"Is that all you wanted? Sir?" Nico bit the inside of her cheek when the man finally turned his attention to her. He regarded her silently, his pale blue eyes cloudy and dazed, as if he had just woken from a deep slumber. He shook himself finally and offered her a brief and apologetic smile. Nico could not help but notice that it did not reach the tired eyes. She returned it anyway, grateful for a response of any kind.

"I'm sorry," he said. His voice was deep but soft; weary. He looked up at her in helpless entreaty. "

"Is that all?" she repeated gently."Oh." He stared down at the plate of food before him, appearing vaguely surprised to see it. He nodded slowly, "Yes – Thank you." The man hesitated, as if about to make an inquiry, but only gave a minute shake of his head and said, "That will be all."

"Right." Nico loudly cleared her throat. "Whenever you're done, just holler. I'll total it up for you." Not expecting a response, she spun on her heel to leave the man to his supper.

"Wait!" he suddenly cried, and Nico nearly jumped at the volume and suddenness of it. She turned back to face him, eyebrows raised. He was halfway out of his chair and there was a certain note of desperation in his voice and demeanor that gave her pause. "Do you…" He fell back into his seat, blank gaze roaming the room. "Do you know of any business or person in the area who might trade in – sentient beings?" He could not bring himself to say the word, that tiny, destructive little word—

"You mean slaves?" Nico hid her disgust well. She had hoped that this gentle looking outsider, at least, was in the locale for more legitimate reasons.

The man hesitated but affirmed her question with a curt nod. She noticed his pale blue eyes had hardened slightly, were not so exhausted looking.

Nico said yes. This was not an unusual question. With a heavy sigh she plowed on.

"What are you looking for?"

The man answered immediately, "Young male. Human basic."

"How young?"

"Mid to late teens."

"Girveaux Sector. Transport 63 heading east." One manicured nail directed the man's gaze out the window to the transport pick-up across the road. "They'll have what you're looking for." Nico's tone was of forced indifference, icily so. "Enjoy your meal." She walked away from the man before any further questions were made. In doing so, she missed the hope pooling in those tired blue eyes, the slight squaring of those broad shoulders, the shaky intake of shallow breath.

When the man finally regained his appetite his food had cooled considerably. He spooned all of it into his mouth without noticing, paid for his meal, and left.

Qui-Gon Jinn had walked this path through the Girveaux Sector perhaps eight times in the last two hours, trying to expend at least some of the seemingly limitless energy brought on by his anxiety. He had done nothing productive since being directed to this small business tucked deep into the city.

He knew from experience it was better to wait until after sunset before going in to conduct business. Qui-Gon had spent the better part of four hours weaving in and out of small auctions and waiting for dusk. Now that it had arrived the familiar tightening in his stomach was present as he headed down the long alley to his destination. He clenched his hands in the dark fabric of his tunic, hoping to rid his palms of their sudden dampness. He breathed deeply, pausing at the entrance to the small building. When his head cleared and his heart slowed its rapid beating he stepped inside.

He was immediately met with a sharp, rancid odor. The dim lighting inside did little to hide the excessive grime and dirt coating the floor and walls. His gaze did not linger in any one area but floated continually over the room's shady occupants before finally settling on a tubby looking man bent over a console.

Qui-Gon approached the man. "Are you the owner?"

The man looked up, took stock of Qui-Gon's clean clothing, his natural austerity, and nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, yes! Xarek here to serve you, of course. You like to buy?"

The disguised Jedi merely nodded.

Xarek's lips peeled back into a wide, ravenous looking smile, revealing a mouth full of rotting teeth. "This way," he said, and scuttled down the corridor. Qui-Gon followed, resisting the urge to fold his arms across his chest in a gesture similar to one he would take up while wearing his cloak. They instead swung easily at his sides and he kept his gaze focused on a large mole dotting the back of Xarek's balding head. He remained aloof to the man's babbling."We are backed up on the stock right now, three shipments just this month. You never believe how much the cost to handle these boys." Xarek led him past door after door, some firmly shut, some standing ajar. A steady moaning filled the corridor, making the hairs on the back of Qui-Gon's neck stand on end.

