A/N: Sorry. Forgot to mention last chapter that the little scene with the
goat was inspired by the 'Midwife's Apprentice.' Very good book. I
recommend reading it. Oh, yes, and the King and I (the play we did at my
school) was a great success! We made about five-hundred dollars off of
tickets from the first two nights! WOOOOOOOHOOOOO!!!!
Chapter Twelve #############################################################
The Sith had gone completely silent. His back was rigid, and beads of sweat went unnoticed as they toppled from his gaunt cheekbones, and onto the pillow beneath him. Anamaria, having just finished with her song, was glad that he had become still, but confused as to why he was so stiff.
"Dar- Kalaskein?" She caught herself just in time. Vespasian's and Obi- Wan's muffled voices drifted into the room. Their words were inaudible, but there was talk of danger, and the Jedi's voices were low. She lifted her head to stare from the pronounced window, and noted that the sun had risen, and already seemed to be a few inches from the place of its origin. She allowed this no further thought, and settled her attention on the seemingly lifeless Darth Maul. In fact, if it was not for the continuous rise and fall of his willful lungs, she would have thought him dead.
'Please... please keep fighting...' She prayed, 'Don't stop yet...' Her soft fingers brushed gently against his gaunt cheeks, and traveled slowly up his prone, but smooth brow, still burning with fever. Anamaria marveled at how someone so hot had not yet consumed himself and the bed linen in flames. Despite the heat emitting from his own body, however, the ill Sith had begun to shiver again. She pulled up a second blanket, and laid it over his unconscious form (though it was not unconscious for long).
He suddenly began to gag, and cough, trying desperately to convey precious, life-giving oxygen into his lungs, as if the whole suffocating scenario was to happen again. The padawan knew better, though. She quickly slid her arm underneath his bony shoulders, and pulled him up into a sitting position, where he proceeded to heave every ounce of nourishment left within his body into a wastebin. Between the violent intervals, he struggled to breathe as he had always been taught, but Anamaria was there for him, and she comforted him through it all. Her gentle hands rubbed his back in the places which had healed from the whips, and she hummed to soothe his aching body.
"K-Kill... me... Just kill... me..." Darth Maul muttered incoherently. He had lapsed into a fit of shaking again, the upheaval of the victuals in his guts just too much for him to handle in his weakened state.
"Marie?" Vespasian's wedge-shaped head poked through the door. His padawan looked up, startled at her master's sudden appearance, but waited for his questions, nonetheless.
"Yes sir?" She asked. The amphibious jedi stepped into the room, and his eyes grew in a measure as they noticed the unwell Sith heaving dryly with half of his head in a bucket.
"This does not bode well... We must leave now, and go directly to Coruscant, where we can explain this to the council, and seek medical attention for him." He nodded once in the direction of the still-vomiting Darth Maul, who emitted a considerably painful gag, and began to gasp heavily, finally complete with the uncomfortable process. Anamaria gently placed her hands behind his shoulders once more, and slowly, very slowly, eased him down onto the pillow again.
"Above all else," Vespasian came to her side as she wrung out the cloth anew, "We must keep him from moving throughout the entire trip. I've brought a bedroll to place him in, but he must, absolutely MUST not move. Any type of physical strain could injure him further."
Anamaria nodded curtly in understanding as she tenderly bathed his scarred neck (by some strange force, perhaps a regenerative effect of the yarrow, his slit throat had healed, and there was merely a long cicatrix to proclaim a knife had ever touched there). Darth Maul exhaled slowly as the fluid relief washed over his burning skin, and, to his caretaker's great surprise, the eyes that had once stared down a Hutt slowly peeled open, and stared directly at the young girl who wanted him in a way that no one else had.
"Angel..."
His voice was no more than a terribly weak breath, but she heard it. She watched his chapped, dry lips form the word, and she felt the utter longing on that one phrase. A longing for love; a place to belong among others. A want. A NEED. He wanted to die, and be free, but his training would not allow it. His experience with evil, heartless masters who spat on him like dirt, and treaded on his fragile soul like dirt would not grant any inkling of trust towards any other living person.
"A-Are... you... taking me... t-to... die...?"
"Shh... I'm not taking you anywhere but home." She replied, and stroked his eyelids so that they closed expectantly. The Sith exhaled with difficulty, too far-gone in pain to know that the girl who was touching him was a Jedi- in-training.
"Home..." He breathed, "T-To... Shiloh..."
