Author's note: I don't like torture. No, really. I don't. And I want it on the record that this abomination was written at the special request of a bloodthirsty but charmingly persistent reader. You know who you are, and I hope this fic satisfies your longing for extravagant hurt and excessive comfort. Sorry, Obi Wan: the muse, and your fans, are collectively a very cruel mistress indeed. -r.b.

Vigil

Now – in the present moment, where his focus belonged - the Unamtabi warriors were celebrating. Through the flexible wall of stretched yrrbu hide, the rhythm of dancing feet was a muffled cadence, like soft rainfall. The crackle of their bonfire was muted, too – its light a mere soft ambience trickling through the veined and textured leather, casting the interior of the urkk in a dim orange glow, as though sunset lingered perpetually, never to give way to night and sleep.

Qui Gon Jinn could feel every uncomfortable lump and knot in the plant-fiber mattress beneath his overweary back, but he did not stretch or move, his senses floating suspended on the gentle current of the Living Force. Without, in the circle of the encampment, a newly liberated people sang and chanted and danced and feasted in a riotous surge of joy and energy. Within, sheltered by the primitive urrk's soft walls, the two Jedi lay completely still, keeping a vigil as unending as the false sunset.

"Master?"

He moved his hand sideways, a few scant centimeters, to brush against Obi Wan's arm. "I'm still awake," he assured his Padawan.

There was a breath of relief, of gratitude.

"What are they singing about?"

Qui Gon felt a smile tug at his mouth. "You won't like it," he said. The tribesmen outside raised their voices in a deafening chorus, one that sounded like contemptuous laughter. There was enthusiastic applause and a round of cheers and war-like whoops of defiance.

"I don't like anything about this place," the Padawan responded, with uncharacteristic bitterness. Qui Gon let it slide; present circumstances excused much. Besides, testiness was the first sign of tiredness…and approaching slumber. Perhaps…

"I can't," Obi Wan cut his thought off. "I can't even meditate."

"You're not trying," Qui Gon chided, lightly.

"There is no try. And I am."

"Be quiet now," he ordered, sensing that the discussion was going nowhere. "Listen to their chant. I can make out some of the meaning, if you really want to know."

When he received no immediate objection, he was emboldened to continue. "They are already composing the history of recent events. The song tells of their oppression at the hands of the Collective Party, and the resistance movement's various struggles. You and I enter into the story toward the end – not by name, mind you – and then there is an epic account of the raid on the Collective's secret police headquarters and the release of the political prisoners."

"They don't waste much time writing their history," Obi Wan grumbled.

"Singing it." Qui Gon loved cultures which preserved their heritage and lifeways in oral tradition rather than the more advanced and respected forms of text and holo-recording; the ever-moving currents of recited folk lore and poetry appealed to his affinity for the Living Force, for all things that grew and changed. Even as he spoke, the Unamtabi broke into another rising chorus of mirth, mocking syllables echoing in the night air. It was a very enthusiastic gathering outside. "And that laughing, I think, is meant to be you, Padawan. Spitting in the face of their foes."

The young Jedi shifted restlessly, frustration and exhaustion shuddering in the Force around him. He made a small noise, one which might have been a severely repressed groan. "I wasn't laughing," he objected.

"You were."

"I wasn't, master! I was…" Silence. Obi Wan turned over, hissing between clenched teeth. The blankets and skins covering him slipped, revealing one bruised shoulder rigid with pent-up emotion. "I …when is the ship coming?" The question was half-growl, half-whimper.

Qui Gon touched his arm again. The Republic ship, traveling at the fastest speed possible through the most direct hyperspace lane, would still not arrive until dawn…another ten hours of waiting. His hand slid down to curl around his apprentice's cold fingers. "Patience," he advised, as gently as possible, trying for the tenth time to impose a Force-laden sleep suggestion on his overwrought Padawan.

"Yes, master," Obi Wan mumbled, obediently drifting into feverish incoherence.

But of course he would not actually sleep. The filthy drugs polluting his bloodstream, and the sheer pain, would keep him pinned to dreary awareness as ruthlessly as an insect skewered in a biological specimen display. There was nothing Qui Gon could do, until the ship arrived. Nothing but wait with him. And remember.

Then – not much more than a day ago, yet seemingly forever - Obi Wan slipped through the shadows between the trees, tracking the Unamtabi cheiftain's son and his war party like a colwar hunting its prey. The brash and disobedient young warriors were determined to seek out Uganthar, their slain scout – the latest victims of the secret police raids launched by the Collective Party. He had seen them depart from the encampment at sunset, sensed their intentions.

He had not thought to contact Qui Gon until they were past the known Collective comm. boundary; any transmission he sent by comlink might be traced, and betray the Unamtabi's position. He paused, thought to turn back and inform his master; but that would mean abandoning the chase, and so much was at stake, the peace negotiations disastrously stalled, the planetary government ready to capitulate to the Collective's demands. Only the resistance fighters stood firm – and one wrong move would bring the secret police down on them, obliterating them all: every last man, woman, and child. It was secrecy which preserved them intact. Jedi involvement had not been effective, and a show of force would only spur the Collective to greater acts of monstrous cruelty, to the destruction of other innocent settlements. Qui Gon had been clear: until they had located the headquarters of the terrorist organization, and could inform the beleagured planetary security commission ,they must not make a move in the open. Even if certain younger members of the resistance were foolish enough to take matters into their own hands.

Obi Wan leapt into a tree and continued tracking the young warriors from a higher vantage point, springing from high branch to high branch. The noise blended with the omnipresent din of the jungle; the Unamtabi below thought nothing of it.

