable to distinguish friend from foe.
As they ducked behind a parked speeder, hiding from a laughing, chatting couple walking the opposite way down the other side of the road, Satine felt Obi-Wan's shivering increase. He was shaking uncontrollably now, panting for breath in short, sharp gasps, suppressing his coughs as much as possible, but it was clear he was flagging.
"Is it much further?" she whispered, worriedly.
"Just the other side of the street and between those houses," Tywan gestured, "the speeder belongs to my cousin, but he's a sympathiser... he's already given me the ignition key. It's clear – let's go."
Qui-Gon helped Satine pull Obi-Wan to his feet and suppressed his own worry; he could feel the pain and exhaustion radiating from his Padawan, whose consciousness was wavering dangerously. He sent reassurance down their bond that it was not far now, but there was no acknowledgement.
"We must move quickly," he said, decisively, "now, young ones – go."
They crossed the dimly lit street quickly, ducking into the shadows of the buildings, hugging the walls and creeping towards their destination; sure enough, tucked behind a squat house and at the end of an alley, an innocuous speeder was parked, waiting for them. Tywan handed Qui-Gon the key, glancing around quickly.
"Follow the road to the end, turn left, left again, then the second right," he ordered, "that will take you to the outskirts of the town and the edge of the dome. From there you can head whatever direction you like in the desert – I'll make sure nobody follows you."
"Thank you, Tywan," Qui-Gon bowed, quickly, mindful of the need for haste, "you have my gratitude, and I hope we next meet under better circumstances."
"I, too, Master Jedi," Tywan smiled, "now, go, make your escape!"
The speeder had a canopy shielding the seats, clearly built for use in the wild desert. Qui-Gon opened it quickly, and, taking hold of Obi-Wan, gestured for Satine to climb into the back seat. She did so obediently, her eyes wide as Qui-Gon carefully lifted Obi-Wan, placing him inside; Satine reached out to help steady him, guiding him down onto the back seat, lying down on his left side, pillowing his head in her lap as he surrendered his battle for consciousness, eyes slipping shut and sagging limply into her cradle-hold. Qui-Gon shrugged out of his backpack, dropping it into the passenger seat as he took the driver's seat. Closing the canopy, he started up the speeder. From the end of the alley, Tywan waved the all-clear, as the vehicle lifted off the ground, and then pulled away.
It did not take them long to reach the outskirts of the town, and although they attracted a few curious glances from the few citizens out on the streets at such a late hour, nobody paid them any real heed, as Qui-Gon piloted the speeder through the town and, finally, through the ray shields and out into the wind-swept desert. Visibility faded to zero in the pitch blackness of the night and the whirling sands, but Qui-Gon did not need to see – between the scanner in the speeder and the guidance of the Force, he chose a direction towards the East, and relaxed into the drive.
A low groan and a weak cough from the back seat drew his attention, and he risked a quick glance over his shoulder; Satine had Obi-Wan's head cradled in her lap, one hand carding through his hair, the other holding tightly onto his left hand as he clung to her, face taut and teeth clenched in pain.
"Obi-Wan?"
"He's... he's in so much pain, Master Qui-Gon," Satine's voice sounded choked with tears and fear, "I don't know what to do... and he feels so cold..."
"His injuries were only exacerbated by our journey and he is terribly weak," Qui-Gon sighed, locking in a course and activating the automatic pilot for a few minutes, freeing up his hands as he reached for their backpack, "here, the blanket – see if you can warm him a little."
Satine briefly released her hold on Obi-Wan's hand as she accepted the thick fabric gratefully, casting it over the young man lying beside her, enfolding it around him. He mumbled something, incoherently, trembling and writhing weakly, his left hand reaching for her again, and she clasped it in both of hers, tucking it against his chest beneath the blanket, desperate to try and warm him, even if only a little.
"Can you put him back into the healing trance?" she asked, pleadingly, "Surely at least while we are travelling, he should be allowed to rest..."
"I am sorry, your Highness," Qui-Gon shook his head, regretfully, turning his attention back to piloting the speeder, "I cannot. Obi-Wan is too weak to maintain a deep enough trance... and I do not have the strength left to help him. We must find shelter, somewhere we can all rest a while."
"We've just left the best shelter we've found in weeks," Satine shot back, but there was no venom in her tone, only regret and dismay, "please, Master Jedi – surely you can see how much he's suffering..."
"See it?" Qui-Gon repeated, his own concern and fatigue making him uncharacteristically sharp, "Your Highness – I can feel it. Jedi Masters and their Padawans share a... special bond. A psychic link, of a sort... I am well aware of Obi-Wan's pain – I can sense it from him and feel it as if it were my own, despite his attempts to shield it from me. Please do not mistake my determination for a lack of care for my Padawan. We came here to accomplish a mission, and we will do everything can to complete that mission, no matter the cost. That is the oath that we take as Jedi."
