Chapter Text
Chapter Two: The Boy Who Was Loved
Not for the first time, Obi-Wan found himself staring listlessly at the wall, wondering what was going to happen now. He hadn’t felt like this since he was on the transport shuttle to the Agricorps when he was twelve. And suddenly he’d found himself in a much similar situation: Masterless, ripped away from the only life he’d known, and completely unsure of himself. Dully, Obi-Wan became aware of voices from outside the door of his room and was reminded of yet another enigma in his life: Jaster Mereel.
The man defied all expectations Obi-Wan had. He owed nothing to the ex-padawan, and yet, had never failed to visit him daily. Not only that, but Zephra had accidentally let slip the other day that he was also Mand’alor to the Haat Mando’ade, the true Mandalorians. As well as the fact that they both had recognized his braid and knew him to be a Jedi Padawan. Still, Jaster had never once pressed for information on the Jedi or even what he was doing in Mandalorian space. Jaster seemed perfectly content to let Obi-Wan reveal what he wished. Though he’d still gently ask how Obi-Wan had come to find himself dying on the forest floor, and every time, respected his wish to remain silent.
It wasn’t that Obi-Wan didn’t want to tell them, he simply couldn’t. It was like the words would get stuck somewhere deep down before they’d even made it to his throat. He couldn’t even move his mouth to formulate the words. It was as if something within him locked up and all he could do was clamp his mouth and turn his head away fighting the pressure that rose behind his eyes as he felt like a youngling again. And every time Jaster would place a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder, and every time Obi-Wan found he would subconsciously ground himself in the force based off the feeling of that hand on his shoulder. The force swam with warmth, protectiveness, and something fierce that Obi-Wan couldn’t name. Something he didn’t want to name. Yet. And for that he knew he was a coward, but just what scared him so much about it, he didn’t even know himself.
The voices outside the door grew quiet for a moment before a soft knock came from the door, a gentle warning before the door opened and admitted the now familiar Mand’alor. Jaster offered him a small smile before looking down at the small bowl of light, but filling, soup that sat untouched in front of Obi-Wan and furrowing his brow.
“You’ve barely touched your food,” Jaster said in lieu of greeting and Obi-Wan followed his gaze down to the bowl in front of him and idly picked up the spoon, completely unused to the mother-henning. The ‘I’m not hungry’ died before it reached the tip of his tongue and he opted to instead bring the spoon to his mouth to sip at the broth. Obi-Wan knew Jaster knew it was simply to placate him and suddenly the bits of vegetables and tubers floating about in the soup became much more interesting.
“I have some news that should make you feel a little bit better,” Jaster spoke, breaking Obi-Wan’s concentration. Tentatively, Obi-Wan looked up to see that Jaster had taken a seat in what Obi-Wan had secretly dubbed as Jaster’s chair. It was an uncomfortable looking thing, hard duraplast and sporting a shape that Obi-Wan seriously doubted was very accommodating for any spinal structure, much less human.
“Oh?” Obi-Wan wished he could sound more enthusiastic.
“Zephra says that you can leave tomorrow morning as long as you keep resting and don’t push yourself.”
Obi-Wan chewed on his lip thoughtfully and thought about what Jaster had said. Obi-Wan had to admit, being able to leave the medical ward did sound nice, but where would he go? He released his lip as another thought came to him. Where did he belong? Could he still belong to the temple? Would the temple even want him? Did it count as repudiation, what had happened in those woods?
He supposed that according to the laws of Mandalorian space he was a ward of Mandalore and her people until either he was adopted into a clan or his fate led him elsewhere. Moreso, if his studies on Mandalorian culture and laws were to be believed, Jaster, being the one who had found him, was in charge of helping him to find a place to call home and was bound to act as his Buir, his parent until that time came. But Obi-Wan knew he could never ask or expect that of the Mand’Alor himself.
What little appetite Obi-Wan had vanished as his thoughts grew heavy once more. He had so many questions but not the strength to ask any of them it seemed. Instead, he forced himself to be thankful and pulled his lips into what he hoped wasn’t a pained smile.
“Thank you.”
“I thought you might like that,” Jaster spoke encouragingly and when Obi-Wan looked over he found a thoughtful expression on his face. “I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of clearing out a room for you to stay in.”