The cheiftain's son was bold, and courageous. But he was not experienced. Rumor had spoken of a nightmarish prison facility, somewhere on this continent, in which vital intelligence had been wrested from the staunchest supporters of the resistance through unspeakable torture. Obi Wan doubted the Unamtabi prowling ahead of him were up to that challenge; he could easily imagine them revealing their people's last safe refuge. There were too many lives at risk.

The hunters stopped in a moonlit clearing. "This is where Ungathar disappeared."

They paused, looked about. Of course there was nothing obvious…Obi Wan crouched in the branches above, a prickling of warning crawling down his spine. Enemies were approaching – another Collective recon squadron, scouring the area for suspected insurgents.

The Unamtabi heard the whine of the approaching speeders as well. Their leader held up a fist, and the small group formed a defensive circle. The young Jedi, watching from on high, tensed. Their primitive weapons would avail them nothing against the stun bolts and hoverskiffs of their foes.

He leapt down, landing a short two meters from the startled war-party. "Run!" he ordered. "I'll distract them!"

The cheiftain's son made to protest, but the sight of the lightsaber flashing into vibrant life, and the increasing whine of the speeders' drives, seemed to deflate his bravado.

"Run! " Obi Wan commanded, slamming against their minds with the power of the Force. A few capitulated immediately, and the rest swiftly followed. The group scattered into the undergrowth, pounded away back toward the encampment.

Obi Wan turned, to face the approaching threat alone. He swung his saber a few times, in a looping flourish, its blade humming sharp against the muted chorus of insect and animal noise. A moment later, the secret police skiffs appeared, piloted by heavily armed humanoids.

"Look what triggered our perimeter sensors!" a gruff voice barked.

"Get him!"

The battle was swift and brutal. Obi Wan launched himself into motion, saber screaming defiantly through looming shadow, a tongue of blue fire carving through both skiffs' engines, one arm, a leg, two blaster cannon, and rebounding seventy-four stun bolts into his aggressors and the surrounding trees before one finally hurtled past his guard and struck him.

He went down hard, dropping his weapon and grunting as a second shot hit him in the back. The last thing he noticed was the aromatic scent of burning foliage and soil, where his 'saber had singed the earth, before darkness finally claimed him.

Qui Gon felt it the moment it happened: a dizzying jolt to his solar plexus. He stopped, steadied himself in the tumultuous Force, sought for the source of this warning.

Obi Wan. Where was he and why had he left without telling his master? It wasn't like him; he should be back by now, safe and shame-faced for the lapse in communication. The tall master grasped his comlink, then hesitated. If Obi Wan were past Collective boundaries, any transmission s could be traced. Directly to the hidden Unamtabi encampment. It wasn't worth the risk. He sough for his apprentice in the Force instead, but found no clear sense of the young Jedi or his whereabouts. Either the Padawan was deliberately shielding, or…

He thrust the thought aside. Patience. He must have patience.

Two hours later his patience was rewarded. The cheiftain's son and a straggling group of his peers barreled into the center of the nomadic camp, disturbing the nighttime stillness. Older males emerged, angrily, from their family urkk. The chieftain himself demanded an explanation.

The leader of the scouting party- the chief's own son – fell to one knee before his father. "I am dishonored," the young Umantabi moaned. "We went to find the beshhebi who killed Uganthar. Past the boundary."

"Uganthar is dead," the tribe's elder frowned. "You have risked all our lives by venturing into Collective territory. Thank the guardian spirits that you have returned alive to us, without betraying your people."

The young warrior cringed, cast a furtive and guilty look at Qui Gon. "The other Jedi found us…he ordered us back to the camp." His shoulders slumped in defeat.

There was an expectant silence in the wake of this pronouncemet. Qui Gon's gut clenched.

"Where is he now?" he asked, already knowing the answer, yet dreading to hear it spoken aloud.

The Unamtabi youth looked up at him, bi-color eyes shining with regret and fear. "There was a Collective scouting party," he whispered. "The other Jedi held them off while we escaped. They have surely killed him."

The chieftain swept one arm up in an angry motion. "They will not kill him until they have broken his will and made him reveal our location. We are doomed." His eyes met the Jedi master's. "We do not know where their secret prison is. And there is none alive who can resist the Collective's interrogation techniques. He will betray us all to our deaths."

"I promise you," Qui Gon said, his throat tightening with an unfamiliar emotion, "He will not. But we must find him."

"How?" the leader of the Unamtabi scoffed.

That was the question. He had no answer. But he was confident, he had to be confident that a solution would present itself.. Qui Gon clamped down on the churning in his gut. "I must meditate on it," he decided.

There was nothing else he could do. The Force would find a way.

That was then. This was now, in the hours of a night that dragged onward as slowly as a lame bantha laboring across hot sands, while scavengers looked on in eagerness. Qui Gon breathed slowly, deeply, measuring his own awareness into long stretches, pauses empty of anything but the ever-present Force. He willed the same emptiness and stillness into his student, willed healing energies into the young Jedi's body…but he felt the toll their excruciating wait was taking. Hours passed in silence within the shelter, while the sounds of the Unamtabi revels finally faded into a subdued muttering of elders left around the smouldering fire.

"Master."

"I'm here." A foolish statement, an obvious assurance. But he would not sleep until his Padawan could…he lay awake here out of solidarity, a paltry comforting gesture.

"Uh…" The young Jedi shifted restlessly, rolled over, groaned.

"What is it?" The tall man bolted upright, sensing a spiking disturbance. The ship was still hours away…. The Unamtabi had no medical technology….his own skills were limited. "Obi Wan. What's the matter?"

