I have to apologize in advance, but my muse has thrown up its hands and departed. Hopefully it will return before I run out of already-written chapters, but I think it's been scared away by the high caliber of so many other authors on this forum. I am reading nowadays, not writing.

Chapter 61. The Fiery Breath of Hell

"You can't purify my soul with flames, Obi-Wan, I – feed on – on fire – and – and brimstone!" Two eyes sizzled with hatred from within an inferno. Man, voice, and eyes slowly melted behind a curtain of smoke. An accusing finger jabbed out of the swirls and stabbed at the Jedi.

"You – you wear your weapon and I saw it – not…" A triumphant cackle gurgled into a gleeful giggle, rising in a crescendo of hate before swallowed by silence.

Shaking himself from the moment of startled horror, Obi-Wan hurtled forward. There was no thought of self preservation, only joint preservation as the smoke spun and shifted, obscuring and revealing in turn. Flames, flames enveloping the man who had done his best to kill him… He was sent stumbling backwards by the shock wave of suddenly exploding ancient canisters, a cacophony of horror spitting in all directions.

Knocked off his feet, the Jedi's mouth thinned as he huddled with his arms upraised to protect his head, crouching on his knees until the bombardment ceased. Reminiscent as it was of the time he and his friends had used the Force to heat grain kernels and pepper unsuspecting fellow initiates with fluffy treats, this was no prank and no game, no harmless application of lessons unwittingly inspired by Master Yoda. These containers were projectiles and their contents unknown, possibly volatile, and quite possibly toxic.

So close, he fretted, so close as he squeezed his eyes shut from the wash of heat.

The shoulder had been almost beneath his hand, so close: his fingers had brushed fabric. So close. Keeping low to the ground, the Jedi desperately reached forward once more, hoping to once again touch a hand, a shoulder, even a piece of clothing. He felt nothing, except heat; heard nothing, except the crackling of flames.

Qui-Gon Jinn paced. It irritated him no end; he did not pace to release stress. He meditated. But the Force rarely soothed him these days. Only once recently had it brought great peace, but its peace had then been followed by a tempest. And now –

He tugged at his collar. "Anakin, have you been messing about with the temperature controls?" He was sweating, he could almost see flames surrounding him – and checked the thermostat. It read normal.

"No, Master." Anakin came trailing out of his room dragging his blanket behind him - and rubbing his head as well, strands of his short hair tousled and unruly. Young ones. He almost smiled and shook his head. Xan and Obi-Wan had rarely displayed such charming childishness - except when sick and then it had most definitely not been charming – why, he remembered a scratchy-voiced padawan, rubbing his eyes and announcing, "I'm tired of resting in bed, Master. May I stay out here, pleeeaase?"

Of course, he had been stern in his no. A padawan who was sick needed his bed, not his master to coddle him.

Looking much younger than his fourteen years, Obi-Wan had meekly nodded and turned back to his room when he said no, dragging that damn blanket behind him. Not until his fever abated had Qui-Gon allowed his restless padawan the freedom to roam their quarters – and that had been mainly to keep an eye on the boy while he caught up with his class notes.

No, he wasn't going to be taken in by flushed and heated skin from a hot towel, such a convenient excuse to lounge about, as he had been taken in by Xan. If a padawan whined and begged to escape his bed, said padawan would be promptly sent to classes.

He frowned at the memory.

"Are you sick, Padawan?" He winced at the harshness in his tone, but unlike then, unlike Obi-Wan, Anakin was secure in his master's affections: he merely shook his head and clambered up to the now-seated Jedi master and buried his head against his chest.

"Bad dreams, Master," came a muffled voice. "Lots of anger, Master. Bad things. I'm scared for mom – someone wants to hurt her."

Qui-Gon hugged the child close, speechless for once. Yes, now that he thought about it, there had been an undercurrent so teasingly entangled in his perceptions recently, sounds and thoughts that fell silent when he tried to listen, a tickle across his mind like a memory that one could not quite reach. "Bad dreams" as a child might put it: angry voices, hate and fear, staining the Force. Heated emotions, stress and strain. He shivered and drew his padawan closer, the Chosen One – was he now one actively sought by the dark? If the Sith had caught onto his Force sense, they would howl and bay at his mind.

