A/N: Howdy again, folks! Today, Obi-Wan is going to practice his vocal skills!

Chapter Ten

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There was a moment of absolute silence. Obi-Wan's eyes were blank, matching his face perfectly, but, as such was the Law of the Universe, all good things must come to an end. A shaking finger was pointed at the considerably weakened Sith, and his predecessor's jaw fumbled for the proper words with which one could describe the situation.

"No... not you..." He whispered eerily, "I killed you..."

Anamaria seemed to know what storm was about to break from this setting, and she quickly tried to console the volcanic Jedi.

"Master Obi-Wan, please listen to me..." She could not finish, for the low hum of an active lightsaber had drowned out any more words she could have said. The grieving man before her pointed to Darth Maul, and then to the floor.

"Drop it..." He said simply. Anamaria stared, incredulous. Killing an unarmed foe? That was definitely not like the man she had known mere moments ago.

"Obi-Wan... listen to me... He's-"

"I SAID DROP IT!!!" His voice raised into a climax, and his eyes were as angry as killer bees. The tinted lightsaber in his hand whirred mockingly, and shook with suppressed rage. Anamaria felt Darth Maul stir slightly under her supporting grasp, and he coughed, sending more blood smattering onto the alabaster floor.

"Obi-Wan, stop this! He needs help! Please!" She pleaded urgently.

The master Jedi stared at her for a moment, face a shell of nothingness. His chest heaved with choler, and his blue(?)eyes blazed. "I WILL DIE BEFORE I SEE THIS SITH WALK FREELY ONCE MORE!!!" He shrieked, absolutely wild with anger at this point. He made do to advance on the wounded warrior, but a slow yet striking voice rapped his furtherance.

"You shall do no such thing, Obi-Wan Kenobi." Vespasian (Thank God) stalked quietly from his and his padawan's quarters, quite obviously exhausted, but looking as though his good friend had not just tried to decapitate the young girl. In fact, his face was quite the mirror of contentedness.

"Vespasian!!!" The human cried forcefully, motioning to the weakened duo standing a few mere feet in front of him. His friend smiled a good-natured smile, and followed his gaze. The Jedi's face fell somewhat when his eyes witnessed the current state of Darth Maul's body, and he quickly ushered Anamaria into their quarters.

"Lay him on my bed, Padawan. Cover him well, and stay with him until I return." She nodded, and hobbled into the room with blood trailing in Darth Maul's wake. Vespasian turned back to his newly knighted friend, and placed a webbed hand on his shoulder. Obi-Wan jerked away.

"Stop this, my friend. He deserves our hospitality-" The aquatic alien noticed how the man's eyes became dark, and angry at those words, "- because he has saved the entire republic enterprise from destruction by killing the very man we were about to make truce with. Prince Raphael was organizing an army below our very noses, and he was only waiting for that moment when we so naively walked into his trap."

Obi-Wan's face slackened considerably, but the fire was still burning within his crystal eyes. "And you think that we can accept his 'apology' of killing Qui-Gon by merely repeating the process on another man? What if Raphael's demise is really our downfall?! What if he's working for the scum right now, and they're planning on attacking us?!"

The azure Jedi's mouth thinned slightly, and he closed his eyes at the memory of the beaten, and scourged Sith laying helplessly in a cage. Blood... all of it...

"If you had wisdom to see the PERSON who was just standing in front of you a few minutes ago, /my friend,/ then you may have noticed a few scratches... Why would a Lord torture his own servant, eh? Yes, Obi-Wan, that's right. He. Was. Tortured. Every day, every hour. Any imaginable device conceivable thrown on, consumed, or hit with. And yet here he is, after saving the life of my padawan, and the life of yours as well. If you still think, my friend, that Queen Shegorad is going to uphold her promises to us, then by all means; stay here. But Anamaria and I are leaving tonight, headed for Coruscant." (Fudge it, I can't spell!) With that, Vespasian left a thoroughly dumbfounded Obi-Wan in the finely decorated foyer, and shut the door to his quarters.

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Anamaria hobbled clumsily across the anteroom, and into her master's, with Darth Maul limping heavily against her. His left leg was utterly useless, for any sort of pressure exerted on it sent shockwaves of blistering pain like white-hot knives up his embodiment, so here he was, depending solely upon a Jedi to help him walk ten measly feet. He didn't care, though; the fact that he was no longer in a cold, rotting dungeon did wonders on one's mood.

Anamaria slowly helped him next to the bed, where a tall-backed chair sat as if predicting that she and her comrade were coming. She supported his backbone with her free hand, and assisted him in sitting carefully, so that his malnourished form would not suddenly topple onto the floor. Indeed, he did not, but let a soft moan when his torn and bleeding back came in contact with the uneven wood.