Ahh, so he would be fostering him, Obi-Wan thought. Bitterly Obi-Wan wandered back to the idea of returning to the temple, and if he even wanted to. What awaited him if he did return? No master would want to take on a half-trained padawan with a spotted record. At this point, they’d probably return him to the Agricorps where he’d been picked up from. And truth be told, Obi-Wan was tired of striving for the impossibly high standards he’d never reach. Whereas here, the only things that faced him were adoption, the possibility of a late Verd’goten, and maybe even the acceptance his very soul seemed to crave. If he was lucky. But when had luck ever been on his side.
He’d always wanted to become a Jedi Knight, ever since his days in the creche. The idea of being a pinnacle of peace and beacon of light had seemed to be the very highest ideal of what a temple-raised force user should become. He’d fought tooth and claw, through his initiate days to his padawanship, telling himself every day it would be worth it. Because one day he would be a knight, one day he would be that perfect ideal. One day he would be able to help people. And that’s all he wanted, Obi-Wan realized. He wanted to help people.
There are other ways to help others, the force whispered in his ear and despite himself, he felt the storm within him settle, Obi-Wan could sense something settle within the force as well. Perhaps it was one of those shatter points that Master Windu always spoke about.
Obi-Wan realized then that Jaster had been watching him, gauging a reaction the whole time. Flushing with embarrassment, Obi-Wan nodded and looked back to the soup in front of him and brought a quick bite to his mouth. His stomach still protested the thought of solid food, but for Jaster, Obi-Wan supposed he could try. He attempted to hide the grimace that fought its way forward when he swallowed. He thought he’d been mostly successful until Jaster spoke,
“Are you still feeling nauseous when you eat?”
“A little,” Obi-Wan admitted quietly.
Jaster simply hummed before a look passed over his face as though he’d just remembered something. Obi-Wan watched as Jaster moved to pick up something he’d sat on the foot of Obi-Wan’s bed.
“I’ll have a word with Zephra about food unsettling you. Here, I thought you might like this in the meantime,” Jaster held something out to Obi-Wan and he tentatively took it. Upon further inspection, he was surprised to find it was a book. A real book. A hardcover bound flimsy book that bore the title, “ Cin’Mando and Other Tales Written Into the Stars ”.
“Thank you,” Obi-Wan whispered, and if Jaster heard the tenseness in his voice, well he said nothing about it.
“It’s nothing. Besides, between you and me,” Jaster leaned in, “I know the med ward can get pretty boring.” With a wink and a chuckle, he stood once more and reached out to place a familiar hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “I’m afraid that I must go for now, the job of Alor comes with no bank holidays I’m afraid, and there are people to placate. I’ll see you tomorrow for a jailbreak.” Obi-Wan felt the corners of his lips tug upwards the slightest bit at the jokes, and Jaster squeezed his shoulder lightly before leaving.
Opening the book, Obi-Wan froze when he saw the usually blank first page had two names written upon it, though the first had a neat straight line through it while the second was clear and unmarred. Freshly written. Jaster Mereel , and below it, Obi-Wan.
This wasn’t just any book, it was Jaster’s. And now it was his. The worn pages and flexible spine showed it had been read repeatedly over the span of its lifetime. This book was important to Jaster, important enough that he thought Obi-Wan should have it. And through that it became important to him as well, his most prized possessions now consisting of his lightsaber and a book.
Flipping through the table of contents and a dedication to the author’s distant niece, Obi-Wan settled on the epic of the Cin’Mando, or the White Mando if Obi-Wan recalled correctly. He soon found himself drawn into the stanzas and flowing words, lost in the redeeming quest and errant side-tasks.
The next day came soon enough, and a soft rapping at the door announced Jaster’s presence, followed shortly by Zephra, whose face looked somewhat pinched, something Obi-Wan could only attribute to the fact Jaster must’ve found some way of convincing her that he was fine to leave the medical ward. Not that Obi-Wan had any objections mind you.
Obi-Wan didn’t know what he’d do if he had to spend another day cooped up, even with the book Jaster had gifted him; then again he didn’t know what he’d do if he wasn’t in the med ward. Or anywhere really.
“Su’cuy,” Obi-Wan set the book aside.