And through Anakin, through the bond, it bled to him as muted and indecipherable background noise.

Shielding, he promised himself, would be the next lesson.

Think, Kenobi.

The door was behind him, the man was in front of him and likely somewhat to his right, perhaps on the ground and perhaps reeling in shock and pain. Could he no longer scream, or even whimper in pain? He heard no gasping breaths, no choking coughs. Did he lie unconscious before him? Waving his hand to clear a path through the smoke – and that was a mistake as his lungs were quick to inform him – Obi-Wan hastily pressed his sleeve over his face, using the cloth as a rudimentary filter while groping with his right hand. His fingers tickled cloth and he scrabbled for a hold. He would not let go, he would not – he would -.

Whatever he was trying to grasp jerked away, leaving the Jedi's finger nails to rake flesh. A hand?

"I'm not going to hurt you, I'm trying to save you," he called, all his nerves thudding and urging him to get out now while you can. Before you both die. He ignored the call of a human body under stress. This time, the breath he took was more cautious but just as necessary. "Take my hand, okay?"

It was an offer nearly accepted, though not in the way anticipated.

He snatched his hand back, the whoosh of a vibroblade far too close for comfort. Ugh, I didn't mean that literally, he mumbled, nursing his fingers.

"No! You're trying to kill me! Hated me – always hated me…" The voice trailed off in a litany of curses punctuated by gasps and thuds as of a reeling man unable to keep his balance, falling into things and dislodging them – or fumbling for those things to use as weapons.

"I don't have time to hate you; I'm not sure I have time to save you without your cooperation!" Cool down, Kenobi. Somehow he managed a wry grin at his words despite the seriousness of the situation. Cool down; he sure wished he could.

"Look, I'm trying to save both of us before either of us suffocates." His voice was hoarse; he swallowed a cough. "Look, you can try to kill me once we get out of here but first we both need to get out of here."

A muted gleam swiped through the smoke, its hum Obi-Wan's only warning to dodge and duck. "Or sooner," he muttered unhappily. The last thing he wanted to do was to abandon someone, anyone, to save his own skin. But how long could he stay here and argue? Drawing breath was already difficult. Dying so that the other man would survive was not a favored alternative. He raised his voice. "After we get out; after. Remember?"

"Why wait until then?" The voice was mocking, strangely calm for a man who by rights should be screaming in pain.

The smoke was thick and oily, no doubt toxic, too, his mind added wryly. The lack of visibility both hindered and helped – hindered him from offering help and helped him avoid injury, or worse.

How long did either of them have? He could save no one if he was overcome himself.

The chiding taunt spurred another attack as he half-hoped, half-expected. Anticipating the subtle shift in his perception of color as the lightsaber was partway through its second blind sweep and seeing his opportunity as well as tattered and smoking cloth, Obi-Wan dove under the blade, clamped onto the hilt, and then twisted and rammed the wrist into the wall. Nerveless fingers released their grip and the blade spun in an arc over both their head. One edge clipped Obi-Wan, but did no harm. Like most lightsabers, if not all, it deactivated when out of the grip of its wielder.

"Don't be a fool, man. You'll die here if you don't let me help me."

"I don't need your help and you will get none from me. Burn in Sith hell, Kenobi!"

Obi-Wan dived for the ankles as a shape charged past him. The thud was followed by a screech of a seriously unhappy feline. Four were in danger – well, five, if he counted himself, he remembered. He crawled forward and let fly with a fist just as the indistinct figure half rose.

Both men collapsed to the ground – and Obi-Wan stared at the face half-turned away from him.

Heat and hate had twisted the features into something bizarre and almost inhuman, a part of the Jedi's mind noted, but he had no time to stare, to wonder, or even care. His skin could be flaking or boiling, but he would die if Obi-Wan did not get him out by whatever means he could.

