DISCLAIMER: Star Wars and all publicly recognisable characters, names and references, etc are the sole property of George Lucas, Lucasfilm Ltd, Lucasarts Inc and 20th Century Fox. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.
N.B. Thoughts indicated by // and Italics
It was a long hard night for Obi-Wan. He, Garret, and the old woman, whose name turned out to be Corena, hustled back and forth, administering bandages, medicine, and ale to the invalids around them. Obi-Wan used the Force where he could, coaxing broken bodies to heal faster, but the effort was draining him. He struggled to remember his lessons in healing from the Jedi Academy, but somehow he always found his thoughts straying back to Qui-Gon.
The night had not been kind to the Jedi Master. He tossed and turned in his sleep, disturbing the wound. When Obi-Wan had finally been allowed to tend to him, he found Qui-Gon burning hot to the touch. When he checked under the bandages, his worst fears were confirmed -- infection had already begun to set in, despite his best efforts, and Qui-Gon had a bad fever.
Obi-Wan dabbed on more disinfectant and tied on a clean bandage. He reached out with his feelings towards Qui-Gon’s mind, trying to find the calm strong Master he knew. Qui- Gon was still there, but he was engaged in a great battle against the limits of his own body. Obi-Wan sent thoughts of strength and comfort to him, asking him to try and hold still so his body could mend itself. Apparently Qui-Gon heard, for gradually his thrashing lessened until he lay still, but his breaths still came in ragged gasps, and grimaces of pain crossed his face.
“Master,” whispered Obi-Wan, “I need you.” He felt silly saying it, but it was true. He had come to depend on Qui-Gon and love him as a father and best friend. He felt a hand upon his shoulder and looked up into the wizened old face of the woman Corena. She smiled piteously at him and gestured to the floor beside Qui-Gon’s mattress, indicating that he should sleep.
“Can you not speak?” he asked softly.
A complex expression crossed Corena’s face as she shook her head.
“Ch’Andri?”
She nodded and Obi-Wan recognized the emotion imprinted upon her gnarled features -- hate. She hated the ambassador with a passion that seemed beyond her frail state. Obi- Wan wondered what Corena had lost to the Central Government other than her voice, but decided not to ask. Instead he lay obediently beside his Master, tucking his arm under his head. Not surprisingly, he did not sleep.
No one disturbed him for several hours in which he lay watching his Master, devising and rejecting innumerable plans of escape from the hostile planet, all the while watching helplessly as Qui-Gon sank deeper and deeper into the fever. Once or twice he tried to sleep, but his mind and spirit would not let his body rest.
His vigil was interrupted when he felt Garret’s eyes on his back. He smelled food and realized he was hungry. Garret’s foot prodded his back.
“Breakfast,” barked a gruff voice. Obi-Wan sat up, stretching his stiff muscles. Garret held out two bowls of gruel. “Can you wake him?” he asked, glancing towards Qui-Gon.
“I’ll try.”
“Good.” Garret turned and left. Obi-Wan glanced down at the bowls in his hands. The gruel looked old, but it was warm. The portions were frightfully small, and Qui-Gon would clearly need more than his meager rations. Obi-Wan let his eyes rest again on his Master’s face. It was still flushed with fever and was beginning to look haggard. Qui- Gon was breathing shallowly through clenched teeth, his brow knit with pain and effort.
Obi-Wan turned away and quietly spooned his own gruel into Qui-Gon’s bowl. //After all,// he thought, //he needs it far more than I do, and I can afford to miss breakfast every once in a while.// He took a deep breath and laid his hand gently on Qui-Gon’s arm.
“Master?” he asked gently, reaching out with the Force. Qui-Gon stirred and mumbled something under his breath, but he did not awaken. Obi-Wan shook the Jedi’s arm carefully. “Master, it’s Obi-Wan,” he said. “And I’ve got breakfast,” he added. It struck him only after he had said it that it was rather a stupid thing to say under the circumstances. Qui-Gon still did not awaken. Obi-Wan felt a stab of desperation. He tightened his grip on Qui-Gon’s arm. “Master,” he commanded, punctuating his words with Force power, “wake up.”
