Hey all, sorry for the incredible delay in posting…RL is a bitch…But here
it is! Little bit more happening…I'm thinking 5 or 6 more posts before you
find out what exactly is going on…this hasn't been beta'd, I'll go over it
again later…don't think it's too bad though =) Enjoy!
See chapter 1 for info…
* * *
"And so, I told her, 'My beautiful wife, I suggest you hold your tongue if you desire to have one to use tomorrow.' The very fact that she asked *once* to see her mother was appalling, but *twice*…Soon there will be one less woman to feed – one which was incapable of performing a simple 12 hour work day, nonetheless – and Paraka wants to waste three days to *visit* her."
Murmurs of sympathy echoed in the spacious dining chamber, bouncing off the polished crystal walls and columns, the deep green tapestries which hung from the beamed ceiling absorbing little of the sound – at least not enough to soothe the headache raging in Obi-Wan's skull. Every Melite who circled the crystal table – including the offending wife, Paraka – offered consoling words until the chief's whim was satisfied and the man returned to his dinner.
Obi-Wan was grateful for the silence which followed. As long as Samaron was silent, no one dare speak and Obi-Wan could grasp a small morsel of relief. For seven days, the routine had been the same; the Jedi were allowed to do whatever they pleased during the day, but for the evening meal, they were required to sit with the chief and his thirty-some advisors – and their wives. With all so intent on pleasing their leader through extravagant verbal praise, it was a wonder that Obi-Wan had not suffered from a throbbing migraine days before.
Leaning forward and resting his elbows on the gleaming table surface, Obi- Wan sighed, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. He tried to release some of the tension into the Force, but, as with his other attempts that day, he failed miserably.
He sighed again, opened his eyes, and leaned back, resting against the back of his chair. The chief was going on about something again, but Obi-Wan, quite honestly, could not care less. It was probably just another story degrading to women, or to the commoners, or to the advisors sitting around him – maybe even all three. He had done it before.
Obi-Wan allowed his mind to drift so far from the present that the gentle, questioning touch on his wrist started his body and momentarily intensified the pain tenfold. Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited out the pain before opening them and turning to the one next to him. Concerned blue eyes met his, silently asking if the pain was worse – if he wanted to leave.
Obi-Wan gave a wan smile to his master and gingerly shook his head. He was a Jedi; he must be able to push past the pain, to carry out his duty. How would he be able to do it in battle if he could not last through a simple, yet tediously long meal?
Qui-Gon had noticed the change in his padawan's behavior; eyes lingering closed for a second longer than normal, a hand drifting up to discretely rub a temple. The Jedi master had confronted his apprentice and – only after a considerable amount of denial from Obi-Wan – confirmed that his padawan was in pain. Obi-Wan's shields were maintained so tightly that Qui- Gon could not get an accurate reading on exactly how much pain the boy was in, so he was forced to accept Obi-Wan's refusal of aid in releasing the pain into the Force, but he did give his padawan a small hypospray of painkiller – painkiller which Obi-Wan used as soon as his master wasn't looking. It helped, but not nearly as much as he had hoped it would.
Well, Obi-Wan thought, at least I have an excuse tonight for not being hungry.
The padawan, because he could not release the pain, began to concentrate his effort on getting his mind off it. He had not been at it long when something took his thoughts from his headache – only, he wished that it hadn't.
A sharp pain pierced the side of his abdomen, digging deep and quickly spreading through his body, radiating out in short bursts. Obi-Wan gasped at the first stab, but soon regulated his breathing and clenched his jaw as he waited out the pain.
Obi-Wan dared to reach out to his master through the bond only when it had diminished to a dull – concealable – throb.
//Master?//
Qui-Gon turned to his apprentice, momentarily ignoring the chief's newest topic. //Obi-Wan? Are you alright?//
//Master, if you don't mind, I think I'll go back to the room, now."
Qui-Gon frowned and gently probed the bond, only to come up against strong shields, //Your headache, is it worse?//
The padawan mentally grimaced before responding, //Yes, Master.//
Qui-Gon nodded. As soon as there was a break in the one-sided conversation, Qui-Gon interjected, much to the displeasure of Samaron.
Ignoring the glare he received from the chief, the Jedi master began, "Excuse me, your highness, but I would like to request that my padawan be allowed to retire; he is not feeling well."
The Melite chief stared a long time – too long in Obi-Wan's opinion – at the boy before slowly nodding. Mentally, Qui-Gon asked if Obi-Wan wanted him to go with him, but the padawan refused. Even if Obi-Wan wanted his master there to see his weakness, Samaron appeared upset enough with one person leaving during the middle of his narrative. Force only knew what he would do were two to go.