Pushing himself to his elbows, then his knees, Obi-Wan tried to grab the man and hoist him, but he hadn't the strength and flopped to the ground, his elbow painfully ramming into the ground. He wiped his face, stooped low, and lifted the man's ankles. If he couldn't carry him out, he would drag him. There was no time for delicacy.

Step by slow step, he persevered – it was only a few steps, just one at a time and he'd get there. C'mon, Kenobi, you can do it.

A hand on his shoulder startled him badly. "Here, let me, you're reeling on your feet. Get outside, I'll get this one."

Nodding, Obi-Wan turned and stumbled forward as a cloaked figure pushed past him. He reached the doorway, passed through it, hit fresh air. He bent over with his hands on his knees, gulping in oxygen.

Then he turned back inside.

Life knew no hierarchy of worth; it had taken him some time and some maturing to overcome his innate need to weigh pluses and minuses, worthy causes versus those less worthy, to judge not rather than to judge on the superficial. He had never demeaned some, but he had elevated some above others and occasionally devalued some, assigning a hierarchy of value based on some nebulous perception shaped through an immature prism. Sometimes, though, life had taught him that relative value judgments could not be helped, not when not all could be helped.

Hence the choice he had faced: a man – or a family of kitlings? To choose meant to choose whom to possibly abandon. So he had made a choice: to save the man and in so doing, had chosen by default one over another, no matter how unwilling, to possibly sacrifice others: to decide which life had the higher priority. The higher life form had had precedence, even if he wasn't feeling quite so generous.

It was not an easy choice, and yet, it was. A Jedi was trained to make those kinds of choices by a master who trained the padawan how to live with decisions that one should not have to make.

Two choices had faced him, but he had decided to make it three. Not whom to choose, but who and in what order. A man who had tried to murder him, a man who had killed a defenseless kitling, a man with the mental capacity to choose to murder – or small animals, able to give affection, able to kill but not capable of facing the morality of their kills, the vermin who they hunted as food.

The third choice was the human choice, allied with the Jedi's choice: not to choose one over another, but to choose whom to save in what order he could save them – and to save them all, Force willing.

He took a deep breath and plunged back inside, passing the mother who was hauling one kitling out of danger by the scruff of its neck. The mewling led him to the second kitling, unsteadily weaving on its paws. A pathetic squeak accompanied a touch of a tiny nose to his fingers.

"Come, little one," he coughed, scooping up the small shape and stumbling outside, then on a whim or a hope turned and stumbled back for the surely dead – but maybe not – kitling. Would the Force do another miracle? Not through him, like as with Qui-Gon, but –

Kneeling beside it, he reached out a tender finger and stroked the tiny cheek even as he tried to massage life back into the small body. He knew from past experiences that the Force did not spare the innocent as it did not always condemn the guilty and then chided himself: good and evil were done at the hand of sentient life, not the will of the Force. How then did I save Qui-Gon: I have not the force of will to command his life – the crash of a falling beam alerted him to danger.

Carefully cradling the limp and broken body in his hands, the other tucked within his tunic, he stumbled for the exit.

Maybe just injured, maybe just overcome with smoke, maybe revivable – all the maybe's ran together through his mind.

He made his way outside, to come face to face with an incongruous scene.

Well, that's unexpected, was all that came to his weary mind as he blinked and slipped to his knees. Master Qui-Gon?

His knees buckled.

Anakin loved small creatures, at least those who did not hold the potential to grow into big creatures that might wish to harm him. His soul sizzled with the remembrance of Iego, even if in the dream Iego had six legs. Just as in real life, he had held the potential to save Iego and just as in real life he had failed, only in the dream it had not been he who murdered Iego.

It was a Jedi.

And he knew him. If he could only remember.

He buried his face in his master's tunics and cried for his lost Iego.

Whatever Dooku had expected, it wasn't a burning shed.

Nor did he expect to see his grand padawan sitting cross-legged on the ground, ash drifting around him like snow and flames crackling nearby, sitting with a kitling in his hands and tears upon his face.