Slowly, as if it took superhuman strength, Qui-Gon opened his eyes. They focused wearily on Obi-Wan’s anxious face. The Padawan nearly cried out at the dull sheen which overcast his Master’s eyes, usually so sharp and clear.
“Um,” he said, trying to pull himself together, “there’s some breakfast here for you, Master, if you think you can eat.”
“Have I ever been one to refuse such generous hospitality,” managed Qui-Gon, “especially when food is involved?”
A short bark of relieved laughter escaped Obi-Wan as he pulled his Master up into a sitting position again. Qui-Gon glanced at the gruel and at his Padawan’s empty bowl. Obi-Wan held his breath, forcing his face and posture to be passive, shielding his thoughts.
“How is it?” asked Qui-Gon.
“Hmm? Oh. The gruel. Well, it’s, um...” Obi-Wan groped for words. “I’ve tasted better, Master.” He was fairly certain that was true, judging from the way the stuff smelled. There was a pause, and again Obi-Wan forced himself to look casual. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was lying to his own Master, and that was almost unthinkable, even under the gravest of circumstances. But Qui-Gon needed energy to heal, and the only way for him to get enough would be to eat a double helping. Obi-Wan would not dare request such a thing of Garret or Corena; Qui-Gon was not the most severely wounded person there, and if he was given extra, others would have to be given it also, and there simply wasn’t enough.
No, Obi-Wan was sure this was the only way. And if he had to deceive his Master to keep him alive, so be it. He supported Qui-Gon’s shoulders with one arm, careful not to disturb the wound, and held the bowl in his free hand at the Jedi ate. From time to time Qui-Gon would pause as a wave of dizziness swept over him. His brow was hot and dry, as it had been the past night, and the gray eyes never seemed quite to focus. Obi-Wan could tell the fever was getting worse, but Qui-Gon was shielding his Padawan from the full extent of it.
Qui-Gon finished the gruel and Obi-Wan set the bowl down. “That was horrible,” remarked the Master casually. “But it helped.”
“I’m going to have to take another look at that blaster wound,” said Obi-Wan.
Qui-Gon nodded grimly. “Before you do, Padawan, I have an assignment for you.”
“Anything, Master,” replied Obi-Wan, puzzled.
“It’s obvious now what these people suffer at the hands of the Government’s troops. We cannot let it continue.” He paused as the dizziness came and went again. “I want you to organize them. Lead them. Let them see they still have the power to fight back. I think that if they fight, they will win.”
“But, Master, what about all the lives that will be lost? Ch’Andri commands trained soldiers.”
“And if these soldiers see a Jedi leading the people in revolt, many will choose not to fight. They are afraid of us, Obi-Wan. Yemil Ch’Andri has taught them to be. Their fear will serve as our ally in this.”
“But this is so aggressive! What if we turn out to be wrong and innocent people lose their lives because of it?”
“You are still young, Obi-Wan, and there are things you cannot see yet. Trust my judgment, Padawan. If the people do not fight back soon, it will be too late. Please trust me.”
Obi-Wan had no choice. He knew his Master’s respect for life. Qui-Gon would never make so reckless and dangerous a move unless he knew it was the only option. “Yes, Master,” he whispered.
“I’d... better go on and see to your shoulder,” he resumed after an awkward pause. Qui-Gon nodded. “I’ll have to lay you down on your stomach,” he added. Again assent from the Master, who clenched his teeth against the pain as Obi-Wan began gently helping him reposition himself.
Obi-Wan could sense his Master’s pain at every movement, and it tore at his heart. Then his grip on Qui-Gon slipped a little and Qui-Gon gasped and collapsed. Panic swept over Obi-Wan as he felt for a pulse, but it was there, a little unsteady, but still strong.
The Padawan cursed his clumsiness in every language he knew as he unbandaged and examined the wound. The slip had caused the damaged muscles to tear even further. The infection was also getting worse, but slowly. Qui-Gon was clearly fighting it as hard as he could, but the fever was dulling his mental powers. If he could only hold out for a few more days, Obi-Wan might be able to organize the people enough for an effective revolt. Then they could find a ship and get Qui-Gon the medical attention he required.
If nothing went wrong. Once again, Obi-Wan had a very bad feeling.