Murmuring words of thanks, Obi-Wan rose, tilted his head towards the chief in as much of a bow as he could manage, and exited as quickly as political decorum would permit. The padawan's pace increased substantially the moment the massive double entrance doors swung shut, his legs carrying him at the speed of a brisk jog.
About halfway through the tangle of deserted halls – all usual occupants were either dining with the chief, or sleeping off a drunken stupor; a common occurrence in the dull lives of guards used more for decorative than protective purposes – the pain returned. Obi-Wan stumbled to the nearest wall, grasping blindly at the red draperies in an attempt to keep himself upright, and loosed a faint whimper. The actual pain vanished in seconds, but the residue kept the padawan leaning for support and gasping for breath.
In a few minutes the feeling had receded to a manageable level and Obi-Wan was able to stand upright on his own power. He hastily checked his shields, affirming that they had held up during his 'attack.' Though, he mused, if they hadn't, Master would already have me at the nearest healer's.
The padawan continued, albeit slowly, down the hallway towards his room, occasionally rubbing his temples or eyes in an attempt to further relieve the pain. Force, all he wanted to do was get in bed and sleep for a year…
"Honorable Jedi?"
Obi-Wan jumped at the address, taking a moment to close his eyes and push the pain back before searching out the owner of the voice. It took him a moment, but – once her remember that his hosts were nearly three feet closer to the ground than he – he found a nervous looking servant boy.
"Hello, Zamaro," Obi-Wan said, straightening himself and giving a falsely warm smile. He wanted to go to sleep, not carry on a conversation with a boy who hadn't looked at him his entire stay. A moment of silence passed before Obi-Wan spoke again, "Is there something you needed?"
"No, honorable Jedi," Zamaro said quickly, "But I thought that…well…"
Unconsciously, Obi-Wan folded his arms into his robe and shifted his weight, waiting somewhat impatiently for the servant to say what he wanted to say. "Yes?"
Zamaro fixed his eyes on the hem of Obi-Wan's robe, "Would you like me to get you anything?"
"No," the padawan answered curtly then, remembering himself, added a bit more gently, "No, thank you, Zamaro."
Zamaro raised his gaze to meet Obi-Wan's and eyed the padawan skeptically before bowing and walking past him.
Obi-Wan sighed, allowing himself to slump as soon as he saw Zamaro turn the corner, and continued his walk, finally reaching his room.
He palmed open the door, but rested against the doorframe for a few seconds, closing his eyes.
"Honorable Jedi?"
"Why are you following me, Zamaro?" Obi-Wan asked without opening his eyes. His patience had run very thin with the servant.
"I-I saw you collapse against the wall, honorable Jedi, and I thought…" The boy's voice trailed off and Obi-Wan opened his eyes to catch the boy's gaze. Zamaro didn't look away, "I wanted to make sure that it didn't happen again, that you were alright."
Obi-Wan's features immediately softened, "I'm fine, Zamaro, but thank you for your concern."
"Is there anything I can get you?"
This time, Obi-Wan paused the think the question over before answering, hesitantly, "Would you be able to bring me a pain relieving hypospray?"
Zamaro nodded, "Anything else? Your master, perhaps?"
"No!" Obi-Wan regretted the harshness of his voice the moment the word left his lips, "I mean, no. My master is enjoying his dinner; there is no need to ruin his night by calling him to tend to padawan with a horribly low tolerance for pain. It's just a headache, I'll survive." Obi-Wan looked hard into the boy's dark eyes, "You won't tell him, will you?"
Zamaro stared at the padawan for a bit before responding quietly, "You have my word, honorable Jedi."
"Thank you, Zamaro." The tiny being bowed and turned to leave, only to be called to again.
"Would you mind bringing back a few of those hyposprays?"
* * *
Qui-Gon sluggishly palmed open the door and entered his quarters. The chief had kept him to the unforcely hours of the morning; perhaps Obi-Wan was lucky for his headache.
The Jedi master set a small bag of food onto the table – in case his padawan, by some shift in the planets, found his missing appetite – and entered the boy's room. Not wanting to turn on the light, Qui-Gon found his way to the bed by way of the illumination spilling in through the open door.
His padawan slept peacefully; still dressed, but peaceful. Glancing to the nightstand, Qui-Gon smirked. At least the boy had remembered to remove his lightsaber.
Next to the weapon was a hypospray container. The master picked it up, noting with satisfaction that it was empty. Obi-Wan was subjecting himself to needless suffering when he refused to take it; why go through the pain when he didn't need to?
Qui-Gon pulled up the red sheets, which had worked their way down to Obi- Wan's waist and brushed the braid from his padawan's face.
"Stubborn boy," he muttered affectionately, rubbing his hand gently though this padawan's spiky hair.
With a final smile at the sleeping figure, Qui-Gon turned and left, absently dropping the hypospray into the waste bin – next to several other empty hypospray containers – closing the door behind him.