There was a long moment of silence, and then Satine spoke again, in a small voice; "I... I am sorry, Qui-Gon. You love him, don't you? Like a son, I mean..."
The Jedi Master hesitated, before replying; "Jedi are forbidden from forming such attachments."
There was a humourless laugh; "So I've been told. Several times... tell me, then, why is it so dangerous for you to love? It is the most powerful feeling in the galaxy, except perhaps for this mysterious Force you both wield."
"Because it is dangerous," Qui-Gon told her, firmly, "love and attachments lead to fear of loss or jealousy and anger, and loss leads to hatred, grief... these are all paths to the Dark Side. And if a Jedi turns away from the Light, falling to darkness, that being becomes consumed by evil, a powerful, dangerous threat to all life."
Silence again as the young Duchess digested this information.
"So... you're not allowed to love?"
"Hah," Qui-Gon huffed, "We are encouraged to let go of things without fear or anger or grief. I can... yes. Very well. I love Obi-Wan, and I sense his love for me. But if he were to die... I would have to accept that loss, and let him go, and move on, knowing it is the will of the Force. But, I admit to you, that would be... difficult. Which is why Jedi are forbidden from such attachments to people, and things, and places. We must live in the moment at the will of the Force, to avoid the risk of falling to darkness."
"Then you, and Obi-Wan, and the other Jedi... none of you have ever fallen in love with someone?"
"I would be lying if I said that never happened, your Highness. But no Jedi is allowed to remain in the Order whilst subject to such an... entanglement."
"You mean..." Satine hesitated, glancing down at the semi-conscious, wounded Jedi in her lap, "if you fell in love with someone, and wanted to spend your life with them, you would have to leave the Jedi Order?"
"Yes. And measures would be taken to ensure that failed Jedi made every effort to cut themselves off from the Force, either through mental shielding or Force-suppressant drugs. It is... unpleasant, but necessary, to ensure those around them are kept safe..."
"...And they do not succumb to the evil you spoke of," Satine sounded heartbroken, "that sounds... awful."
"It is."
They fell silent for a long time, as Qui-Gon concentrated on piloting the speeder through the stormy desert, following the quiet pulling of the Force, seeking shelter. Behind him, Satine's head whirled with confused thoughts and feelings as she continued to cradle Obi-Wan in her lap, one hand holding his, the other tracing the handsome lines of his face, her heart shattering to see him in so much pain... almost as much as it hurt to realise she could never profess her feelings to him. Even though she felt the connection between them, he was a Jedi. And she could never take that from him.
It wasn't allowed...
It wasn't fair.
The sun rose slowly, turning the desert from black to orange, clouded as it was by the sand whipped into the air by the constant, howling winds. It made a change to be travelling in a vehicle, affording them far more protection than their cloaks and breathing filters, whilst also allowing them to travel much further and faster, with no chance of being followed. The desert was both their greatest ally and worst enemy in that respect. Eventually, the scanner began to bleep at them, and Qui-Gon began to slow their speed.
"What is it, Master Jedi?" Satine queried, sleepily, blinking her eyes open; she had nodded off some time ago, and yawned as she stretched, careful not to jostle Obi-Wan too much.
Nonetheless, the young Jedi stirred and groaned, gasping slightly, coughing painfully.
"Something on our sensors," Qui-Gon reported, "I'm picking up a structure, but no shield... possibly an abandoned settlement..."
"Somewhere to rest a while?" Satine's hopes rose, her fingers clutching Obi-Wan's shoulder as the Padawan coughed and rasped, shuddering beneath her touch.
"Perhaps," Qui-Gon reached into the pack beside him, handing her a bottle of water, "here – both of you should drink something..."
Satine accepted the flask, unscrewing the lid and then carefully pouring a little at a time into Obi-Wan's parted, cracked lips, waiting for him to swallow before giving a little more, taking the odd quick swing herself but determined to save the majority for her injured friend. Obi-Wan nodded his thanks at last, closing his eyes and snuggling into the blanket, his head still pillowed against her thigh, as she rested her hand on his forehead, and then frowned slightly. She had grown used to him feeling cold and a little clammy, but now, he was distinctly warm.
"Master Qui-Gon?" she said, worriedly, "I... I think Obi-Wan is starting to develop a fever... he suddenly feels very warm, but he's still shivering..."
She saw the older Jedi's shoulders drop ever so slightly; he half-turned to look at them both, and then turned back to piloting the speeder.