A dry, rasping chuckle.

"Padawan, this isn't funny."

The chuckle turned to a horrible cough, then to racking cramps. ObI Wan convulsed, gasping in noisy breaths between spasms. Finally, the fit subsided. "…Ow."

Qui Gon frowned. He at least did not find this funny in the least, despite the extremely wry smile gracing his apprentice's wan features. How the young man found his own torment a subject for amusement was a mystery which even Master Yoda might not be able to fully fathom; over the years Qui Gon himself had merely come to accept the dark twist in his apprentice's lively if subtle sense of humor.

"Obi Wan," he commanded. "Talk to me."

That earned him another indecipherable smile, and a little pained grunt of bitter laughter. "I don't do that, remember?"

The tall master could have slapped him for that, if the situation were not so dire. He tamped down his impatience, felt the younger man's forehead. The skin was ice cold. A thrill of panic cascaded down his spine, and was brutally repressed. There is no emotion. There is peace. "Stay here," he ordered, unnecessarily.

Outside, the Unamtabi stared as he collected fire-heated rocks from the edge of the deep pit, using the Force to levitate them into the dirty folds of a shredded blanket. He swept back into the shelter, tucked the hot bundles against his Padawan's abdomen, chest, legs, threw more blankets and another animal skin atop the pile of others.

Some of the pain seemed to ease; Obi Wan visibly relaxed. There was a long silence, in which Qui Gon measured both their breaths, resting in the Force for both of them. A bird called somewhere in the wilderness beyond; a dying log snapped in fire outside. Footfalls fell softly in the dust around their urkk: tribesemen returning to their own nomadic dwellings. The light of the fire dimmed, leaving them in a darkness warmed by the stones.

And yet, there was no rest.

"I want to sleep." Obi Wan's sigh was almost plaintive.

"I know. Be patient." It was poor advice, even cruel. But there was little else he could say, or do. Helplessness descended like an unwelcome specter, haunting the scant space between them. It was completely dark now, so he could not see his own fists clenching into resentful balls, rebelling against his impotence. He could not see the grimace of pain and bitter emotion on his Padawan's face.

But he could feel it in the Force.

Damn the Collective and their secret police. The thought was unworthy, even dangerous. But he thought it anyway, and lingered within its hot, comforting embrace for a moment before releasing it to the Force.

Be patient. There were many hours left in the night – many hours in which to endure unwanted recollection.

The horrible memory began with a simple enough act: he woke.

Beyond that, it was difficult to form a coherent thought or to piece together the random detritus of sensation. There was light, and darkness, and solidity beneath his back and cold air prickling his exposed skin. He breathed deeply. Stone, and a stink of sharp chemicals – a clinical, scoured scent…and yet one laced with the tang of fear, the stale metallic aftertaste of blood in the air and the Force.

Headache blurred vision and thought into a meaningless smear, but he recognized one thing: he had a very, very bad feeling about this. This was a dangerous, a hostile place.

A prison.

The prison. He had discovered the long-sought-after Collective's hidden facility. A fierce smile lit his face, bad feeling notwithstanding. Now they would get somewhere. The brash guards who had accosted him in the forest had made their first and last misstep in bringing him here. The secret police which had terrorized the Unamtabi people would no longer continue their reign of cruelty, once the new planetary government learned of their location and launched a raid. Qui Gon could arrange that in a matter of hours, he felt confident. All he had to do was –

"Rrrngh." Blast. Some of his triumphant feeling ebbed away in the face of a new difficulty. He couldn't move. Breathing in the Force's power, he willed his senses to clear a bit, his sluggish limbs obey. When had a stun blast ever had such a devastating and lingering effect? Something was wrong here…

A dull thud and the pad of feet against a hard floor; the Force twisted with malice. Somebody had entered the room.

"This is our opportunity. He's Jedi – he must have come straight from the Umantabi. He knows exactly where those filth are holed up." The voice was female, hard and calculating.

Another voice, much deeper. "What if they come looking for him?"

"Idiot. They haven't got a clue where to look, do they? No way to track him. We're safe."

He squinted at the moving blur above him.

"He's awake," the male voice grunted, with businesslike detachment.

"Took long enough," the woman commented sardonically. "Make sure you give him another dose; I'm not messing around with a Jedi. Not even a fledgling like this one."

There was the prick and cold rush of a hypo against his neck, and with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, he realized that his predicament might be worse than he had imagined. The Force was here, but he was having difficulty manipulating it; the golden light seemed to slip, like oozing syrup, out of his grasp, to cloy at his mind rather than illumining it with bright sharp clarity. His blood was off-kilter, poisoned.

Still. Fledgling. There was no call for such dismissive incivility.

"What do you want?" he ground out.

The female drew nearer – still a blur of color and shadow, but clearer around the edges, like an improperly focused hologram. "Oh," she purred. "You've got spirit. But we're the ones asking questions, and you're the one answering them."

"I don't think so." He tested his bonds and found they were disturbingly solid. The Force still shifted elusively away from his reach.

The deeper, uglier voice chortled nastily. But in the Force it was the woman who was far, far more dangerous. "I don't care what you think, sweetheart," she said, trailing one finger thoughtfully down the side of his face. "I only care what you know."

Instinctive warning wrenched at his gut, clawed cold down his spine. The whir of a small repulsordrive made itself heard, and a gleaming sphere appeared in his field of vision. Even with his eyesight blurring, he recognized the wicked little droid, bristling with various, ingenious implements. He looked away.

"Why don't we just have a nice long talk, without all the fuss?" the woman suggested.