Well? Tell me what you think! Be a good lil Jedi and review!
See chapter 1 for info…
* * *
"And so, I told her, 'My beautiful wife, I suggest you hold your tongue if you desire to have one to use tomorrow.' The very fact that she asked *once* to see her mother was appalling, but *twice*…Soon there will be one less woman to feed – one which was incapable of performing a simple 12 hour work day, nonetheless – and Paraka wants to waste three days to *visit* her."
Murmurs of sympathy echoed in the spacious dining chamber, bouncing off the polished crystal walls and columns, the deep green tapestries which hung from the beamed ceiling absorbing little of the sound – at least not enough to soothe the headache raging in Obi-Wan's skull. Every Melite who circled the crystal table – including the offending wife, Paraka – offered consoling words until the chief's whim was satisfied and the man returned to his dinner.
Obi-Wan was grateful for the silence which followed. As long as Samaron was silent, no one dare speak and Obi-Wan could grasp a small morsel of relief. For seven days, the routine had been the same; the Jedi were allowed to do whatever they pleased during the day, but for the evening meal, they were required to sit with the chief and his thirty-some advisors – and their wives. With all so intent on pleasing their leader through extravagant verbal praise, it was a wonder that Obi-Wan had not suffered from a throbbing migraine days before.
Leaning forward and resting his elbows on the gleaming table surface, Obi- Wan sighed, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. He tried to release some of the tension into the Force, but, as with his other attempts that day, he failed miserably.
He sighed again, opened his eyes, and leaned back, resting against the back of his chair. The chief was going on about something again, but Obi-Wan, quite honestly, could not care less. It was probably just another story degrading to women, or to the commoners, or to the advisors sitting around him – maybe even all three. He had done it before.
Obi-Wan allowed his mind to drift so far from the present that the gentle, questioning touch on his wrist started his body and momentarily intensified the pain tenfold. Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited out the pain before opening them and turning to the one next to him. Concerned blue eyes met his, silently asking if the pain was worse – if he wanted to leave.
Obi-Wan gave a wan smile to his master and gingerly shook his head. He was a Jedi; he must be able to push past the pain, to carry out his duty. How would he be able to do it in battle if he could not last through a simple, yet tediously long meal?
Qui-Gon had noticed the change in his padawan's behavior; eyes lingering closed for a second longer than normal, a hand drifting up to discretely rub a temple. The Jedi master had confronted his apprentice and – only after a considerable amount of denial from Obi-Wan – confirmed that his padawan was in pain. Obi-Wan's shields were maintained so tightly that Qui- Gon could not get an accurate reading on exactly how much pain the boy was in, so he was forced to accept Obi-Wan's refusal of aid in releasing the pain into the Force, but he did give his padawan a small hypospray of painkiller – painkiller which Obi-Wan used as soon as his master wasn't looking. It helped, but not nearly as much as he had hoped it would.
Well, Obi-Wan thought, at least I have an excuse tonight for not being hungry.
The padawan, because he could not release the pain, began to concentrate his effort on getting his mind off it. He had not been at it long when something took his thoughts from his headache – only, he wished that it hadn't.
A sharp pain pierced the side of his abdomen, digging deep and quickly spreading through his body, radiating out in short bursts. Obi-Wan gasped at the first stab, but soon regulated his breathing and clenched his jaw as he waited out the pain.
Obi-Wan dared to reach out to his master through the bond only when it had diminished to a dull – concealable – throb.
//Master?//
Qui-Gon turned to his apprentice, momentarily ignoring the chief's newest topic. //Obi-Wan? Are you alright?//
//Master, if you don't mind, I think I'll go back to the room, now."
Qui-Gon frowned and gently probed the bond, only to come up against strong shields, //Your headache, is it worse?//
The padawan mentally grimaced before responding, //Yes, Master.//
Qui-Gon nodded. As soon as there was a break in the one-sided conversation, Qui-Gon interjected, much to the displeasure of Samaron.
Ignoring the glare he received from the chief, the Jedi master began, "Excuse me, your highness, but I would like to request that my padawan be allowed to retire; he is not feeling well."
The Melite chief stared a long time – too long in Obi-Wan's opinion – at the boy before slowly nodding. Mentally, Qui-Gon asked if Obi-Wan wanted him to go with him, but the padawan refused. Even if Obi-Wan wanted his master there to see his weakness, Samaron appeared upset enough with one person leaving during the middle of his narrative. Force only knew what he would do were two to go.
Murmuring words of thanks, Obi-Wan rose, tilted his head towards the chief in as much of a bow as he could manage, and exited as quickly as political decorum would permit. The padawan's pace increased substantially the moment the massive double entrance doors swung shut, his legs carrying him at the speed of a brisk jog.