"I will take us to the structure on our scanner," he told her, "you will wait with Obi-Wan in the speeder while I investigate it – if it seems safe, we will take the opportunity to rest."
"Yes, Master Jedi," she acquiesced, obediently.
Sure enough, after a few minutes, Qui-Gon drew the speeder to a halt, leaving it hovering in place should he need to make a quick exit. Satine covered her nose and mouth with her cloak, shielding Obi-Wan with it as well, as he opened the canopy to step out, before closing it again. Cut off from the wind, a layer of sand immediately dropped, coating every surface with the fine, yellow dust. Satine brushed it from her cloak as Obi-Wan coughed again, a wet, hacking sound that made her heart constrict in her chest.
"Easy, easy, Obi-Wan," she hushed him, soothingly, "Master Qui-Gon has found us a place to rest so you can get well again... just a few minutes longer, while he makes sure it's safe..."
"S...Satine?"
Her heart leapt as he uttered her name – no honorific, no deference, no high esteem, just a murmur of affection and awe, his left hand reaching up to touch her porcelain features, and she grasped the hand gently, cupping it to her cheek and leaning into his touch, closing her eyes, savouring their moment alone together.
"I'm here, my love."
"S... so sorry... I failed... was meant... to protect you..."
"And you have, sweet Obi. But now it is my turn to protect you... hush now, you must save your strength, I fear you are becoming sick from your injuries... you need to rest..."
His thumb stroked her cheek, and she smiled down upon him, then almost jumped out of her skin as the canopy opened; she clutched Obi-Wan, leaning over him protectively, only to see a cloaked figure leap into the driver's seat and snap the canopy closed again.
"The Force has lead us true," Qui-Gon announced, his relief palpable, "this appears to be an old supply distribution outpost. It is unshielded and appears uninhabited. There is hanger nearby where we can park the speeder out of the sandstorms. I think we will be safe here for as long as our supplies can last."
"Thank the Gods," Satine closed her eyes, hugging Obi-Wan a little closer to her chest, "and thank you, Master Jedi."
Qui-Gon powered up the speeder and turned, guiding it forwards and around the squat, domed building, hidden from view by the raging sands. However, soon enough, they were flying in through an open hanger door, virtually obscured by drifts of sand. One inside, they flew to the back of the cavernous hanger, as far away from the raging sands as possible, and Qui-Gon set them down, powering off their craft.
"We have very little fuel left," he commented, "perhaps later we may explore this place to see if anything useful was left behind."
"We can only hope," Satine cast her eyes around the empty hanger bay, "though it does not seem much was left behind. These supply stations used to be common on Mandalore, until the war turned all interest from prosperity into the art of killing... perhaps this one was abandoned in a hurry. Normally they were destroyed to stop them falling into enemy hands."
Qui-Gon made a noise of agreement as he pushed open the canopy once more, sand sliding from the cover to the floor, stirring up a cloud of dust. The Jedi Master climbed out and landed neatly on the deck plates. Satine moved as if to help lift Obi-Wan but then let out a soft exclamation as he simply floated up, out of her grip, still wrapped in the warm blanket; she caught herself quickly enough. She had seen both Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan demonstrate their ability to move things through the air using the Force, but it was strange to see the Jedi Master use it to lift his own apprentice. She was about to demand to know why he had not done so before to help his wounded Padawan through the streets of the town as they fled; until she saw how pale the Master's face had become, his lips pursed and eyes creased with concentration, and she realised what a taxing effort it had become for either of them to perform such feats.
The young Duchess therefore kept her mouth closed as she grabbed their backpack of supplies, lifting it onto her own shoulders, as Qui-Gon carefully took Obi-Wan, cradled in his arms, holding him close to his chest.
"This way, your Highness," he turned away, indicating for her to follow, "I found a habitation area not far from here where we will be safe for now... the power core still seems functional, so we have lights and clean air."
"Are we sure no-one lives here?" Satine asked, nervously, as they walked through dusty, sand-swept corridors.
"I have sensed no life signs," Qui-Gon told her, confidently, turning a corner, "and I have seen no footprints other than my own. I believe we are alone here."
"Good," Satine breathed, softly, nodding to herself, "let's hope it stays that way for some time. I am tired of running, Master Jedi. It is time to find somewhere to establish a base of operations and begin organising our resistance to the Martial Traditionalists."
"One thing at a time, your Highness," Qui-Gon spared her a dry smile, "first of all, I should like to tend to my Padawan – and for us all to get some proper rest."
"Of course," Satine smiled back, nodding, as they came upon a door.