“Su’cuy, Obi-Wan,” Jaster smiled, “I see you’ve been reading.”
“Cin’Mando,” Obi-Wan looked back to the book in his hands.
“A good one, though a bit drawn out for my tastes.” Zephra stepped beside Obi-Wan and began unattatching a lead from his wrist as he watched.
“I like the flow. It’s nice.” Obi-Wan wasn’t sure why he added the last part.
“What a nerd. You two will get on swimmingly.” Zephra turned to Jaster at this point, and stated in mando’a, “I’m still not happy about this. He needs to be supervised.”
“And he will be. I’ll be there.” Jaster said resolutely. “Vaabir gar jorhaa'ir mando'a?”(Do you speak mando’a) The last part was directed at Obi-Wan.
He was unsure of how he was to answer, they had obviously switched to mando’a in order to keep their conversation private, but Obi-Wan had understood a few words here and there, though their speech was too fast for him to confidently keep up. Words like “not happy”, and something about someone being there had crossed his understanding.
“A little.” Obi-Wan choose to be honest.
“Good, it can be easier to build or improve upon what is there rather than start from scratch sometimes.” Obi-Wan nodded at Jaster’s words.
“Now it’s my turn.” Zephra jumped in. “If you do anything, anything, stupid, I will bring you back from whatever plain you decide to march onward to and send you back myself. And you,” she turned on Jaster, “if you let him even lift a finger I swear, Mand’Alor or not, I’ll have your shebs. I’ll be back with your discharge forms,” with that she swept out of the room.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell her if you lift your finger. But only this high,” Jaster gestured to chest height and Obi-Wan let out a sharp breathy chuckle before flinched as his chest twinged.
“Sorry, I suppose I’ll have to keep the jokes to a minimum.” Jaster was quick to apologize.
“No, please. I- I like them.” Obi-Wan admitted.
“At least someone does. My ad, he hates them. ‘Buir Humor’, he calls it.” Obi-Wan recalled Jaster’s son at the prompt, Jango. He was about ten years older if he recalled right. A familiar feeling of apprehension settled over Obi-Wan at the thought of meeting Jango. He knew it was inevitable, but still. He deliberately let the train of thought drift off into the force where he could examine it later.
“How does your ankle feel?” Jaster turned his attention to inspecting the brace that held his foot in place for healing.
“It’s sore sometimes.” Obi-Wan absolutely would not tell him it ached deeply and near constantly, even now. Besides, it was easy to ignore, there were more pressing injuries to deal with.
“Have you tried walking on it yet?” Jaster questioned.
“Only a bit. Just to use the fresher.” Obi-Wan explained, and even then he’d been helped to and from bed by Zephra or another healer.
“It should be better in a few days. We’ll keep up the bacta injections.” Jaster nodded.
“Sorry to ruin any plotting, I’m back with the work up,” Zephra entered the room with several data pads balanced in her arms.
“First things first, an injury aftercare treatment plan, by yours truly.” Jaster took the offered data pad, scrolling through it as she continued, “next up, a list of meds, and when to take them. The last one’s only for if you absolutely cannot stand the pain. And I don’t want you taking too many. Got it? I’ll only prescribe the four capsules. And then here, discharge forms. I’ll need you to sign these first,” she handed the last set of datapads to Obi-Wan pointing to a line on the screen. He hastily scribbled his signature on both of them before Zephra took them back and offered them to Jaster, “and I’ll need yours under his, seeing as you’ll be looking after him.”
After all was said and done, Jaster turned to Obi-Wan, “I can carry your book for you if you’d like.”
“No thank you,” Obi-Wan declined the offer, finding himself reluctant to let go of one of the few possessions he had, no matter how un-Jedi of him it might be.
“Okay,” Jaster answered, and somehow, Obi-Wan got the sense that it was. “I hope you’’ll at least let me help you out of here. I’m not letting you put any weight on that ankle for at least another day.” Obi-Wan nodded, though somewhat reluctantly, and biting back the ‘I’m fine’, he let himself be helped to a hover chair.
Jaster’s living quarters were much like the man himself, practical, humble, and welcoming. The force around the space hung comfortingly over them, the memory of simple joys, contentment, care, and comfort. Jaster helped Obi-Wan onto the couch before muttering something about being back in a moment.