"Why don't you let me go and I'll consider that request?' he shot back.

She merely strolled casually beside him, one hand tracing down his arm to his ribs, hipbone to thigh. Her fingers executed a graceful pirouette on his kneecap and then lingered, lightly, on his bare foot, a predatory bird perched and waiting.

"Where are the Unamtabi resistance leaders hiding?" she asked, quietly. "Do you know?"

"Yes."

Her hand slowly retraced its path, crossing over his navel, up his chest, along his neck. Her fingers wound themselves in the Padawan braid behind his right ear. "Then tell me where they are."

"I'm sorry," he answered, without an ounce of contrition. "I am sworn to uphold peace… and your intentions toward the Umantabi are not peaceful."

She withdrew, and the droid thrummed forward eagerly. The man, lingering somewhere in the background, chuckled in anticipation. "You're about to change your mind – fast," the woman declared, voice suddenly edged with durasteel.

He braced himself. "You won't succeed," he warned her.

"I'm willing to try," she snarled back, yanking the braid hard and then releasing it. "Let's just see how far that famous Jedi resolve really extends, shall we?"

That same horrible moment, echoing in the Force. Qui Gon was wrenched abruptly out of his deep meditation by a searing pain behind his eyes, a throbbing spreading like fire from the base of his skull to the bottom of his spine. His hand clenched hard about his saber hilt and he nearly keeled over. He had been adrift in the Force, his awareness completely unshielded, searching for his Padawan….and then this. He knew what it meant.

A moment later he was back on his feet, outside the urkk and summoning the chieftain and a small search party together. A message had been sent- by passenger bird, the most primitive of methods, but one immune to scanner sweeps and signal intercepting technology – to the new government's security forces, the guerilla army waiting to rise against the Collective. They were poised to strike, heavily armed, ready for an uprising against the long-time oppressors of the planet. All they required was a location. For too long, both sides of this dispute had been playing a dangerous game of dejarik, their headquarters concealed.

"Do you know where to seek for them?" the tribe chieftain asked. His chosen companions shifted restlessly behind him, hand-picked men, loyal and hardened by years of fighting. A stolen hover skiff loomed in the background, waiting for their use.

A fresh wave of vertigo swept over the Jedi master. He closed his eyes and released it. Like a beacon light, invisible yet crystal clear, his Padawan's distress marked the way, blazing an instinctive path between them, a thin thread of connection. "Yes," he sighed. "To the west."

The chief barked out orders, and the men began to climb into the skiff, their spears and weapons clattering as they settled in the wide sled's passenger bed. "You are certain?" he murmured to Qui Gon. "We risk much in crossing the boundary. And we can only summon reinforcements once, before we are found and crushed."

"I am certain.' He almost stumbled as he clambered into the skiff himself, but he could not mute the connection; it was their guide and compass now, a Force given gift. He breathed out a long calming breath and steeled himself for the journey. He hesitated. "Imru," he called, waving the Unamtabi's only medic – a man who had completed a smattering of courses at the planetary university before the Collective takeover had decimated all centers of learning. "You should perhaps come."

The grey-haired Unamtabi nodded, and climbed aboard without a word.

The skiff thrummed out of the encampment, leaving a solemn sworl of dust in its wake.

The present moment. Focus in the present moment. Here, in their primitive shelter, in the dead of night, when absolute silence held sway over the world outside, and the temperature dropped to a damp chill, they were still awake. Headache stirred behind Qui Gon's temples, a whisper of fatigue even the Force could not entirely obliterate. Beside him, Obi Wan lay still, nerves strung tight as the chords of an exotic musical instrument.

"Master…?"

"Hm." Qui Gon shifted his weight to one side, cursing the slight stiffness in his back and limbs. Hands reached out, shoved roughly against him, as though to move an obstacle. "What is it?"

"…Going to be sick," Obi Wan gritted out, still trying to push Qui Gon away.

The Force brought a shallow basin flying across the close space just as the tall Jedi rolled out of harms' reach. A moment later, Obi Wan made good on his promise, purging the meager contents of his belly. When he had finished, he collapsed in an untidy sprawl across the entire sleep mattress, usurping its whole width.

Qui Gon exited the urkk, discreetly emptied the bowl of its vile liquid mess, found a secluded place to relieve himself. When he returned to the circle of the encampment, a dark figure lingered outside the entry flap to the round tent. His hand went to his saber hilt instinctively – until he recognized the Unamtabi chieftain.

"Master Jedi," the elder spoke in a hushed tone, the beads of his rank clinking gently with his small movements. He smelled of the campfire's aromatic wood. "Your craft-son: does he sleep yet?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

The chieftain's head dipped, a peculiar gesture of his people. "My people owe him much. I am the shaman of my tribe: our spirit-paths are open to true friends of the Umantabi. Perhaps you will consent to let me chant the healing prayers over him?"

Qui Gon hesitated. Diplomatic courtesy demanded that he accept; surely the shamanic practices were harmless. But Obi Wan would be appalled, possibly horrified. He could be somewhat rigid in his adherence to Jedi doctrine about the Force and the metaphysical structure of the universe. Which neatly settled the question in Qui Gon's mind. They would not offend their hosts on account of narrow horizons.

The chieftain followed him inside the shelter, and lit a soft lantern which he set in the center of the packed-earth floor.

"Obi Wan." The Jedi master waited until his apprentice squinted up at him, tired confusion leaking across their bond. "The chieftain wishes to extend their traditional healing ceremony to you. We have accepted this offer."