With a wave of his fingers, Qui-Gon opened the door, revealing a small habitation area, and Satine's spirits rose immediately. The room was vaguely circular and seemed to have been built for the cramped habitation of up to a half a dozen workers... or very spacious for just three. There was a circular couch arranged around a table in the middle of the room, with four gaps for access. Around the edge of the room, six beds were recessed into the wall, each with their own privacy curtains, and to one side a small gallery kitchen with a dining table and chairs took up the other side of the curved walls. There were a couple of desks with moveable chairs and some plush armchairs dotted around the room as well. Although everything was covered in a thin film of dust, it seemed the desert sand had not permeated this part of the abandoned station.
"It's perfect," Satine breathed, moving to the nearest bunk and snatching back the curtain, "even the bedding is still in place..."
She quickly tugged off the blanket, patting down the sheet and flipping over the pillow, brushing away the traces of dust; when she had finished, Qui-Gon approached, and gently lay Obi-Wan down upon it; as he did so, the older Jedi staggered slightly, and immediately sat down on the edge of the bed, one hand going to his own head, as if trying to stave off a wave of dizziness.
"Master Qui-Gon? Are you unwell?" Satine queried, with obvious trepidation.
"No... no, I am fine, your Highness – just fatigued," Qui-Gon admitted, "we will tend to Obi-Wan and then I will rest... please, seal the door. We will take no chances. We will explore the rest of the facility at a later opportunity."
"But there could be medical supplies," Satine argued, stubbornly, "you said yourself, there was nobody here – I have eaten and slept whilst in the speeder. You have not. Allow me to be the caretaker for one – I will search the facility while you look after Obi-Wan and regain your strength."
"Your Highness, I do not recommend you leaving here alone – you are my responsibility; I should accompany you."
"Master Qui-Gon, you are clearly exhausted, and Obi-Wan needs you right now more than I do. I shall be fine, and I know Mandalorian architecture better than you do – I know where to look and what to look for. Please, trust me. I will return soon."
Reluctantly, too tired and too concerned about his Padawan to argue, Qui-Gon inclined his head, and Satine nodded resolutely, before sweeping out of the room in haste. He glanced down at the young Jedi on the bed beside him, and was surprised to see a pair of half-open blue-grey eyes looking up at him, blinking slowly. Obi-Wan was ashen-white, lips slightly blue, parted, each breath accompanied by a soft rasping noise. His lungs were congested, but his broken ribs made coughing far too painful.
Qui-Gon summoned what little Force-energy he could still muster, scanning Obi-Wan through their bond. The Padawan closed his eyes, and Qui-Gon was a little surprised to feel the gesture being returned. For a moment, they sank into meditation together; Obi-Wan could sense his Master's growing sense of fatigue, pushed almost to the limit of his vast reserves by their prolonged flight; he felt the aching in his temples and muscles as his mind and body protested the prolonged taxation inflicted upon them.
For his part, Qui-Gon could sense Obi-Wan's Force presence slowly fading, muted by pain, fatigue and growing sickness. The low-grade fever was not the result of infection of his wounds – the bacta had prevented that – but instead his own body surrendering to the prolonged period of fasting, dehydration and physical exhaustion. Combined with his injuries, his lungs were indeed congested; Qui-Gon could sense the pneumonia developing as a result of fluid building up, Obi-Wan lacking the strength and immunity to fight it. The Master could feel the throbbing from the Padawan's arm, leg and chest, and his heart ached with the thought that now, neither of them had the strength to guide Obi-Wan into a healing trance, no matter how desperately he wanted to.
Qui-Gon finally broke their connection, watching as Obi-Wan gave a low groan, and finally drifted back into a restless sleep. The Master rose, slowly, mindful of his own weariness, tucking the thicker blanket around Obi-Wan's recumbent form. He should follow the Duchess... or perhaps sort through their supplies... or begin searching their new accommodations... or make sure the access doors were all secured... or...
Before he realised what was happening, Qui-Gon sank down onto the next bed along from Obi-Wan's and slumped over into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Satine Kryze returned some time later, her mood significantly brighter and carrying a small satchel bag like a trophy – she had found crates in one of the storage bays, and one had contained medical supplies. She had found a bag and stuffed it with everything she could carry that would be of immediate use. She quickly checked all of the external perimeter doors were secure, just in case. Satisfied that they were alone and would not be disturbed unexpectedly, Satine fled back to the living area. Keying open the door and sealing it behind her, she was not surprised to see that both of her Jedi bodyguards were fast asleep on two of the beds. Obi-Wan was flat on his back, left arm weakly cradling his chest, even in slumber; Qui-Gon lay on his stomach, head turned to one side, looking as if he had simply collapsed face-first into the bed – which, Satine reflected with wry amusement, he probably had.