Looking over Obi-Wan spotted a holo on the armchair next to him. Upon further inspection, Obi-Wan noticed two figures captured in the frozen picture, one he recognized to be Jaster though younger than he appeared now, and a younger boy perhaps around his own age. Obi-Wan reasoned it must be Jaster’s son, Jango.
“That’s an old holo, Jango’s been trying to get me to change it out for ages,” Jaster sat down a steaming mug of shig next to Obi-Wan and picked up the holo, “but I like it. He was about your age in this photo.” Jaster smiled, pointing at Jango’s face.
“How old is he?” Obi-Wan wondered aloud.
“Twenty-two. Grown and off doing his own thing,” a look of wistfulness passed over Jaster’s face, “He’s a bounty hunter. A damn good one too, if I may say so myself. He’s due back on Manda’yaim soon.”
Obi-Wan only nodded in response. His stomach flipped at the idea of imposing of what was clearly a very close family unit, even if it was just two people. Vaguely Obi-Wan wondered if Jango was biologically Jaster’s own or if he’d been a foundling too. There was little resemblance between Jaster and Jango in the holo, aside from both their dark eyes and equally dark hair. Looking at Jaster’s face as he looked over the holo Obi-Wan found himself reminded of the look some of the other masters in the temple got in their eyes when speaking of their padawans. It was a look Obi-Wan could only dream of being directed at him. Had dreamed of, before.
“Thank you,” Obi-Wan made himself aware once again that Jaster owed him nothing and yet had been nothing but good to him and he didn’t want Jaster to think him ungrateful. Qui-Gon had reminded him countless times to be thankful for what he had, and more to the point that it wasn’t deserved. He had been lucky to have a master at all and to be a padawan at the temple.
Jaster only smiled at Obi-Wan and set the holo back down. “Perhaps I’ll have to upload a new holo onto this old thing soon.” A hint of something hung in Jaster’s voice. He pressed the warm cup of shig into Obi-Wan’s hands. “I’ll be at the table if you need anything.” Obi-Wan already knew he wouldn’t be disturbing Jaster for anything, but he nodded nonetheless. “Let me know the second you feel you are in pain and I’ll bring your medication over.” Part of Obi-Wan wanted to quip ‘when have I ever not been in pain?’ but decided against it, only nodding again.
After Jaster had left, Obi-Wan reached for his waistband where he’d tucked his book and flipped through the pages to where he’d left off before, hesitantly taking a sip from the mug in his hands, somewhat surprised to find it just as comforting as the book. Jaster seemed to have that effect.
Obi-Wan woke with a strangled gasp he quickly regretted as his chest protested in response. He couldn’t help but curl in on himself, if only to escape the pain.
“Easy, easy. Here,” Obi-Wan could only hear Jaster through the fog, his vision swimming. He’d underestimated how much the constant IV drip of medication had been helping in the med ward. He felt Jaster pull him upright. “Take this, it’s your medication.” Obi-Wan took the offered pills and gratefully accepted the water that was pressed to his lips. Slowly, Obi-Wan managed to catch his breath as the pain abated away.
“Are you alright?” Jaster tilted Obi-Wan’s chin upward from where it had fallen and inspected his face.
“Hurt-” was all Obi-Wan could say much to his own chagrin.
“Yeah,” Jaster let out a huffed laugh, “you’ll have that.” Again Obi-Wan found himself thankful that Jaster seemed to know how to diffuse the tension. Without meaning to, Obi-Wan felt himself fall forward into Jaster, his head coming to rest on the Mandalorian’s shoulder. Jaster brought his arm up around Obi-Wan as he spoke, “Maybe next time, let’s not fall asleep sitting up, eh?”
“Didn’t mean to,” Obi-Wan mumbled.
“I know.” Jaster’s hand brushed through Obi-Wan’s overgrown hair.
“M’sorry.” Obi-Wan moved to push himself up.
“For what?” Jaster helped Obi-Wan up. Obi-Wan stopped at the question. What was he sorry for? Falling into Jaster? Disturbing him with his pain? Being in pain? Burdening Jaster? The entire situation? Jaster seeming to sense Obi-Wan’s racing thoughts gently placed a hand on Obi-Wan’s cheek, guiding him to look him in the eyes. “Never apologize for existing.”