His Padawan's brows rose in mute appeal, but Qui Gon merely raised one finger, signaling silence and his expectation of absolute obedience.

The chieftain began the sacred chants, summoning the totemic spirits of the Unamtabi to the young Jedi's aid. Obi Wan endured the ceremony meekly, eyes trained on Qui Gon, breath slow and controlled. At last, the tribe elder painted several healing sigils upon the young Jedi's chest with a mixture of mud and ground pigment, and then withdrew, murmuring a traditional blessing as he exited backward through the tent-flap.

"That wasn't so bad," Qui Gon smiled, when the chief's footfalls had faded into the night again.

"How long till the ship arrives?" Obi Wan asked in a hoarse whisper.

"A few more hours. You must not center on the length of our wait. Focus on the present moment instead."

But it was the past that pulled him back into its embrace.

Focus on the moment. That is what Qui Gon would say. Only the moment. And in this moment, there was no pain. There was rest and peace. And the evil voices, intruding upon his blissful few seconds of respite.

"We can make the pain stop any time, sweetheart. All you have to do is talk."

Talk? They wanted him to talk? He was far past talking: he was screaming, visceral howls ripping savagely past his parched and bloody throat until he was certain his voice must be spattered like gore against the cold, unhearing walls of this tiny chamber. No Jedi in history had ever shamed himself, his master, his training, the entire Order so loudly and vocally….and yet these people were too deaf to hear it.

"Hit him again," the other voice ordered.. "Level seven."

And once again the world contracted into an everlasting river of fire, in which bone and sinew, skin and nerve erupted into a million points of driving agony, in which his writhing body was submerged until there was no difference between self and pain, and he was crying out to the Force for mercy and release and an end to the tearing, burning, exploding, crushing, melting-

He ran out of breath.

So he sucked in another one, and the inhalation was a broken moan, nothing but wind swirling in the gutted caves of his lungs. At first – eternal hours ago – he had thought he might pass out. But they told him that the drug would prevent that from ever happening, that he was chained to awareness like a wild beast in a gladiatorial arena, doomed to suffer every excruciating moment until death claimed him.

There was a pause – not true relief, he knew, merely another lull between the waves of assault. The hovering black droid checked his vitals. Too exhausted to resist, he closed his eyes and counted the blessed seconds in which there was not pain.

"Where are they?" the second voice demanded. "You know their location. Just give it to us and this can be over."

What chozzski. The information they wanted was laying bare to anyone who might look. His mental shields had long since fallen, crumbled to ephemeral dust with his dignity. Any Force-sensitive who bothered to prod at the tattered remnants of his mind would find the desired secret starkly uncovered, near the topmost layers of consciousness. "Take it," he grunted, wearily.

"What?" That was the female. "What do you mean take it?"

The situation was funny, from a certain point of view. They had already achieved their victory, but were unaware of it. Because they didn't feel the realm of luminous spirit, they were stuck with nothing but gross matter – that was the only thing that stood between them and the knowledge they wanted. The one thing that only became more turgid and rigorous with the application of pain. The mind…that could break, or be bent. But the body? That could only be damaged, and then killed. The secret was there for the taking…and yet they hadn't the power to reach out and grasp it.

"What in the hells is he laughing about?" the deeper voice complained, an edge of malice staining the Force black around its trembling edges.

His chuckle transformed to a guttural yell as the pain returned in full measure, slamming into his core like an invisible fist, shredding coherent thought to fluttering shreds, ashes dancing in an angry furnace, a conflagration in his very marrow, in his boiling, seething blood. The Force churned around him, within him, but it did nothing to save him from the torment.

His heart pounded frantically in the aftermath. A fresh drenching of cold sweat coated his shaking limbs.

"You kriffing Jedi filth," the cruel voice muttered.

Filth? Why was it always filth? The Jedi weren't filthy, as a rule. Admittedly, he was a bit filthy at this moment – covered in every imaginable body fluid – but that wasn't by personal choice or habit. The hovering droid poked and prodded at him, readjusted something. It burbled out a string of electronic speech, a report on his condition. They had promised that he would not be allowed to die, either, not until they were finished. The assurance was scant consolation for his present discomfort.

The woman's hand patted him on the cheek. "You're making this difficult for yourself," she cooed. Then, in a brusque tone, "Get another dose of serum. I think we need to push a little harder."

It took a minute, or maybe two, for them to fuss over the arrangements. He watched, idly, as the ceiling spun lazily overhead. The menacing globular droid whirred about the small space, this clean and sterile prison in which the price of a single piece of information was infinite suffering, a bargaining table like no other in the galaxy. And to think that before now, he had prided himself on his budding skill as a negotiator…

A detached thought, floating in the disjointed Force: he hoped there wasn't a level eight.

That had been a terrible night, one yoking the two Jedi together in a synchrony of pain.

The building was situated in a deep gorge, protected from the elements and aerial surveiilance by the overhand of the surrounding cliffs, and by rainforest growth overhead. They waited here for the militia to join them, precious minutes slipping away one after another.

Qui Gon clutched at the trunk of a yabanna tree to support himself. He felt sick, his body rebelling against the prolonged sharing of experience, the lack of shields so vital to a Force-user's sanity.

"Oh, Obi Wan," he muttered. How many hours had it been? Every second of delay twisted at his heart, squeezed breath out of his lungs. The Unamtabi's battle lust was growing in intensity around them; their sheer awe at his miraculous discovery of the secret base a palpable disturbance in the Force. They thought him a powerful sorcerer, an avatar sent by the guardian spirits of their clan. He only knew that the Force could not have provided a more cruel means of leading him to this sheltered spot.