"Well, my Jedi friends," she whispered, tenderly, "your work is done, and you have served me well. We are safe now... and I think it is time we stopped running. Now it is my turn to care for you..."
She fetched one of the blankets from the other bed, draping it over the taller Qui-Gon, pausing to gently brush the long hair from his face, tucking it back behind his ear, her hand lingering on his forehead, checking for a fever and pleased to find none. He was just exhausted, then. Best to let him sleep in peace...
She turned her attention to Obi-Wan, her throat tightening in sympathy. His face was bloodless, lips blue with cold and a lack of oxygen thanks to his congested lungs. His eyes looked bruised and sunken, pinched in pain, even in sleep. His good arm cradled his chest, his broken one lying limply by his side. The bandage around his right leg, just above the knee, was stained brown where blood had seeped through. She started by untying and peeling back the bandages, hissing in a breath through clenched teeth as she saw the raw, ugly wound. Reaching into her bag, she cut away some of the fabric of Obi-Wan's trousers, saturated as they were with blood. It was little wonder he was so pale and exhausted... she used cleansing wipes to clear away the dried and tacky blood, before applying a liberal amount of bacta from a vial. A clean dressing pad and some fresh, white bandages later, and it already looked much better.
A low moan caught her attention, and she leaned forward, scarcely daring to breathe.
"Obi-Wan?"
"...Satine?" his voice was frail and shook terribly, and she smiled at him tenderly.
"I'm here, Obi," she assured him, "we're safe now. We found a place to stay, for as long as we want. I found medical supplies... I'm going to treat your wounds."
"M-Master Qui-Gon? I... I can't sense him..."
"He's asleep," Satine grasped Obi-Wan's hand where it rested on his chest, running her thumb across his knuckles as he weakly returned her grip, "he's exhausted, but he's resting now and he's going to be fine... we just need to take care of you, okay? I've got bacta, and bandages, and fever reducers, and pain-relievers... there are more supplies in the storage bay, we'll have you feeling better in no time, even if you can't do your healing trance magic."
"You... you hurt?"
"No," she laughed, softly, mindful of the other sleeping Jedi in the room, "no, Obi, thanks to you and Qui-Gon I'm perfectly fine. And I know now what I need to do next... first, though, you are my number one priority."
He frowned at her, confused, but she shook her head and reached into her bag again.
"Here," she murmured, "pain-relievers – a strong dose. Go back to sleep, Obi-Wan... you'll feel much better when you wake up, and I will be here, I promise. Rest, now..."
She injected the medication into his neck; watching as a strong shudder ran through him, before he relaxed, the medication chasing away the pain. His eyes rolled back and he fell back into slumber; his expression no longer tight with agony. She smiled at his obvious relief, giving him a dose of the fever-reducers, and an antibiotic for good measure. Recalling the medical aide training she had received as a youth in the palace, she fetched a bowl of water from the kitchenette, delighted to turn on the tap and find the vaporator tanks were full.
Carefully removing the splint and bandages from his broken arm, she again cut away the sleeve of his tunic, revealing an arm that was still swollen and mottled with bruises and scarred-over burns. Suppressing her revulsion at the horrific injuries inflicted upon her guardian... her friend... in her defence, she unravelled some plaster casting bandages, dipping them in the water, wringing them out before cautiously wrapping and layering them all around the broken arm; she was hardly an expert, but as the casting dried she was pleased to see the arm properly encased and supported at last.
She left, briefly visiting the supply room once more, returning with an intravenous line, drip stand, and a couple of bags of fluid. They were out of date by several months, but she was hardly in a position to complain, and the benefits of using the bags certainly outweighed any potential risks. She had also found a small tank of air and a breathing mask, which took some time to drag back to their new quarters. Panting with the effort, she placed the tank beside the bed, placing the mask over Obi-Wan's nose and mouth. He murmured something, stirring slightly, but did not fully waken as she settled him back onto the pillow, turning on the tank, hoping it would at least help ease the young Jedi's struggle to breathe.
Finally, she hooked a bag of saline onto the drip stand; easing Obi-Wan's left arm off his chest, she found a vein in the back of his hand. Swabbing the area clean, she gritted her teeth and carefully inserted the needle. It took a couple of attempts – she was out of practice, after all – but she finally got the needle properly situated. Taping it into place, she connected up the drip, and set it running.