Obi-Wan wanted to argue that there were a million and one things he could do or be better at that would lessen the perceived burden of his existence in that very room alone, but the tone of voice Jaster used stopped him. Maybe, just maybe, here in these quarters, he could simply exist . Simply be. It was something Obi-Wan had never done before. Something he didn’t know how to do.
Jaster said nothing else, simply helping Obi-Wan up and over to the table, where he placed a bowl of stew in front of him before sitting down himself to eat.
It was like this that they fell into a pattern for a few days, Obi-Wan resting on the couch sipping at the mug or shig while reading or simply meditating while Jaster (who Obi-Wan realized with a twinge of guilt had moved his workload from his office to the dining table) sat going over the day’s work. Sometimes Obi-Wan would find his eyes drifting close against his will as he sat, though this time he remembered to situate himself so that he could lie down lest he repeat what happened last time, and he always woke with a blanket tucked carefully around him. And other times, once Jaster had finished his work, he would come and sit down across from Obi-Wan and read quietly beside him. Sometimes he would ask Obi-Wan what he thought about Cin’Mando and Other Tales Written Into the Stars. It wasn’t for four days that Obi-Wan’s luck would strike again.
It started as it usually did, with a nightmare. Obi-Wan was running through a forest. His side ached and the dryness of his mouth stung. But no matter how fast he ran or how hard he put one foot in front of the other he seemed to be stuck in place like he was stuck on a treadmill.
Looking up, Obi-Wan found himself suddenly in a stone corridor, a Mandalorian ahead of him. And just as suddenly, he was the Mandalorian. Turning to glance back to where he’d been before he saw a boy, no older than ten, with wild sandy blonde hair reaching for him. The ground began to crumble beneath his feet and Obi-Wan rushed to get the boy and himself to safety. The boy’s face contorted into a scream as the floor beneath gave way and a horrible red and black creature with blazing eyes stood just where the boy had been. Obi-Wan could feel the massacre in the force. Endless screams surrounded him as he fell, and just before he hit the ground he watched the creature raise a saber victoriously, only this saber was unlike any Obi-Wan had seen before. Instead of light, pure and radiant, it cut a black line across the air, devouring the light around it, like the black holes Obi-Wan had studied.
Obi-Wan shot up awake just as he hit the ground in his dream. A strangled gasp escaped him as he fell back onto his bed, his chest screaming at him. Force, it hurt. Hurt like the knife was being driven in all over again. Reaching over, Obi-Wan ran his hand along the night table until it hit the bottle of pills there, it was a low dosage, the type usually found in med kits and first aid packages. Taking two, Obi-Wan worked to slow his breathing. The last thing he wanted to do was disturb Jaster this early in the morning. Obi-Wan could manage.
The images from his nightmare flashed before his mind’s eye, the strange saber, the creature, who Obi-Wan now realized had been a Zabarak, and the boy. He was important, Obi-Wan knew that much. But he’d never seen him before. The force was trying to tell him something, he was sure of it.
Quietly, Obi-Wan sat up and slid out of bed, hissing as he accidentally put too much pressure on his ankle. He’d been cleared to walk on it, but it always ached something terrible whenever he first walked on it in the mornings. Hobbling out of his room, Obi-Wan made his way to his spot on the sofa, pulling the blanket draped over the arm around himself. Reaching out through the force Obi-Wan relaxed at the steady warmth coming from the direction of Jaster’s bedroom. Picking up his book, he moved on from the epoch of the White Mandalorian to the tale of Creéde and Mobhe, (A/N: Follows the Gaelic pronunciation of bh when followed by a slender vowel, said: Moe-veh,) two twins born from the first splash of a waterfall into a lake a millennia ago. It was based on an old Stewjoni tale it seemed, though Obi-Wan was slightly disappointed to see that Mobhe’s name was the only one to remain close to the native language of Stewjon while Creéde’s name sounded as though it had passed through some Twi’leki during the translation process.