About halfway through the tangle of deserted halls – all usual occupants were either dining with the chief, or sleeping off a drunken stupor; a common occurrence in the dull lives of guards used more for decorative than protective purposes – the pain returned. Obi-Wan stumbled to the nearest wall, grasping blindly at the red draperies in an attempt to keep himself upright, and loosed a faint whimper. The actual pain vanished in seconds, but the residue kept the padawan leaning for support and gasping for breath.
In a few minutes the feeling had receded to a manageable level and Obi-Wan was able to stand upright on his own power. He hastily checked his shields, affirming that they had held up during his 'attack.' Though, he mused, if they hadn't, Master would already have me at the nearest healer's.
The padawan continued, albeit slowly, down the hallway towards his room, occasionally rubbing his temples or eyes in an attempt to further relieve the pain. Force, all he wanted to do was get in bed and sleep for a year…
"Honorable Jedi?"
Obi-Wan jumped at the address, taking a moment to close his eyes and push the pain back before searching out the owner of the voice. It took him a moment, but – once her remember that his hosts were nearly three feet closer to the ground than he – he found a nervous looking servant boy.
"Hello, Zamaro," Obi-Wan said, straightening himself and giving a falsely warm smile. He wanted to go to sleep, not carry on a conversation with a boy who hadn't looked at him his entire stay. A moment of silence passed before Obi-Wan spoke again, "Is there something you needed?"
"No, honorable Jedi," Zamaro said quickly, "But I thought that…well…"
Unconsciously, Obi-Wan folded his arms into his robe and shifted his weight, waiting somewhat impatiently for the servant to say what he wanted to say. "Yes?"
Zamaro fixed his eyes on the hem of Obi-Wan's robe, "Would you like me to get you anything?"
"No," the padawan answered curtly then, remembering himself, added a bit more gently, "No, thank you, Zamaro."
Zamaro raised his gaze to meet Obi-Wan's and eyed the padawan skeptically before bowing and walking past him.
Obi-Wan sighed, allowing himself to slump as soon as he saw Zamaro turn the corner, and continued his walk, finally reaching his room.
He palmed open the door, but rested against the doorframe for a few seconds, closing his eyes.
"Honorable Jedi?"
"Why are you following me, Zamaro?" Obi-Wan asked without opening his eyes. His patience had run very thin with the servant.
"I-I saw you collapse against the wall, honorable Jedi, and I thought…" The boy's voice trailed off and Obi-Wan opened his eyes to catch the boy's gaze. Zamaro didn't look away, "I wanted to make sure that it didn't happen again, that you were alright."
Obi-Wan's features immediately softened, "I'm fine, Zamaro, but thank you for your concern."
"Is there anything I can get you?"
This time, Obi-Wan paused the think the question over before answering, hesitantly, "Would you be able to bring me a pain relieving hypospray?"
Zamaro nodded, "Anything else? Your master, perhaps?"
"No!" Obi-Wan regretted the harshness of his voice the moment the word left his lips, "I mean, no. My master is enjoying his dinner; there is no need to ruin his night by calling him to tend to padawan with a horribly low tolerance for pain. It's just a headache, I'll survive." Obi-Wan looked hard into the boy's dark eyes, "You won't tell him, will you?"
Zamaro stared at the padawan for a bit before responding quietly, "You have my word, honorable Jedi."
"Thank you, Zamaro." The tiny being bowed and turned to leave, only to be called to again.
"Would you mind bringing back a few of those hyposprays?"
* * *
Qui-Gon sluggishly palmed open the door and entered his quarters. The chief had kept him to the unforcely hours of the morning; perhaps Obi-Wan was lucky for his headache.
The Jedi master set a small bag of food onto the table – in case his padawan, by some shift in the planets, found his missing appetite – and entered the boy's room. Not wanting to turn on the light, Qui-Gon found his way to the bed by way of the illumination spilling in through the open door.
His padawan slept peacefully; still dressed, but peaceful. Glancing to the nightstand, Qui-Gon smirked. At least the boy had remembered to remove his lightsaber.
Next to the weapon was a hypospray container. The master picked it up, noting with satisfaction that it was empty. Obi-Wan was subjecting himself to needless suffering when he refused to take it; why go through the pain when he didn't need to?
Qui-Gon pulled up the red sheets, which had worked their way down to Obi- Wan's waist and brushed the braid from his padawan's face.
"Stubborn boy," he muttered affectionately, rubbing his hand gently though this padawan's spiky hair.
With a final smile at the sleeping figure, Qui-Gon turned and left, absently dropping the hypospray into the waste bin – next to several other empty hypospray containers – closing the door behind him.
Well? Tell me what you think! Be a good lil Jedi and review!