"We must watch them when they eat," Xarek continued in broken basic, "or they rip the food from each other's mouths. I might not care if they starve to death – that's the less I must worry for – but I need them sold. Who wants dead slave?" He stopped and opened a door, shaking his head. "You wait here. I bring in boys for you."

Qui-Gon stepped inside the empty room and noted that it was almost worse in smell and appearance than the rest of the building. He concentrated on keeping his focus and reminded himself that Obi-Wan could very well be somewhere else entirely. Tatooine sounded promising; he had yet to look there.

A side door opened and a crowd of some of the filthiest human boys the Jedi had ever seen tumbled in, some looking so fatigued that he thought they might drop to the floor at any moment. Scars on their bodies told of a lifetime of pains but Qui-Gon kept his composure, waiting patiently while Xarek unnecessarily raised his tinny voice at them. The slaver prodded and slapped the boys until they had stilled into one exhausted group, twelve sets of empty eyes warily watching the disguised Jedi.

"There. In the back."

Xarek peered into the small crowd of human boys. He sighed. They all looked alike to him. Dirty bodies, brown with filth, all skinny arms and legs. Most were about the same height. "Which one?"

"In the back," the buyer repeated, sounding vaguely annoyed. "On the floor."

Xarek pushed aside a few of the slaves, bowling over those who were not quick enough to move and spotted the one his customer wanted. He spared a quick glance at the man to see if he was terribly agitated; usually the Seatanth was quite adept at catching other beings' moods, but then again – this man was quite different.

He was very tall, not to mention intimidating. He was dressed in a tailored black tunic with matching leggings, his boots were of the finest leather – even Xarek, who had spent his entire life in the darkened back streets of the Girveaux Sector, could tell that. The man had long and graying hair, piercing pale blue eyes, and a broken, hawkish looking nose. His countenance was stern and somber, Xarek could not recall one smile cracking the sober, clean shaven visage during the entire transaction.

"Ah," Xarek said, grabbing the boy by one skinny bicep and jerking him to his feet. He dragged the slave forward. "Not very healthy. He sick when he come to me. What about this?" he offered, dropping the first slave and grabbing another. The first boy, with no any support, sank to his knees.

"No," his customer said quickly, urgency coloring his words. He stepped forward. Xarek watched as the man kneeled before the fallen boy, gently lifting the slave's chin.
Curious, he thought. The man seemed so strict – choosy was the word (this was the fourth bunch he had seen) – yet he was being so gentle – Xarek would even venture to say tender! – with this fragile looking boy.

"This is exactly what I'm looking for," his customer breathed, not taking his eyes from the boy's face.

Xarek immediately named a price nearly twice what the weakling was worth and wished he had gone higher when the man didn't even bother with bargaining.

"Prepare the papers," was all he said. "I'm taking him right away."

He had promised himself he would control his emotions. Simple enough – for a Jedi.

He had assured himself that he would not be surprised. He had searched so many brothels, so much "human stock", attended so many slave auctions, seen and freed so many young boys that he was positive nothing could shock him further. But this –

This.

This skinny, filthy, quivering bundle he held almost effortlessly in his arms was enough to break his worn heart. The boy's head was cradled against his right shoulder and the heat he felt radiating off the bruised and dirty face through his tunic was enough to quicken his heart beat alone.

Qui-Gon raced through the evening crowds of the Girveaux Sector, where just that morning he had projected such calm. But he had not been holding Obi-Wan then; he had not even honestly believed he would find the boy here. It had always been such futile hope.

He looked down again. He could not seem to keep from continually glancing down at that beloved face. He saw two glazed eyes studying him. His heart leapt and he flashed a worried smile.

"We're almost there, Padawan."