"I cannot mend you, I'm so sorry," the boy seemed to be muttering repetitiously.

Then one of the more amazing things Dooku had ever witnessed happened: a feline stood, front paws on bent knees, looked up at Obi-Wan and then stuck her nose against his before curling up by his side so her two kitlings could nurse.

What in the Force happened here!

He glanced around, noting that the Inspector who had accompanied him was hurrying off to the creek side with one of the constabulary droids. He suddenly realized it was a body, face down in the water. He sharpened his Force senses: the stench of conflict was still strong and it was tainted with the same sense of wrongness as in the legalitor's office.

He swiftly turned his attention back to his grand-padawan. The boy's exhaustion and sorrow burned in the Force – and now he was bowing his head, one slow tear at a time sliding down his cheek, oblivious to the outer world.

Dooku was a pragmatic man, one driven by logic and not emotion, so he was hard pressed to understand his momentary hesitation to interfere and the equally uncomfortable wish to comfort. Death was unpleasant, yes, but also a part of life and thus not to be taken to heart. Kenobi should not blubber so, it was – it was

"Un-Jedi-like?" A part of himself offered.

"Eminently Jedi-like," another part of himself countered, the same part that had told him years ago that Kenobi and Jinn, Jinn and Kenobi would be better for the acceptance of compassion and affection – better men, and thus, better Jedi.

He shook himself out of his scrutiny, leaving the Inspector to prowl the scene barking out orders.

"Obi-Wan!" He knelt beside the pale young man, subconsciously noting the bruises and bloodstains, the sheer filth of the boy. What the Sith hell had happened here? He turned his attention back to his grand-padawan. "Are you hurt? What happened?"

"I – was attacked; I fought back as best I could, but – this little one died, not I." Obi-Wan shuddered, visibly drawing himself together. His brow knitted in some confusion, but a part of his training held: he knew on some level what Dooku wished to know. "I feel I knew him…knew the voice, anyway, knew the insults he hurled at me. But it doesn't make sense…he said my death would make him the second most powerful man in the galaxy. How could that be? It's not like by defeating him, I take that role. I'm just a Jedi without the Force, Master." He slumped further, shaking his head and forced out a small laugh. "Force, I'm so tired."

"Yes, well, I would think so." Dooku carefully reached for the small body and set it aside and then hauled Obi-Wan to his feet where he steadied the young man.

"I fought in the Light, didn't I?"

Dooku's eyebrow lifted. "What makes you ask?"

"I didn't, not on Naboo, did you know? That's why…Master Qui-Gon knew it. I didn't, but he did. I heard it through the bond, all jumbled like." Obi-Wan dragged a hand down his face.

"Yes, well, we'll talk about this later." Dooku pumped a bit of Force energy into Obi-Wan's lax body. "After you've rested."

"I need to question him," the inspector said, straightening up from his examination of what Dooku had assumed to be a body. "Jedi or not, he's the only witness we have, but first we have to try to save this one."

"He's alive?" Dooku blinked.

"Half-drowned, half burned alive. We're EVC-ing to the Med Center."

"Under guard, of course."

"Under guard?" The inspector lifted an eyebrow. "He's hardly going anywhere in his condition…of course, under guard, Master Jedi. And your boy there – "

"Is out on his feet. You can question him later. I assure you his story will be more coherent and just as accurate later on." Dooku held up a hand as the inspector tried to protest. "Trust me, Inspector, I, too am a member of the Judiciary. Any questioning that might be done will be recorded for your review, if you wish. We'll both be behind you – shortly."

"Don't clean him up."

Dooku merely snorted. He was well aware of the protocols of the situation. The only reason Obi-Wan wasn't already being questioned was because he was reeling on his feet and nearly incoherent. He flapped his wrist at a droid. "That one can come stand in the corner and make sure all the evidence remains intact."

"Full recording, of course."

"Of course."

"Always a pleasure to deal with the Jedi," the Inspector drawled.