Lost in the story, Obi-Wan was unaware of how much time had passed, only noting the golden rays of the morning sun brightening the words. It was a few minutes later that he heard rustling from down the hall before Jaster appeared. For a split moment of sheer terror Obi-Wan was afraid for a moment he may have offended Jaster’s hospitality by being out of bed so early, as it was usually Jaster who woke him up in the morning reminding him to take his medication. The thought left as quickly as it came, however as the warmth in Jaster’s force presence showed no signs of wavering. Obi-Wan made a mental note to himself to remember to take his prescribed medication before he got too distracted.
Obi-Wan sighed softly, an act which he immediately regretted as something in his chest pulled painfully. Grunting under his breath, Obi-Wan shifted in his seat. Weird, his breathing had been better the past couple of days and he could almost take a full deep breath just yesterday, there was no reason he could think of why it should hurt to breathe now. Obi-Wan decided to test the waters and inhaled deeply, hoping what had happened earlier had been a fluke, a stiff muscle from sleeping wrong. Too late.
Obi-Wan’s eyes burned with tears as pain tore through his chest, the breath he’d taken coming out all at once in a gasp.
“Alright?” Jaster’s voice came from behind Obi-Wan.
“Yeah,” Obi-Wan ground out. “Sat in the same position for too long.” Obi-Wan wasn’t sure why he lied, but something in him desperately did not want Jaster to know the pain was back. He’d just take some medicine and it would all be better.
“Have you been up long?” Jaster came around with two mugs, setting one down in front of Obi-Wan before sitting in the armchair across from Obi-Wan.
“Couldn’t sleep.” Obi-Wan looked out the window.
“Bad dream.” It wasn’t a question. Obi-Wan looked over to Jaster and stopped at the all too familiar haunted look on the older man’s face as he stared into his own cup.
“Yeah,” Obi-Wan admitted, looking into his own cup, wondering vaguely if it perhaps held the answers that Jaster must be looking for in his own drink.
“Good thing we don’t have to be strong all the time. That’s what aliit is for.” Jaster seemed to have found his answers first, Obi-Wan mused.
Family. There was something in the way Jaster said the word that sounded like a promise, and Obi-Wan wasn’t sure how to feel about it.
“I was running. And I couldn’t escape.” Obi-Wan admitted, and somehow the two sentences summed up his dream perfectly, for even in the end he hadn’t been able to escape.
“So stop running.” Jaster’s soft voice cut through the haze of Obi-Wan’s thoughts. Obi-Wan looked up and met his unwavering gaze. Maybe Jaster’s mug did have all the answers hidden somewhere in the dark depths of his shig.
Furrowing his brow, Obi-Wan looked back down into his mug. Could he stop running? What was he running from? Perhaps he could meditate on it later.
“Hey,” Obi-Wan looked up when Jaster placed a hand on his shoulder, “Stop running.”
Obi-Wan found as gazed up into Jaster’s fierce gaze that he wanted nothing more than to stop running. Sensing that Obi-Wan needed time with his thoughts, Jaster stepped away and went about preparing himself for the day ahead. Just as Obi-Wan was preparing to settle into a meditation, planning on thinking about what Jaster had told him that morning, the pain in his chest returned.
Biting back tears, Obi-Wan managed his way over to the counter space where the prescription bottles sat and pushed them around looking for the ones he was supposed to take in the morning. Spilling two into his hand, Obi-Wan tossed them into his mouth as he filled a cup with water and drank it, taking time to splash his face.
“Are you feeling all right, Obi-Wan?” Jaster appeared next to Obi-Wan again as he leaned over the sink.
“Yeah. I’m alright.” Obi-Wan nodded.
“I’ve got a meeting I’m afraid I have to attend. I should be out by this afternoon, but you know, politics.” Jaster cracked a smile and Obi-Wan nodded understanding and knowing full well that when is came to politics, what could often be resolved in a half-hour would be made to go on for days at a time. “You’ll be alright alone, won’t you?” There was something nagging at Jaster, and he took the time to take a good look at Obi-Wan. Was he supposed to be this pale? Jaster didn’t know.
“Yes. You don’t have to worry about me.” Obi-Wan looked away. He was used to looking after himself after all.
“It’s my job.” Jaster squeezed his shoulder once more before leaving.