Satisfied with her efforts and feeling more than a little tired, but unwilling to sleep while she watched over the two Jedi, Satine slowly stood, surveying their small habitation. Idly, she crossed to the kitchenette, and opened the first of the wall cupboards. Her heart leapt into her mouth as her hands flew to her lips, tears welling up in her eyes. The cupboard contained food... more food than she had seen in the last seven months combined. Tinned meats, vegetables, and fruits; packets of bread mix to be added to water and baked in the oven, rice, cereals, dried fruits and nuts, ration packs... the cupboard was packed. The next cupboard was similarly well stocked, and the third just over half full... other cupboards and drawers revealed plates, cutlery, pots and pans; there were cups and tins containing different types of tea and caffeine... she had not seen this much food since she had been hounded out of the palace. There were even a few bottles of wine. There was a cold store that she opened, but she immediately closed the door, wrinkling her nose in disgust; of course everything fresh had fouled in the time since the station had been abandoned.
Glancing across at the two Jedi, satisfied that they were both sleeping comfortably; Satine turned on the oven, moving as quietly as possible, and set herself to work.
Consciousness stole over Qui-Gon Jinn slowly; he drew in a slow, deep breath, savouring the moment of infinite peace between waking and sleeping. The Force was singing in the back of his mind and he relaxed into it, distantly aware that it had been a very long time since he had felt such calm; for so long, the Force had been little more than a siren of warning or a beacon to follow. It was comforting to be at peace with it, even if for only a moment. He was also lying on a thick mattress, tucked in a warm blanket, his head pillowed on a soft cushion, a luxury he had not fully experienced since they had fled the palace...
The palace. Mandalore. The reality of his mission came crashing back, but the Force was there and he released his turbulent rush of emotion into it, rolling over, blinking his eyes open even as he raised a hand to his face, rubbing away the last vestiges of sleep. He sensed two other presences in the room; both were also at peace, though one of them moved, approaching him slowly, moving quietly.
"Master Qui-Gon?"
"Duchess Satine," he greeted her, his voice still a little rough and gravelly from sleep, "my apologies... how long was I...?"
"It has been several hours," she admitted, with a small shrug, "you need not be concerned. We are completely alone here, and apparently safe. You were exhausted and clearly needed to rest... how do you feel now?"
He sat up slowly, on the edge of the bed, nodding carefully; "Much better, thank you. A little stronger, at least... Obi-Wan?"
"He is resting peacefully," Satine nodded, glancing across at the other bed, "I found medical supplies – I have treated his injuries as best I can, but if you have a moment to check on him...?"
Qui-Gon was already moving to his Padawan's bedside, nodding in approval when he saw the drip stand and oxygen tank. There was already a little more colour in Obi-Wan's complexion, and beneath the mask, his lips were no longer cyanotic blue. Sitting on the edge of the bed, mindful not to jar the recumbent Jedi, he reached out with his right hand. A gentle, methodical Force-scan revealed Obi-Wan was indeed deeply asleep, rather than simply unconscious; there was still a heaviness of congestion in his chest and muted pain from his leg, ribs and arm, but it was manageable, and Qui-Gon opened his eyes, flashing a sincere smile at the Duchess, who blushed at his approval.
"You have done well, young Duchess," he told her, "he is indeed sleeping deeply and his injuries, while aching, are no longer troubling him so severely. You have my thanks."
"It is nothing compared to the services you and Obi-Wan have provided to me," she replied, with a small, dismissive wave of her hand, "and, if you will forgive me, Master Qui-Gon, you still seem a little pale yourself. Are you sure you are alright?"
"Just, ah..." Qui-Gon hesitated, and then opted for honesty; "I am somewhat malnourished, I'm afraid. If we have a ration pack to spare, I should be grateful for it."
"Oh! I think I can do better than that," Satine smiled, a genuine, mirthful expression, "come, let me show you..."
She held out her hand, excitedly, and Qui-Gon accepted it, allowing her to draw him to his feet. She tugged him towards the kitchen, gesturing him to sit at the table. He suddenly realised there was a delicious scent in the air, something cooking... sure enough, she picked up a mitt and bent down, pulling a dish out of the oven.
"I didn't know how long you might sleep," she explained, as she took the lid off the dish, ladling some of the contents into a bowl, "so I decided to make a stew that would keep warm as long as needed... these cupboards are stocked full of food and there are crates more in the storage bays. I believe we are the first to find this place since it was abandoned in the war. We have provisions here that would last the three of us for years... or a small army for a few months."
She set the bowl down in front of him, handing him a spoon, and then fetching a loaf of freshly baked bread from one of the cupboards.
"Then we are truly fortunate," Qui-Gon's years of Jedi training granted him just enough discipline to stop him from wolfing down the stew in one go, "thank you, your Highness, this is... wonderful. Will you not eat?"
"Uh..." she gave a small giggle of embarrassment, "I'm afraid I couldn't wait... I've already had four helpings."
