Regroup (2/5)

Khameir woke up feeling tired. He'd slept like the dead, he knew that, but it obviously hadn't helped. Additionally, his stomach had decided to turn into a knot. Even the thought of breakfast made him queasy.

He listened out for and did not find Obi-Wan, who had offered his bed and slept on his couch for the night. Why they wouldn't let him have a room of his own, Khameir wasn't sure. Granted, he needed someone to steer him clear of obstacles, but he didn't need a supervisor.

They didn't trust him, after all, he realized. No matter what he did, they wouldn't trust him.

There was a soft whoosh as the door slid open.

"Khameir?" Qui-Gon, wonderful.

"What?"

"You are not all right."

"I have not been all right for a while now," Khameir answered and struggled to sit.

"I noticed. Look –"

"No, I can't look. No thanks to you."

For a moment, only breathing could be heard.

"Khameir… You know we would have freed you if there had been a slim chance…"

"Master Jinn… no, I don't know that. And now get out."

To his surprise, Qui-Gon actually did leave. It would have been nice to hurt him some more.

Khameir rolled up on his side and waited for the shaking to subside.

"Maul?" Obi-Wan asked tentatively, peering into the bedroom.

"Leave me alone." The voice sounded slightly muffled, because its owner was currently hiding under the blankets. Also, after the sudden eruption of anger half an hour ago, Maul was back to being, well, not exactly hollow, but almost. There was some physical pain, as well as confusion. Strange.

"You need to have some breakfast."

"I cannot eat at the moment."

"Oh. So it's your stomach that hurts."

"Yes." That sounded rather testy. Not good.

"You were projecting."

"Ah."

"I could heat up some broth."

"No."

"You do need to get your strength back."

"Do I?"

So this was what the Healer had meant – Maul was maybe not inclined to jump off the balcony, but he was perfectly capable of starving himself. Obi-Wan walked over to the bed and sat. "I'm going to touch your shoulder now."

Cold… what is that smell… don't breathe, he's trying to gas you…

Obi-Wan recoiled. What in seven Sith hells was this about? He shook his head, to get rid of the panic emanating from Maul. Once he could concentrate again he'd realized that the other had scrambled away from him.

"Uh. Sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

Maul shook his head jerkily. Whatever that had been, it had reduced him to a quivering heap, which wasn't something Obi-Wan had been prepared to see. Scathing sarcasm, always. Anger – Sith were all about anger. Despair was more recent, and Qui-Gon had managed to talk Maul out of it, even if he'd made use of a hypothesis for it.

"What is happening to me?" The question was so soft Obi-Wan almost didn't catch it.

"I'm not sure. Maybe it's because of your trauma." Well, it probably was, but that was something only Healers would know about.

"My trauma?" Maul spat. "Whatever happened… is over." He stopped and breathed through his nose a few times; anger receded and left weariness. "So why am I not on my merry way and plotting revenge on my master?"

"I don't think being on any merry way after what you went through would be considered a healthy response."

"It would be better than this." Maul made a vague gesture.

"I don't know. Qui-Gon's gone to the Healers for some answers. Will you eat now?"

Sighing, Maul dry-washed his face. "You will not stop pestering me," he stated in defeat.

"Of course not. So come on." Obi-Wan hopped off the bed and strode to the door, before he remembered. He turned and watched as Maul felt his way off the bed and inched along it, with an expression of disgust on his face.

"He yelled at you? That's good news." The Healer stopped her pacing and leaned against her desk, sending a cloud of dust to hover in the sunlight.

Qui-Gon blinked, although he had expected a reaction of that kind.

"What exactly was he angry about?"

"I am not sure. It started building up, so I went to see what had him riled, and he proceeded to blame me for everything that happened to him."

"Are you to blame?" Healer Yassina looked at him sharply.

"I would think not. It was a no win situation. Obi-Wan and I barely escaped, and if we had gone back for Khameir, we would have been captured again."

"Good. Whatever else he throws at you, you know it's not your fault. Don't let him make you believe otherwise."

"Hmm. So why is him being irrational good news?"

"It's better than him being completely detached. His mind shut down any emotion for a while, to keep him sane, I suppose. He almost panicked when I examined him as it is. It's common enough for posttraumatic stress disorder, although I've never seen anyone disintegrate so fast. It usually takes a while for symptoms to develop."