Thus complete, the padawan turned, and began to pull down the coverall and sheets adorning her master's bed, but also keeping a watchful eye on the ill warrior juxtaposed to her. He remained silent for the most part, if not for a soft *plink* of sweat pitching to the floor every few seconds. She turned back to him after a moment, though, and helped him stagger unevenly to the soft bed.

"Anamaria..." He stared at her so pathetically, and mouthed her name just as he had done over an hour ago in the stinking dungeons.

"Shh..." She hushed him, also repeating the process by which they had just exited, "I'm right here... it's okay..." Her gentle words calmed him, and he remained silent as she slipped a pillow beneath his fractured shin. The padawan had been in situations like these before, and only righteous experience could tell her that the best way to calm a patient was to remain very quiet, for the most part, and when one did speak, it was a word of solace, and comfort.

Anamaria took Darth Maul's arm, and he clutched her hand like a vice, channeling the pain into strength as she eased him down onto the pillows. She didn't mind, though. It was good that he found something to hang onto, even if it was her hand; though... his piercing claws did make her a bit nervous. Still clutching her mitt, however, he began to lapse into a full- body tremor, proceeding on to the next stage of injuries:

Shock.

The padawan stayed with him through it, though. She laid a cool hand on his brow, and spoke soothing words as if a child were laying before her, and not a full-grown Sith, fully capable of tearing her arm off, and stuffing it down her throat. He let a soft mewl of pain, and any implications she had just imagined were thrown out the window.

"I seem to remember reading somewhere that Quinya are very fond of... oh what was it called...?"

Anamaria turned sharply, and her eyes rested upon Vespasian pondering in the doorway. She smiled a bit, clearly realizing that he was on her side. "Fond of what, Master...?" She asked quietly, keeping her voice low as to not startle the ailing warrior trembling weakly next to her.

"It was called... Living Water, I think. Quite healthy, actually."

Darth Maul stirred slightly at the mention of that particular drink, and his movement did not go unnoticed by the two Jedi. "I think you're right about that, Master." The younger of the two stated. Vespasian let a soft smile. "Then I shall collect a cow." He paused, "Or a cat... depending on which one I see first." The Jedi was about to turn, when he noticed the feverish state Maul's infected wounds had sent him spiraling into.

"Nothing a bit of cleaning up won't fix..." He muttered quietly to himself, and exited for the kitchen.

Anamaria was, once more, left alone with the ailing ghost of a terribly powerful fighter, whose awful state only slipped further, and further down. Perspiration slicked his skin like a veil of shining ice, and soaked into the wet sheets below him. They had to get help quickly, or he would die before he saw another day.

"Shi...loh... S-Shi... loh..." The Sith breathed weakly. Anamaria caressed his burning skin gently. Still, he kept repeating the name. Shiloh. Who was that? "Shi...loh... d-don't... please..." It was almost impossible to decipher the words coming from his mouth, they were so whispery.

"Here." The padawan felt a hand on her shoulder, and something wet fell into her lap. A closer look aforementioned that it was soaking rag. "I need to wrap his leg. It may be best that you don't watch, Marie..."

Vespasian was deadly serious now. If they didn't stop the infection, Maul would die slowly and painfully. Anamaria just wished that there was another, more humane way of doing it. She watched as her master brought a flask to the sick Quinya's lips, and poured the Living Water in, simultaneously massaging his throat to lower the hardy stuff into his empty stomach. He did this until a low moan signified that their patient was satisfied, then set the stalwart drink down at his bedside table, preparing for the long, and painful road to recovery.

Anamaria took his place, and dabbed her friend's brow with the soaking cloth, refusing to turn her cerulean eyes away from his hollow xanthacroid ones. Vespasian lowered the bloodied sheets, and took a knife from his hilt, cutting away the remnants of Darth Maul's pants to have full access to his broken leg. He cringed, seeing the violent extent of the contagion.

The Sith whimpered slightly in pain, and struggled to see what was going on. Anamaria gently pushed his head back down, though, refusing to let him witness her master's less-than-comfortable way of mending. "Tell me about Shiloh." She asked gently. Maul stared at her with his beautifully wild eyes, and croaked a hoarse response. "I... l-loved... him..." His breath was rasping, and short.

Vespasian took out his flaming candle, and held the blade of his knife over it until the thing was glowing with heat. The Sith felt this, and he struggled again to see, but again, Anamaria pushed him back down, and clutched his hand, the other still stroking his face.

"How much did you love him?" She begged him to continue. Darth Maul breathed hoarsely, and answered. "More... than... the s-stars..."

Vespasian looked quickly at his padawan, and, seeing as how she was appropriately handling the situation, he made to hold his glowing blade over the badly hurt area.

"God give me strength..." He prayed, and dug in.

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A/N: As I said before, this is not a slash fic. Shiloh was not Darth Maul's lover. In fact, he wasn't in love with anyone. Get it? Got it? Good.