Vespasian removed his makeshift sleeping bag, and pried it open until every loose button and string was unlatched, or untied. He motioned for Anamaria to turn around, and removed the rest of his dirty clothing (they did not want him to become too hot). This done, he gently pushed the upper flap of the bedroll beneath Darth Maul's nearly severed leg, and then the other (though not unscathed) healthier one. This accomplished, he motioned to his padawan as if he was lifting a weight, and in return, Anamaria lifted the ill Sith's upper torso to pertain a better working angle for her master. Vespasian easily slid the open bedroll under his patient's ripped, and bleeding back, slowly bringing it up to his shoulders before it was zipped tightly, then buckled, and tied so skintight, it seemed faintly to resemble a body bag.
Darth Maul whimpered modestly at the new material stinging his flawed, bleeding body, and struggled to curl up into a reclusive ball, only wishing to elude the pain, and die quietly with no further hindrances. He hated this retched humiliation, and prayed to anybody willing to listen, that if they would grant him a quick death, he would worship them forever. However, despite this humane proclamation, what came was not death, but a strange peace. Something of a ghostly substance flooding his subconscious mind, and the unshed fear accompanied by macabre pain was seemingly no more. A voice inside his mind trickled to life, and it urged him; strengthened him.
'I'm here for you. I have never abandoned you. Your life is safe in my hands, and I will keep it there.' It said. Darth Maul nodded slowly, understanding finally the concept of his one true friend. Indeed, it was not Sidious that had saved his life in that vast shaft on Naboo, but Shiloh. Shiloh was there for him then as he was now, and his unending love was imminent. He had saved the retched Sith for his glorious cause, and he was surely alive to do these things. Things of utmost sincerity, and to show his workers that there WAS a path to the light; that it WAS possible for a dark creature to taste golden-honeyed illume. If only with love.
Anamaria watched in compassion as the badly hurt Sith quietly whimpered, and tried desperately to curl into a compact ball. Frailty, and such excruciating pain were not things he had become comfortable with, despite the fact that he was a very strong warrior. She ran her fingers along the unholy blood paradigms aligning his ebony visage, and watched quietly as Vespasian hurriedly packed their things. Obi-Wan and Anakin were watching outside of the door for any unexpected visitors (meaning queen Shegorad) and ready to give an alarm if need be.
This was about as bad as it could get.
Then they'd be home free.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
A/N: *Sigh* yet another incredulously short chapter. But, if you guess who Shiloh is, then I'll give you a chocolate chip! *hint* the title of the chapter is a clue.
Nannon: I just want to thank you right now for reviewing graciously: this story which I once so abhorred. If you have a username, I'd like to read some of YOUR work, too! Please keep reading. You're, like, my last thread of motivation for writing this. Thanks again!
Chapter Twelve #############################################################
The Sith had gone completely silent. His back was rigid, and beads of sweat went unnoticed as they toppled from his gaunt cheekbones, and onto the pillow beneath him. Anamaria, having just finished with her song, was glad that he had become still, but confused as to why he was so stiff.
"Dar- Kalaskein?" She caught herself just in time. Vespasian's and Obi- Wan's muffled voices drifted into the room. Their words were inaudible, but there was talk of danger, and the Jedi's voices were low. She lifted her head to stare from the pronounced window, and noted that the sun had risen, and already seemed to be a few inches from the place of its origin. She allowed this no further thought, and settled her attention on the seemingly lifeless Darth Maul. In fact, if it was not for the continuous rise and fall of his willful lungs, she would have thought him dead.
'Please... please keep fighting...' She prayed, 'Don't stop yet...' Her soft fingers brushed gently against his gaunt cheeks, and traveled slowly up his prone, but smooth brow, still burning with fever. Anamaria marveled at how someone so hot had not yet consumed himself and the bed linen in flames. Despite the heat emitting from his own body, however, the ill Sith had begun to shiver again. She pulled up a second blanket, and laid it over his unconscious form (though it was not unconscious for long).
He suddenly began to gag, and cough, trying desperately to convey precious, life-giving oxygen into his lungs, as if the whole suffocating scenario was to happen again. The padawan knew better, though. She quickly slid her arm underneath his bony shoulders, and pulled him up into a sitting position, where he proceeded to heave every ounce of nourishment left within his body into a wastebin. Between the violent intervals, he struggled to breathe as he had always been taught, but Anamaria was there for him, and she comforted him through it all. Her gentle hands rubbed his back in the places which had healed from the whips, and she hummed to soothe his aching body.
"K-Kill... me... Just kill... me..." Darth Maul muttered incoherently. He had lapsed into a fit of shaking again, the upheaval of the victuals in his guts just too much for him to handle in his weakened state.
"Marie?" Vespasian's wedge-shaped head poked through the door. His padawan looked up, startled at her master's sudden appearance, but waited for his questions, nonetheless.