"Do you have any guess as to why he reacts like this?"

"I don't know him well enough. Maybe you should ask why everyone else doesn't react as he did. You might consider to ask if he has a reason to stay sane."

Right now, Khameir had precious little reason for hope, Qui-Gon had to admit. "I will have to think about that. – There is something else I wanted to know. You are a fount of information on Zabraks, but why exactly is Khameir's surname so important you won't even talk about it?"

The Healer leaned back and stared at him, speechless. She looked a bit like a fish out of water. "I didn't want to embarrass him," she finally said.

"Don't you think it might be crucial for me to understand him a little better?"

"I suppose, although it's really his story to tell. If you were more familiar with Iridonia, you'd know that he's actually missing a name, the equivalent of a 'son of…'. It means his mother wasn't married when she had him, and single mothers are not taken kindly to with the Coast people."

Qui-Gon nodded. 'The explanation, interesting to hear it will be.' One shouldn't think people nowadays could be so ignorant, no matter how backwater the planet. But then, Padmé had been surprised to hear that there were still slaves.

With a little twinge of guilt he remembered the Skywalkers. He could have bought them free, but he had not. He had been so set in his believe the Force would let Anakin win, only to find it had played a trick on him. It had led him into slavery… and now here they were, with a former Sith Lord as their charge. Maybe the whole matter had had a purpose after all. If only it had been less damaging to Khameir.

Somewhere along the line, things had gone surreal again. Khameir was watching himself sit in one of the gardens of the Temple, if one could call it watching. His mind was painting a vivid image of lawns and trees, but that could be wrong.

It was late spring and the flowers were almost too much for his nose; odors so sweet and heavy they almost had made him gag.

Qui-Gon was somewhere near him. He'd explained to Khameir about posttraumatic stress disorder, and that it was completely understandable.

It was also a sign of weakness.

A cool pricking sensation on his head made him pause. There was another, and another. Rain. Weather control didn't let it rain often on Coruscant. Back home, they would have smelled the approaching clouds hours earlier.

"Let's go inside," Qui-Gon said.

"Not yet." The rain had gotten him back into his body, and maybe it would keep him there for a while.

"You like rain?"

"Yes."

"I do not imagine there is a lot of it where you come from."

"About two weeks every year."

It would make the desert come to life, going from dusty brown to lush green almost over night. Another memory crept up, Satiya in the garden with only a soaked white tunic on. Orange eyes beckoning him to worship her, his beautiful, enticing, merciless goddess.

He had made her pay for her deceit, later, because he'd become a Sith and Sith weren't toys.

Still, he'd been toyed with in the first place, which was yet another sign of weakness.

"Khameir, come on. You'll get a cold on top of everything else."

Or maybe his pneumonia would chance a repeat performance, taking his weak mind and fragile body to rest. But Qui-Gon tapped him on the shoulder, so he let himself be helped up and steered inside.

Light. Blinding white light from somewhere overhead. You try to get away from it, but you can't. Someone has fixed your arms and legs to a table. Still you struggle against the bonds.

"Now, now," someone says. He has a cackling voice, he's amused. Something cold flows up your left arm, and the struggle is leeched out of your body.

A hand with a scalpel enters your line of vision. The metal gleams in the lamplight. It comes to rest somewhere on your chest. There's a slight pressure that slowly wanders down.

You hear a noise, it's odd, as if someone is ripping through fabric, but softer, wetter. He's cutting you up, and it doesn't even hurt. Something trickles along your skin, blood, blood from your wound, but why isn't it hot?

There is a flux of air against your ear, and you turn your head.

"Hello, my young apprentice," the man with the hood says. "He's flaying you, you know. I will put your hide up in the training room, I think. So your successors don't make the same mistakes."

Obi-Wan shot up, his heart beating like it wanted out of its cage. He could scarcely breathe, and, rubbing his chest, he wondered why there was no incision to be felt. Where the hell had that come from? It had to be Maul projecting, because Obi-Wan's subconscious surely wouldn't produce that kind of images.

The door opened to reveal Qui-Gon, a dark silhouette against the light in the living room. After looking at Obi-Wan dumbly for a second, he strode in and went to the business of waking Maul up.