He rested his forehead against the tree's bark, as the pain behind his temples peaked into a desperate howl, a pressure that set his teeth to chattering. He barely noticed the arrival of their allies. "I'm coming," he promised his Padawan. "Hold on."

The Unamtabi and the liberation army surged forward, a hurricane breaking on a fortress built of sand. Anger and vengeance stained the Force, swelled around him in mighty waves. He let himself be carried on the tide, his heart calling just as savagely as the war-cries issuing from his companions's throats.

Now, he lay quiet.

In the small hours of the morning, it began to rain. The pattering of cold droplets against the tanned hide walls drummed a soothing melody, almost drowning out the painful rhythm of Obi Wan's breathing, each exhalation a cautious and barely audible moan.

The blink and chime of his comlink seemed startlingly out of place. Qui Gon thumbed the device into life. "Jinn."

It was BenToLi, the Temple's senior healer. "Master Jinn," he said, his voice garbled through the planet's outdated transceiver equipment. "I am in transit to your location. We should arrive within three standard hours. Has there been a change of circumstances?"

He turned his head to take in his apprentice's shadow-cast profile. "No," he answered tightly. "Your speed is much appreciated."

Bento Li's silvery voice was kind. "We are making all due haste, Qui Gon. May the Force be with you."

There was some consolation in the fact that Yoda had seen fit to send Temple healers directly. "Ben To and his Padawan are on the way," he told Obi Wan. "It won't be long."

"Yes, master." The words game out in an exhausted garble.

There were good reasons why a Jedi master did not take a Padawan at a very young age. It was far too easy and natural to form a deep attachment to a small child; much safer to delay such intimate teaching relationships until a later age, when the student was closer to maturity, less helpless, less appealing to the protective instincts which drowned out reason…less evocative of parental love. Detachment was essential, was primary. Otherwise, how could any of them do their duty?

Qui Gon drew in a deep, steadying breath, willing himself away from the brink of tantalizing sleep for the hundredth time that night.

"Master…"

He laid still, ignoring the forbidden tug at his heartstrings. His Padawan was for all intents and purposes an adult. They were Jedi. He folded his hands atop his chest, deliberately interlacing the fingers. How many times had he learned this lesson, and yet not learned it? How could he teach this hard lesson to his apprentice when he could not learn it himself?

Another pitiful noise, a muffled sound of distress.

Qui Gon steeled himself against his own foolish impulses…for one more minute. Then he rolled over, reached around his apprentice's shoulders and pulled the young man against his own chest, laying one calloused hand on the back of the Padawan's head, where the short nerftail curled, gritty with dried sweat. He pretended not to notice the slackening of tense muscles, the soft sigh which melted into silent, cathartic shudders, the damp warmth which eventually crept through the cloth of his tunics.

They were Jedi. And he, Qui Gon, should know better. Compassion was one thing; attachment another, much more dangerous one.

He tightened his grip.

And rain gently fell, both inside and outside the sheltering circle of the urkk.

Then, there had been no kindness, no mercy.

Obi Wan flinched when the woman laid her hand against his face again. "The droid doesn't think we should try level eight. But I think you Jedi can take a licking better than anyone in the galaxy. And you're pretty stubborn, aren't you, sweetheart?"

It would be terribly unbecoming to tell her to kriff off. And besides, there was very little hope of her doing so…not when they had so obviously had the upper hand. He forced himself to draw in deep calming breaths, gathering the thin, unraveling Force around himself, a gossamer-fine, fragile armor against the inevitable.

It was much worse than he anticipated. In the first timeless moment, the agony was so intense that he felt nothing. And then, between shocked lurches of his heart, he was screaming again – as though he would expel his very soul from his body by the power of breath and voice, rend it from its delicate moorings and set it free. His spine was a saber blade, melting the tissue around it; his blood was acid, his muscles razored chains contracting about his crumbling bones. He gasped and screamed, and screamed some more. Lights and alarms were sounding, too, in electronic empathy, in a chorus of protest. The deeper voice was shouting something about not killing him.

It stopped. He could have sobbed aloud with relief, if he were not sobbing aloud already.

"Okay. Now. Do you want that to happen again?"

Dear sweet Force, no. "No." His voice was a croaking whisper. He tasted iron at the back of his throat, swallowed with difficulty.

The woman leaned closer. "That's good. You're finally talking. That earns you thirty seconds."

He enjoyed them, savoring each breath, pride forgotten. Oh, Force…

"Keep talking, and you can prevent that from happening again. Understand?"

"Yes." His mutinous stomach rebelled, but there was nothing left in it to vomit. He moaned through the painful dry heaves.

Her hand stroked his belly in a slow, mesmerizing circle. "I'll make it easier for you. Little questions at first. How old are you? That's harmless. You can tell me that."

No pain. No pain. It was a small, meaningless question. "Eighteen standard."

She kept stroking, soothing. "Oh, you're just a baby. What's your name, hm?"

Hesitance. Did that count as a betrayal? He couldn't tell…the Force was confused, muddied and impure with echoes of pain. Should he answer that one?

"Time's running out. Two minutes, if you tell me your name. What is it, sweetheart?"

He shrugged, feeling the perspiration slide between his bare back and the hard table. Surely his name was not so very important. Nobody depended on it but him. "Obi Wan."

"Obi Wan." It sounded vile coming out of her mouth. "That has a nice ring to it. You're a Jedi, isn't that right? A peace keeper? You came here to ensure peace."