"Yes sir?" She asked. The amphibious jedi stepped into the room, and his eyes grew in a measure as they noticed the unwell Sith heaving dryly with half of his head in a bucket.
"This does not bode well... We must leave now, and go directly to Coruscant, where we can explain this to the council, and seek medical attention for him." He nodded once in the direction of the still-vomiting Darth Maul, who emitted a considerably painful gag, and began to gasp heavily, finally complete with the uncomfortable process. Anamaria gently placed her hands behind his shoulders once more, and slowly, very slowly, eased him down onto the pillow again.
"Above all else," Vespasian came to her side as she wrung out the cloth anew, "We must keep him from moving throughout the entire trip. I've brought a bedroll to place him in, but he must, absolutely MUST not move. Any type of physical strain could injure him further."
Anamaria nodded curtly in understanding as she tenderly bathed his scarred neck (by some strange force, perhaps a regenerative effect of the yarrow, his slit throat had healed, and there was merely a long cicatrix to proclaim a knife had ever touched there). Darth Maul exhaled slowly as the fluid relief washed over his burning skin, and, to his caretaker's great surprise, the eyes that had once stared down a Hutt slowly peeled open, and stared directly at the young girl who wanted him in a way that no one else had.
"Angel..."
His voice was no more than a terribly weak breath, but she heard it. She watched his chapped, dry lips form the word, and she felt the utter longing on that one phrase. A longing for love; a place to belong among others. A want. A NEED. He wanted to die, and be free, but his training would not allow it. His experience with evil, heartless masters who spat on him like dirt, and treaded on his fragile soul like dirt would not grant any inkling of trust towards any other living person.
"A-Are... you... taking me... t-to... die...?"
"Shh... I'm not taking you anywhere but home." She replied, and stroked his eyelids so that they closed expectantly. The Sith exhaled with difficulty, too far-gone in pain to know that the girl who was touching him was a Jedi- in-training.
"Home..." He breathed, "T-To... Shiloh..."
Vespasian removed his makeshift sleeping bag, and pried it open until every loose button and string was unlatched, or untied. He motioned for Anamaria to turn around, and removed the rest of his dirty clothing (they did not want him to become too hot). This done, he gently pushed the upper flap of the bedroll beneath Darth Maul's nearly severed leg, and then the other (though not unscathed) healthier one. This accomplished, he motioned to his padawan as if he was lifting a weight, and in return, Anamaria lifted the ill Sith's upper torso to pertain a better working angle for her master. Vespasian easily slid the open bedroll under his patient's ripped, and bleeding back, slowly bringing it up to his shoulders before it was zipped tightly, then buckled, and tied so skintight, it seemed faintly to resemble a body bag.
Darth Maul whimpered modestly at the new material stinging his flawed, bleeding body, and struggled to curl up into a reclusive ball, only wishing to elude the pain, and die quietly with no further hindrances. He hated this retched humiliation, and prayed to anybody willing to listen, that if they would grant him a quick death, he would worship them forever. However, despite this humane proclamation, what came was not death, but a strange peace. Something of a ghostly substance flooding his subconscious mind, and the unshed fear accompanied by macabre pain was seemingly no more. A voice inside his mind trickled to life, and it urged him; strengthened him.
'I'm here for you. I have never abandoned you. Your life is safe in my hands, and I will keep it there.' It said. Darth Maul nodded slowly, understanding finally the concept of his one true friend. Indeed, it was not Sidious that had saved his life in that vast shaft on Naboo, but Shiloh. Shiloh was there for him then as he was now, and his unending love was imminent. He had saved the retched Sith for his glorious cause, and he was surely alive to do these things. Things of utmost sincerity, and to show his workers that there WAS a path to the light; that it WAS possible for a dark creature to taste golden-honeyed illume. If only with love.
Anamaria watched in compassion as the badly hurt Sith quietly whimpered, and tried desperately to curl into a compact ball. Frailty, and such excruciating pain were not things he had become comfortable with, despite the fact that he was a very strong warrior. She ran her fingers along the unholy blood paradigms aligning his ebony visage, and watched quietly as Vespasian hurriedly packed their things. Obi-Wan and Anakin were watching outside of the door for any unexpected visitors (meaning queen Shegorad) and ready to give an alarm if need be.
This was about as bad as it could get.
Then they'd be home free.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
A/N: *Sigh* yet another incredulously short chapter. But, if you guess who Shiloh is, then I'll give you a chocolate chip! *hint* the title of the chapter is a clue.
Nannon: I just want to thank you right now for reviewing graciously: this story which I once so abhorred. If you have a username, I'd like to read some of YOUR work, too! Please keep reading. You're, like, my last thread of motivation for writing this. Thanks again!