By the time Obi-Wan had managed to free himself of his tangled covers, Qui-Gon had draped Maul's head in his lap and started to massage the younger man's shoulders. That Maul wasn't protesting was indication of just how badly the dream had affected him. Blind panic was still seeping out of his curled form, and Obi-Wan wondered why none of the neighbors had come investigating yet.

He plopped down next to Qui-Gon, who was calm, as always. Obi-Wan needed that. Even thinking about the nightmare made him want to retch, although it wasn't really the sensations that did it, but more the casual cruelty behind them. And the fact that escape was not an option. Ever.

Slowly, the tension level sank back to normal.

"Khameir?"

"Hmm."

"It is going to be all right. You'll-"

"It's not." Maul extracted himself from Qui-Gon's grasp and sat, knees drawn up, facing them.

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. And they were calling him a pessimist. The constant angst was grating on his nerves, justified as it was. He would never be a counselor with an attitude like this, he knew that, so he had no qualms about letting his Master take over the responsibility.

Qui-Gon studied Khameir for a moment. He really hoped they would not have to deal with a depression.

"Why do you think that?" Qui-Gon asked.

"He'll find me. No matter what I do, he'll find me," Khameir whispered.

"You are talking about your master, I presume." Qui-Gon had not been privy to the dream's content, but it had been bad enough for him to feel it along the Master-Padawan bond. In the beginning, he had actually believed it was Obi-Wan dreaming.

"Who else?" A raised non-eyebrow for asking stupid questions.

"Of course. But I doubt he has an idea that you are here. Only the Council and the Healer know your history. To everyone else, you are just a brave soul who helped us escape from the slavers."

"Hmph." Khameir was clearly not convinced.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Qui-Gon decided to try another approach. "Is there any reason your master should assume that you actually helped a Jedi?"

"No."

"There you have it. All you have to do now is help us find him and he won't be a threat to you anymore."

"I told you I cannot do that." The former Sith shuffled away from him a little.

"He betrayed you in the first place," Obi-Wan interjected.

"He merely rid himself of a worthless apprentice."

The quiet acceptance in that statement nearly made Qui-Gon shiver. "Yes, you clearly are not a model Sith," he tried to lighten the mood a little. "But I would never call you worthless."

Khameir snorted. "Right. When it was all my fault in the first place."

That comment left Qui-Gon speechless for a moment, and provoked some rather undignified feelings from Obi-Wan.

If you think this discussion is a waste of time, why don't you go somewhere else, Padawan?

Obi-Wan shrugged in response, but stayed put.

"Why would it be your fault?" Back to the topic at hand. Maybe they were actually making some progress here.

"I should have waited. I should have assessed the situation before barging in. I-"

"Now wait a moment." Self-blame was common enough for victims, the Healer had said. Qui-Gon could only try to talk Khameir out of it. "You are talking about Tattooine, am I right? – What exactly were you told to do?"

"Capture the Queen and make her sign the treaty," Khameir recited dully.

"So you were actually taking your last chance before we left," or at least it had to look like that to an outsider.

"One could put it that way."

"And it would have worked if not for Kala's Force-inhibiting device." Qui-Gon hit the mattress to emphasize his point.

"Yes." Khameir obviously was very sure about his fighting abilities, but that would have to wait for another time.

"I cannot see what you could have done differently if you did not want to fail."

"Hmph."

"Things like that just happen sometimes, Khameir." Qui-Gon winced, realizing how cheap the line sounded. "If it is anyone's fault, blame Kala, or blame the Force."

"So you suggest all this was the will of the Force." One could almost hear the disbelief drip out of that statement.

"Who can say," Qui-Gon shrugged. "The Force moves in mysterious ways. But it might just have offered you the opportunity to change your life."

"I wish I could share your optimism."

"Think about it. If not for Kala, you would still be groveling at your master's feet, until you were either ready to take over, or until he decided you were expendable."

Khameir nodded. His face had taken on a hard look, but it was not directed at Qui-Gon.

Seems like you did it, Master, Obi-Wan's voice echoed through the bond.

Don't expect too much, Padawan. He'll still be irrational about this.

But not this badly, I hope.