"Only four?" Qui-Gon said, allowing himself a moment to tease the girl, sparing her an amused smile, "Perhaps we should consider waking Obi-Wan before I finish the rest..."
She laughed again, clearly pleased, before pushing herself to her feet again. Bustling around the kitchen, she set a kettle to boil, pulling out a pot, cups and a tin of tea leaves. Tea... Qui-Gon shook his head slightly, unable to recall the last time he had tasted the luxury of tea. The morning brew he had always shared with Obi-Wan at the Temple had long since faded into a distant memory... Satine appeared at his elbow with the stew pot, topping up his bowl without asking, turning away again as the kettle began to boil, clicking off.
A low, guttural cough caught both their attentions, and Qui-Gon was on his feet, food abandoned in a heartbeat, as he crossed the room quickly, Satine hot on his heels. Sure enough, the third member of their party was stirring, coughing and grimacing at the pain it caused his chest.
"Here," Satine foraged around in a small satchel bag that hung from one of the spare hooks on the drip stand, withdrawing a hypospray, "pain-reliever... easy now, Obi, this will help..."
She held the device to his neck, pressing the button, delivering the medication straight into his system. A few more coughs and the young Jedi dragged in a stuttering breath, blinking open his eyes.
"Master? Sat... uh... your Highness? Where are we... what happened?"
"Slow down, Padawan," Qui-Gon held up his hand, soothingly, "we have... it seems we have found safe shelter, at long last, with provision enough to last us some time, if necessary. We have ample time to rest, recover, and rebuild our strength... now, how do you feel?"
"Uh..." Obi-Wan grimaced, reaching up and pulling off the breathing mask, "tired. Sore. And, um... hungry..."
"Well, at least one of those things I can fix," Satine favoured him with a warm, tender smile, as she turned off the oxygen tank for a while, "Master Qui-Gon, if you can help him up, we will at least get some food into him..."
"Of course," Qui-Gon smiled at the easy way the Duchess assumed command, acquiescing nonetheless.
He gathered a few of the pillows from the other beds, gently helping Obi-Wan to sit up, stacking the pillows behind him so that he could lie back, still too weak and exhausted to sit up by himself. Qui-Gon straightened the blanket so that it was tucked around the Padawan's waist, even as Obi-Wan curiously examined the heavy white cast around his right arm. Coughing wetly, he dropped the arm slowly to his side, leaning back on the pillows, as Satine rejoined them, carrying a bowl of the hearty stew.
"I hope that this is to your liking," she said, demurely, placing the bowl carefully to one side, "though I'd suggest letting it cool for a few minutes."
"I have been burned enough recently," Obi-Wan agreed, with a dry flash of his usual humour, "thank you, your Highness – this is most kind of you."
"It is nothing," she replied, ducking her head but blushing again, "Master Qui-Gon, I do not wish to nag, but your own food is waiting for you on the table."
"Of course, your Highness," Qui-Gon agreed, smoothly, pretending not to notice that the Duchess clearly wanted a degree of privacy with his Padawan, "my thanks again – I will make us some tea, while I am at it..."
"Tea?" Obi-Wan looked up in bewildered hopefulness, "There's... there's tea?"
"Food first," Satine laughed at his expression, as she picked up the bowl and he reached out obediently, "oh, no, Obi – I can see how your hand is shaking from here. Allow me..."
Too weak and tired to be embarrassed at the thought of being hand fed by the Duchess of Mandalore, he had little choice in the matter. Carefully wrapping his left arm across his aching chest, he allowed himself to lean back into the soft pillows, as she sat beside him on the edge of the bed, smiling fondly as she carefully spoon-fed him mouthfuls of the broth, pleased to see him eating properly at long last. However, he had barely managed half of the bowl when Qui-Gon returned with their tea, Obi-Wan's eyelids already growing heavy with sleep.
"Here," Qui-Gon passed a cup to Satine, even as she shuffled back so he could reach the bed, "I have added some cold water to it so it is drinkable enough now, Obi-Wan."
"Hmm... thank you, Master," the younger Jedi murmured, sleepily, "I'm just... just a little tired..."
"That is to be expected, dear one," Qui-Gon replied softly, reaching out and stroking back Obi-Wan's hair, in a gesture of tender affection that made Satine raise her eyebrows slightly, "we are safe now, Obi-Wan. Drink this, and get some sleep."
Qui-Gon held the cup to Obi-Wan's lips, allowing him to take sips of the tea; he pulled back, the cup only a quarter full, as Obi-Wan murmured sleepy thanks, and immediately drifted off, his head lolling to one side. Qui-Gon set the cup aside and re-fitted the oxygen mask, reactivating the air flow.