Guilt curled in Obi-Wan’s gut, hurting almost worse than his chest. A job. He was always someone’s job. Someone's burden, someone’s pain. Some sick part of him vaguely wondered if his mother had even struggled with giving her son up to the Jedi. Obi-Wan wished Jaster would hurry up and find someone to adopt him, he was already getting far too attached to spite himself.
Obi-Wan sunk back onto the couch and pulled his knees up under him, picking up his book where he’d left off, absently praying the pain would go away.
It didn’t. As the day wore on, the pain tightened across his chest, almost choking him. Distantly, Obi-Wan rubbed at his throat before attempting to clear it. He furrowed his brow at the wetness in the back of his throat before returning to his book, though it didn’t take long before the words in front of him began to swim. Between his chest and the now developing headache he was forced to set his book aside.
Remembering the pain medication on the table next to his bed, Obi-Wan stood to go and retrieve it, stumbling slightly over his ankle. The room around him began to swirl as the pain in his chest tightened like a vice around him. As he made it into his room he vaguely heard the sound of the main door opening and someone coming in. Jaster must be back, Obi-Wan thought.
Without warning, his ankle gave out beneath him and Obi-Wan had hit the ground before he could catch himself. Instantly his chest burned like a thousand infernos and it felt as though a grown Wookie was sitting on his chest. Fear shot through Obi-Wan as he began to cough and the acrid and too familiar taste of blood began to fill his mouth. Something was wrong.
“Jaster.” The word came out a garbled whisper amidst blood choking him. “Jaster!” Obi-Wan managed only a little louder this time. His chest hurt. He was in the forest. He was in his room. The two melded together in some twisted form as forest-room as the ground beneath him switched between dirt and leaves and soft warm woven carpet. And like that Obi-Wan’s awareness came back to him. The pain burning through him worked to clear his mind as blood filled his mouth, the goal of the pain meds just out of reach. Unable to help himself, he began to cry. The tears spilled freely down his face and clogged his nose, leaving Obi-Wan to cough and heave desperately for air.
Obi-Wan!” Someone was calling for him.
When Jaster had first come in, worn and weary from the hours spent arguing, he’d heard the thump that came from the direction of Obi-Wan’s room. He’d stopped where he stood, debating with himself whether or not to go and check up on the boy or simply leave him to his privacy. Obi-Wan wan’t and ik’aad after all, Jaster forced himself to remember. Just as he’d settled his nerves and resolved to let Obi-Wan be, he’d heard the barest hint of his name, so quiet that if he’d not been standing so still he would’ve missed it. Something was wrong, he could feel it in his soul.
He barely had the time to register Obi-Wan lying on the floor before he was on the floor too pulling him up and into his arms, the teen immediately clutching at him. Jaster rushed to look over Obi-Wan, seeking the cause of his suffering. He was dismayed to see the blood around Obi-Wan’s mouth. Hastily scooping him up, Jaster rushed from the quarters, not stopping at the surprised shouts as he flew through the halls. Sobbing, it was all Obi-Wan could do to cling to Jaster in desperation.
“Hold on, just hold on.” He found himself muttering under his breath, not knowing whether he was talking to himself. Nearly tripping over an unsuspecting mando upon entering the medical ward, Jaster called out, “Zephrea! Zephra!”
Said Mandalorian came around the corner and what happened next could only be described as a flurry. Hurriedly guiding Jaster over to a nearby bed, she managed to convince him to release Obi-Wan, or more accurately pry Obi-Wan from where he’d latched himself onto Jaster.
Lost in the pain, Obi-Wan fought to remain where he was but soon found himself lying down. Jaster’s managed to hold his arm still enough for Zephra to administer the iv. Still crying, Obi-Wan reached for Jaster, who wasted no time in taking Obi-Wan’s hand. Reaching over, Zephra placed an oxygen mask over Obi-Wan’s face. As the cocktail of drugs began to take effect and the fog of pain gave way to sheer exhaustion, Obi-Wan never lost sight of Jaster’s face, pinched and pale with concern before sleep overtook him.
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Of all the things Jango had expected upon returning from his hunt and finally landing on Manda’yaim again, it most certainly was not to find himself throwing himself against a nearby wall to avoid his own Buir rushing past, something clutched desperately in his arms. Not something, Jango realized, someone. Pushing himself off the wall he took off after his Buir, confusion and curiosity overcoming him.