Khameir listened to the Jedi's breathing and allowed himself a moment to enjoy the quiet companionship, although why they offered it, and why they were making such an effort, eluded him.

Contrary to his master's teachings, they were even capable of some logic. While Qui-Gon's argumentation had been flawed – Khameir could have avoided captivity if he had just stopped to think before he acted – it had not been completely off. Lord Sidious had the prerogative to kill any apprentice that he thought inept, or to send them on a suicide mission. Khameir knew that he was not the first who had not lived up to his Master's standards. Patience, my young apprentice… all the lectures considered, he was lucky to be alive.

Obi-Wan eyed Maul warily. They were in the garden, and Maul had sprawled out on the lawn and radiated content, if only faintly. Things were almost normal for once, and that was rather odd, given his previous behavior. Come to think of it, Maul had been pleasantly polite as well as well as collected the whole day. The only time he had gotten uncomfortable was when Qui-Gon had tried to address the nightmare.

Still, Master was off to consult the Healer again, and that left Obi-Wan as babysitter. Not that sitting out in the sunshine was so arduous a task. As long as they were keeping up their truce – I don't talk to you, and you don't talk to me – everything would be fine. Neither of them was keen on more deep, nerve wracking conversation, so they had silently agreed to just enjoy the good weather.

It wouldn't make the issues go away, but they had earned a right to pretend it for a while.

Khameir couldn't remember how long it was since he'd last just done nothing on purpose. With Sidious, his days had been filled by training and meditation. He wouldn't even have thought about doing something as frivolous as basking in the sun or playing a hologame – though the latter wasn't an option anymore.

He wondered idly what had happened to his treasured copy of The Middle Countries. His mother had probably sold it. When he'd gone back for the tattoo colors, he'd looked himself up in the database and had discovered he'd been declared dead.

Strange that they hadn't assumed he'd run away. Maybe it had been a Force-suggestion by Sidious. One could never know.

Now Darth Maul was dead, too. It was an odd kind of freedom fate had handed him here. One he would not be able to enjoy with his master always just around the corner. Especially if they deigned to remove the inhibitor – Sidious would sense him then.

There had to be a way out, before his master even discovered Khameir was still alive and kicking, and he was sure he could find it. Almost.

Brooding on it didn't help, as he had discovered, so he shelved the thoughts until his unconscious came up with a solution.

"Hey, Maul."

Obi-Wan was poking him in the ribs.

"What?"

"You fell asleep."

"I did not ask you to wake me."

"My Master did."

"Ah." Khameir sat and instinctively reached out for the Force, trying to find out where Qui-Gon was. There was no response, and why would that still surprise him? He shook his head, trying to forget that deep, desperate emptiness inside. He needed the Force back, no question. Soon, because a world without any direction was slowly driving him crazy. He also needed to get a grip, wallowing in self-pity like yesterday wasn't helping. If anything, it accelerated his descent into madness.

"What is so important that it can't wait?"

"The Healer would like to see you," Qui-Gon said.

"I'm not going back there." How had he coped with the smell two days ago? Antiseptics and disease and old blood.

"Khameir?" A warm hand on his shoulder. "There is no need for you to panic. She'll come over to our quarters."

He nodded. There was no reason to panic at all. So get your breathing under control. It's just self-pity, remember?

Once again, they were waiting outside while Maul was being alone with the bossy healer.

"What did she say?" Obi-Wan asked.

"That I should consider a career as a therapist." Qui-Gon sounded rather amused.

"Now really."

"Yes, really. I believe she is overestimating my abilities, but apparently my intuition on the matter is not that far off. She said we should continue to offer help, but not pressure him. She also advised me to badger Mace a little, so the Council does not make too many demands. But I cannot see how they will ever allow to remove the inhibitor if Khameir does not cooperate."

"So far he seems to be holding up fine."

"He would not be jumping so much at unexpected sounds, I presume. Currently he is relying on us for everything, and I can tell he hates it."

"You're healing fine, bené."

"I know." The scars were not itching anymore.

"It's time to consider some physical therapy for you."

"No." He was not going to the infirmary. He was not going to be humiliated by being told what to do about his injuries.

"Bené…"

"I know how to deal with this. All I need is a room to exercise in."

"If you will let me oversee you, I'll find you one."

He nodded. It was the best deal he was going to get from her.