That sounded right….there was no secret in that. "Yes." He could feel his nervous system aching for oblivion, for the slow slide into blackness…but the drug was there, blocking his descent, dangling his overworked nerves on the end of a thin leash. He moaned. Anything to simply….sleep. Pass out. Cease to feel.

The slap across his face was almost refreshing, so uncomplicated and external. He blinked in surprise.

"Pay attention," the woman hissed. "You're answering questions, remember? Unless you want some more pain first?"

"No."

His flesh crawled as her hand made its way down his chest, fingers caressing damp skin. "Good. One more question: where are the Unamtabi resistance leaders hiding?"

The Force held its breath. Or maybe that was him. The problem with that last question – the real difficulty, not a simple one – was that it wasn't his to answer. Oh, he knew the answer, certainly. But he also knew what these people wanted with it. At least, he was fairly sure."Why do you want to know?" he rasped out.

One finger dallied along his collarbone, sweeping hypnotically side to side. "We 're going to send them emergency supplies – food, medical equipment, survival gear."

The Force said otherwise. "Liar."

She seized his chin, fingers digging in hard. "Tell me anyway," she threatened. "Tell me, Obi Wan, or you will suffer. On and on and on. Until you decide to tell me. Is that what you want?"

"No."

"Tell me. Where can we find them? You have ten seconds."

Eight, seven…he had to admit : he was afraid. Fear leads to anger, to hate, to suffering….five, four…. But that was his fate anyway….three, two…He was pathetic. A true Jedi would not feel fear at this moment. He was such a disgrace. One. Nothing.

"Well?" her voice was a shriek of rage and frustration. "Tell me." Fear. Fear. Fear.

He closed his eyes. "…No."

And fear blossomed into suffering, without waiting for the intervening steps. Pain gnawed a bloody, gaping hole through his belly, crawled up his melting spine, chewed ragged gashes into his chest, his neck, his head, his shrivelling, contorted limbs, the fingers clawing futilely against the cold metal beneath him, the very hair on his head alight with indescribable fury. Screaming was no longer enough; his mind fractured into disjointed shards, grasping at the wild straws of his sanity. He felt his consciousness split, come apart at some ethereal seam: there was his self, here on one hand, and then there was the Force, luminous and undefiled. And the location of the Umantabi, he saw, was sheltered deep within the Force. His individuality melted, smeared and buckled, a writhing clot of blood and sinew and nerve, a tiny dense speck of matter floating in the Light…and the foolish Collective police hammered away at this mortal, fleeting shell, reducing it to a trembling and pathetic pulp, while the Light stood resolute, inviolate, boundless and pure, untouched and untouchable. The fools understood nothing…they had been utterly confounded before they even began….it was a great joke played upon them by the Force itself, and there was nothing he could do but laugh with fierce joy at it, laugh and scream and cry all at once, on and on and on, just as the evil woman had said.

Qui Gon felt every moment of it, stumbling along in the wake of the Unamtabi's reckless charge down the embankment and into the Collective stronghold.

The Unamtabi and the planetary security forces made short work of the secret Party headquarters, storming the fortress and slaying all those who stood in their way, releasing the scores of political prisoners held within. Qui Gon restrained the violence as best he could…but as he strode down the lower level corridors, seeking his Padawan, he could not escape the scattering of bodies, the carnage wrought upon the foes of the people. His mouth thinned. All around him, the raid seethed and surged, a long-overdue backlash against oppression taking its bloody toll.

He found the door and wrenched it off its hinges with the Force.

Two humanoids – and a gleaming black droid – and Obi Wan. The Unamtabi's screams of rage drowned out the young Jedi's cries of pain and mocking laughter as they pushed past, seized the secret police in hard hands, hustled them out. Qui Gon's saber severed the air, carved through the evil droid, sent it shattering into the opposite wall.

He leaned over his apprentice, breath choking off at the spectacle of cruelty splayed out on the hard metal table before him.

"Obi Wan." His Padawan's desperate laughter – hysterics, if the Jedi master chose to be honest – subsided into shuddering sobs. His breath sounded like a death rattle in his chest.

"Master…I'm sorry, master…"

"Hush." He carefully removed the pulse-nodes from the young Jedi's temples, wiped blood off his face with one sleeve. Manacles next; they were strong, seamless. Qui Gon's seething outrage bled into the Force. The bands cracked apart.

Obi Wan turned his face away, barely registering his freedom. "I'm sorry…."

The tall man put a hand against his shoulder to steady him. The Unamtabi were busy in the corridor beyond. He found that he no longer cared what they did with their two captives.. "Imru," he barked. 'Help me with him."

The tribe's half-trained medic worked with strong, deft fingers, unpacking a few supplies from his small, portable kit. Qui Gon laid a broad hand on his apprentice's cheek, feeling the soft roughness of infant stubble beneath his fingers. Shame washed through the Force between them, weeping out of Obi Wan in a steady lament.

"Hush, Padawan," Qui Gon soothed him, his thumb finding the cleft in the young man's chin, giving it an affectionate nudge.

"I…I'm sorry master. I- I was weak. I disgraced you."

"You didn't tell them anything, Obi Wan," Qui Gon reassured him, " The Unamtabi are safe. The planetary security forces are arresting the Party leaders as we speak. Hush. Breathe. The Force."

Imru cleaned most the nauseating filth away, wiping off blood and layers of dried sweat and dirt, sticky sick-grime, bodily waste. He frowned over the intravenous set-up, extracted the needle, peeled away monitors and electrodes. There were deep nerve probes inserted everywhere….many in tender places. Obi Wan shouted hoarsely as some of them were removed.