Padawan. That word had never held so much meaning in it before – relief, caring, concern, love – he wanted to say it again. "I missed you, Padawan."

Obi-Wan nodded slightly, as if in agreement with something and his eyes fell shut. Qui-Gon clutched him tighter.

Oh, but the boy was frail! Qui-Gon felt as though he might crush his precious load by merely holding him. He ran swiftly across the permacrete of the near empty docking platform, wondering why he had set the ship down so far back. When he finally did reach it, the ramp opened too slowly for him. And then they were on the ship, down the corridor, into one of two tiny compartments. He pulled back tightly tucked sheets and lowered his apprentice to the sleep couch, finding himself reluctant to let go.

Obi-Wan's eyes opened once more and he watched the master warily. His silence worried the older man. Unconsciously, he folded a hand around one of Obi-Wan's, looking down at the boy in bewilderment.

The young Jedi's eyes held a certain wounded, bruised look to them, shadowed as they were. His cheeks were hollowed and thin, the lingering baby fat Qui-Gon remembered was completely gone.

And his ribs! The Jedi could count them easily. The toned, lean musculature his Padawan had worked so hard to achieve had all but disappeared over the course of five long months.

It was obvious to Qui-Gon that his apprentice had been severely abused, aside from the astonishing loss of weight. Many wounds, both old and recent, adorned the youth's body. The master was at a loss as to what he should do first – Let Obi-Wan rest? Bathe him? Clean his injuries? Never let him out of sight?He felt he could handle the last well enough.

"Your beard."

Qui-Gon started at the voice – he had not heard it in so long.

"What, my Padawan?" he responded kneeling at the boy's bedside to be closer. He brushed dirty and overgrown ginger hair away from the apprentice's face. Obi-Wan seemed to shrink away slightly under the master's eager stare. His eyes flitted away, welling with apprehension.

"I thought – that is, you used to – " He stopped, trying to make his muddled mind think properly. A shiver wracked through his slight frame.

"I shaved it off, Padawan." Oh, he never wanted to stop using that word! "I needed a new look for this planet – only the very poor grow beards. Some of the – establishments – I searched would not have granted me access had I not gotten rid of it." He absently stroked the boy's cheek with his thumb, silent for a long moment. "I never stopped searching, Obi-Wan," he said softly, needing the boy – his boy – to know.

The youth drew in a sharp breath at the use of his name by that voice. Obi-Wan felt a flicker of warmth, which only served as a reminder of the greater emptiness within.

"The Force," he said, meeting the older man's gaze again, "I haven't been able to touch it since…"

"Sh," Qui-Gon quieted him, "I know, child. I know." He had assumed those beasts would drug his apprentice, or use some other sort of Force suppressant such as a collar or wristband. He had so looked forward to touching his student's mind once more – but the link would not be made. He felt sure the drugs would wear off soon.

Pressing his palm flat just above the boy's heart, he sent warm pulses of energy to Obi-Wan. The youth gave a quick, abortive shake of his head to tell the man no, it was not drugs, but could then only squeeze his eyes shut and arch into the touch, letting the warmth of the Force fill him. He could not access it by himself – but this was nearly just as good. The strength of the pulses gradually died and finally stopped coming altogether. Obi-Wan looked up at his master – his real master – tears of thanks pooling in the blue-green depths of his eyes. He could not find the words to express his gratitude.

Qui-Gon smiled gently at him, the man's hand was a warm and comforting weight on his thin chest.

"I don't think I can…" Obi-Wan trailed off and shrugged helplessly, a strange lump filling his throat. Fat tears rolled down the sides of his face and disappeared into the pillow. Qui-Gon wordlessly gathered the boy into his arms while the Padawan wept. A tightness spread from the master's own broad chest to his throat, and a curious stinging tickled his eyes. The slim body in his embrace trembled and shook with the release, and when Obi-Wan's weeping died away they both stayed there unmoving for quite some time.