"Should we lay him back down?" Satine asked, softly, her hand resting lightly on the blanket that covered the sleeping Jedi.
"No... no; let him sleep... this position will aid his breathing, if nothing else," Qui-Gon shook his head, not taking his eyes off Obi-Wan's face as he placed one hand on his brow, "his fever seems much lower now as well. Thank you, Duchess."
"It was the very least I could do," she reiterated, "besides, Master Qui-Gon, it was you who led us here, and brought us to safety... would you like some more stew?"
"That would be wonderful, your Highness. Afterwards, I should very much like to see if I can find a fresher, and perhaps some clean clothing..."
They spent several days resting, rebuilding their strength, recovering from the ordeal of the last few months. Qui-Gon and Satine spent some time exploring their new home, discovering store rooms packed with supplies, a second hanger bay with several dusty reconnaissance craft stored away, laboratories and a hydroponics bay, overgrown with tropical plants running on automatic irrigation systems, the likes of which had not been seen on Mandalore since before the war. There were more crew quarters, too, each as stocked and provisioned as the one they were occupying, enough to house dozens of people.
Slowly, Satine began to outline her ideas to Qui-Gon, who listened attentively, asking questions and offering comments, never outright advising her, but guiding her until she had formulated a basic plan.
One afternoon, they were sitting at the table in the kitchen, sharing a pot of tea, and Satine pulled the transponder from her pocket, setting it on the table.
"Najira gave me this," she explained, pushing it into the middle of the table, "she said it was on a private, encoded frequency, known only to the pacifists – my people. The true New Mandalorians. She said if I activated it, anyone who heard the signal would come."
Qui-Gon opened his mouth to comment, but a slight shift in the Force caused him to turn; he smiled, as he saw Obi-Wan slowly sitting up on the edge of the bed. The younger Jedi was still weak, but recovering well; aside from a residual cough, some aching from his wounds and a very pronounced limp, he was doing much better. After several days of rest and proper meals, they had all lost the gaunt, famished look, and a trip to the fresher with clean clothes had improved all of their aspects, even if Mandalorian shirts and trousers were a far cry from traditional Jedi robes for the two men.
Satine stood, as if to help, but Obi-Wan waved her back, grimacing as he stood, limping gingerly across the room, favouring the still-bandaged right leg. He joined them as Qui-Gon pushed back a chair, and the Padawan lowered himself into it carefully, with a relieved sigh. The Master poured him a cup of tea, which he accepted gratefully, cradling it in his good hand, the other still wrapped in a cast. Qui-Gon eyed him critically, scanning him with the Force; Obi-Wan closed his eyes, allowing his Master to check his condition.
"You are growing stronger each day, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said, at length, with approval, "perhaps this afternoon, after late meal, it would be worth placing you back into a healing trance. You are strong enough now to maintain one; it will heal the last of your injuries... and clear the last of the congestion from your lungs."
"I feel as if I've slept enough," Obi-Wan replied, ruefully, rubbing his chest and smothering a cough, "but yes, Master. I would very much like to return to full strength, if you will assist me."
"Of course," Qui-Gon nodded, "it should only take a day or two, my young Padawan; you will not be out of commission for too long."
Obi-Wan hummed in agreement and thanks, before noticing the small device on the centre of the table.
"What is this?" he queried, sipping at his hot brew and then indicating the transponder with his mug.
"It is a locator beacon," Satine replied, gazing at the small device, "it will summon those pacifists who are willing to stand beside me, and say 'no more' to the Traditionalists. With enough voices shouting together, we can walk into the capital and retake the palace without a shot being fired."
"It could take months to gather that many people," Qui-Gon cautioned her, "it is an ambitious plan, your Highness."
"It will work," Satine raised her chin, confidently, "we have supplies enough here, and the hangers can be converted into dormitories if necessary. My friends will gather around me here, and we will reclaim Mandalore at long last. It is time to stop running. I am no longer afraid."
With that, she reached out, and hit the button. The transponder beeped, and began to flash, a steady, pulsing orange light. They watched it for a few minutes, drinking their tea in contemplative silence. The revolution of Mandalore had begun.
Author's Note: Well... I hope you enjoyed it. I rarely, if ever, write anything even remotely resembling romance/lovey-dovey relationships, so apologies if the shippers out there felt short-changed. If you have read this please consider leaving a review... honestly, as an author, you have no idea how much a review means to me. Don't worry about being coherent or anything. Hell, I'm a writer; just smash your face into the keyboard with enthusiasm and post it. I'll probably make sense of it. Oh, and feel free to throw prompts my way, should you be so inclined!