Qui Gon shrugged out of his cloak and wrapped it around his apprentice's violently shaking frame. "Listen to me, Obi Wan." He pressed a hand against the furrowed forehead. "Relax. It's over."

Imru shook his head. "He's heavily drugged. He won't be able to sleep or rest until he purges the serum. It's their favorite interrogation technique, damn them."

Anger swelled and was released. Qui Gon steadied his hands. A Jedi knows not revenge. This was over. Relax. He heeded his own words.

Obi Wan seemed intent on confessing imagined shortcomings, teeth chattering as shock seized hold of him. "Master…I was weak. I screamed. I wanted it to end. I was afraid. I've failed you."

"That's terrible," Qui Gon dead-panned, too wise to bother arguing in this time and place. "Now relax. Trust me. …After all, I need you fully recovered before I can punish you properly."

Imru was appalled, misunderstanding the exchange. But he said nothing, only warily repacked his bag. The others stirred impatiently. Obi Wan stared up at him, blinking in confusion, a tiny flare of humor sparking in his bloodshot eyes before he groaned, curling in on himself.

"Master Jinn- we should go." Sounds of battle still raged above and around them.

"Obi Wan. We're leaving now. Easy." He lifted his nearly full-grown Padawan off the dull grey slab of metal, bundled him tight against his chest with a small grunt of effort. They were both getting older…too old for this sort of thing, he reflected with a wry twist of the mouth. He ignored the strangled noise of pain which the motion elicited from his ailing apprentice "Let's go."

It was over now.

Just before dawn, Qui Gon woke from a deep and clinging slumber. His back ached, and his arm had gone numb beneath the weight of his Padawan's head, still resting against one shoulder. He shifted away gingerly, careful not to disturb his sleeping apprentice, and rolled to his feet with a stifled curse.

Outside, wild life stirred in the forest around the encampment. The Unamtabi fire was cold ash, utterly quelled by the night's downpour. He helped himself to water from the communal barrel, and strode away to the clearing near the outskirts of the tribal territory. As though waiting for his signal, the Republic ship at long last appeared high in the pale grey sky, a tiny speck gradually resolving into the welcome silhouette of a light shuttle, which set down at one edge of the wide clearing.

Ben To Li was accompanied by Parr Acel, his Graan apprentice. The healers hurried forward to greet Qui Gon.

They spoke little as they strode back into the Unamtabi camp. By that time, some of the clan members were stirring, the women preparing food over smaller fires, dirty children staring at the procession of Jedi as they passed. On another occasion, Qui Gon would have summoned a gentle smile for them. Now, he merely hurried ahead, leading the way into the urrk which had been the site of their endless night vigil.

Ben To was a healer of many decades' experience. Parr stood watchfully at his side as he stripped away the blankets and examined his patient. Obi Wan slept like the dead, limp and unprotesting as the silver-haired healer cautiously felt over his limbs and torso.

"Sweet Force," Ben To muttered. He glanced up at Qui Gon. "What were they using?"

The tall man scowled. "Nerve probes, electropulsors, drugs…I don't know what else. They had an interrogation droid."

Ben To placed a hand on the Padawan's face. "Obi Wan," he said. "Obi Wan Kenobi."

The young Jedi's eyelids fluttered, but there was little other response.

Parr Acel stirred uncomfortably. The senior healer glanced at him, silver eyebrows beetling together. "I've seen worse, Parr," he assured the uncertain Graan. "These drugs all work the same. This is the metabolic crash – he'll be out for days, likely enough. But that's probably for the best – he's not a good patient at the best of times."

Qui Gon released a long breath, shifted his weight.

"We need to take him back to Coruscant. I'll place him in a deep healing trance for the journey. Parr, get the ship ready."

The Graan bowed and hurried away, his three eyestalks flexing sadly as he exited, brown robe flapping behind him in the cool morning air.

When he had gone, Ben To laid a hand on Qui Gon's arm. "He will recover, Master Jinn. The Force is strong with him. You must not fret."

Qui Gon smiled bitterly. "He thinks he is weak and a disgrace."

"And whose fault is that?" the healer snapped. "Come. You will have to carry him."

The Unamtabi stood in silent salute and witness as they left, Ben To in the lead and Qui Gon behind, carrying his Padawan wrapped in a thick blanket. Not even the curious younglings said a word. The wilderness itself seemed to bow its head in acknowledgement of the sacrifice made here such a short time ago, of the night's merciless trials.

Qui Gon shifted his heavy burden and ascended the boarding ramp behind the aging Jedi healer. When they had returned to Coruscant – when Obi Wan had recovered, when this nightmare had faded into memory – then he would be sure to speak to the young Jedi about his misconceptions. There was no limit to his apprentice's perfectionism, it would seem; but neither was their any limit to his courage. Qui Gon would not allow him to wallow in the delusion that he was somehow a failure because he felt pain or fear. They were creatures of flesh, not stone.

He recalled his own weakness in the harsh hours before dawn, when the endless vigil had exacted its worst punishment on his heart…and he decided that he did not regret his feelings.

Let others quibble over the proper interpretation of the Code. He had the Living Force…and his son.

The ramp closed behind them and the ship lifted off into the first bright glimmerings of the rising sun, the white star rising triumphant over the newly-scoured world, over the wreckage of a cruel tyranny, over the dusty circle of the Unamtabi encampment. For a few minutes, the shuttle was visible as a rising and dwindling shadow in the lightening heavens…and then it was gone, and the Jedi and their deeds nothing but a chorus in the tribe's songs, a memory sealed in chant over time. The sun rose higher, the wildlife stirred, and the Unamtabi looked out with hope upon their hard-won future.

FINIS