"Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given to me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God."

-Excerpt from the Hippocratic Oath

Anakin is not a healer. Not officially. But out here, everyone is a healer, if not by profession than by necessity. With the situation what it is, you treat your comrades yourself if you can, because there simply aren't enough healers to treat all those in need—not when the Republic army is spread so thin across the galaxy. When it comes right down to it, you learn to heal, or it's quite possible that those around you won't live long enough to get the chance to heal at all.

But that doesn't make Anakin a real healer. He never took any sort of oath. He doesn't even know what the oath says. Something about doing no harm, maybe about accepting that he has the capacity to save or end a life. Certainly something about how to view that responsibility—about not trying to usurp the role of the Force in deciding who dies and who lives.

But he never took that oath.

And right now, he is just a young knight on a distant Outer Rim planet. He and Obi-Wan—they'd been trying to negotiate with a tribe of people there, as apparently that tribe's land had a large untapped reservoir containing an unrefined base element common in high quality fuel—fuel that could be used in starfighters… and Force knows the Jedi could use a resource like that.

It hadn't been going badly, though it hadn't been going particularly well either. Obi-Wan did what he always did: talked his way into people's good graces with a stream of polite, cultured words and reasonable good sense, and really just the impression that he was a man who could be trusted. Reasonable, well mannered, and trustworthy. People listened. They always did.

Didn't mean they always agreed, though.

In this case, there had been some resistance to Obi-Wan's requests. This planet was neutral and fairly out of the way of any major shipping lanes. They were doing their best to avoid any real part in—or effect from—the war. Giving the Republic what they asked for, no matter how logical it seemed or how attractive Obi-Wan made it sound, would mean aligning themselves blatantly with the Republic. Considering how the Separatists would be sure to view that—and the results that would come from their certain displeasure—it wasn't unreasonable for the tribe to be somewhat hesitant… or so Obi-Wan had said. Frankly, Anakin had just wanted to shove it down their throats so he could be done with the whole business and move on to more important things—or at least things that took him closer to Coruscant (and, by extension, Padme).

At least the tribe had bothered to hear them out… at first.

In a lot of ways, Anakin hadn't been able to blame them when they'd stopped. Plagues tended to do that. Combine that with the fact that they were a very religious people, and it became pretty easy to attribute the outbreak of sickness to the arrival of the outsiders. If not for the fact that their tribe had strict codes pertaining to hospitality, he and Obi-Wan would probably have found themselves turned out, wandering alone and without supplies… or slated for execution. That seemed to happen to them unsettlingly often.

Regardless, no one had listened after the plague broke out.

Particularly not Anakin.

Not when Obi-Wan got sick too.

As far as diseases went, it wasn't one of the more ugly ones. He'd figured out fairly quickly, though, that how it looked didn't much matter: the first night, Obi-Wan had just complained of a mild headache, and while that wasn't so uncommon—the man was stressed enough that headaches weren't unusual for him—Anakin had found himself wondering if it wasn't something more serious, given that many of the sick tribes-people had exhibited that symptom at the beginning of their illness. However, Obi-Wan had assured him he was quite all right and had gone to bed.

Anakin had been woken sometime in the night by the sound of him retching.

Everything had kind of gone insane after that.

Actually, he's not entirely sure what happened. At some point, Obi-Wan had started hallucinating, talking about things that didn't make any real sense. Then, apparently, sometime in the early hours of the morning—or so the tribal officer had told him while hastily shoving a bag of supplies into his arms—lights had seared the sky, and something had landed. A ship. But not with people. Droids.

It hadn't taken much figuring after that: it wasn't like Anakin hadn't already, at various points during the war, seen what happened when a location was leaked. He knew the signs, knew that, somehow, they'd been outmaneuvered again, which seemed so kriffing common these days. It was always happening, and it was certainly unsettling that he'd been able to say without much surprise that they'd been betrayed again.

Kriffing war. Kriffing life. Trust was—it just wasn't something he'd been feeling real high on at the moment.

Obviously, the Separatists had known where he and Obi-Wan had been sent—had somehow been tipped off—and had engaged in what was rapidly becoming a startling trend: biological warfare. Or maybe the plague had been natural. It was impossible to tell, and it hadn't particularly mattered at that moment: they'd still been vulnerable when the camp was ambushed, and all Anakin had been able to see was Obi-Wan's white face, bathed in sweat as he shook, really unable to get out of bed.

And getting worse.

"Go," the elder had told him, face pinched and eyes only half on him as he'd pushed some supplies into Anakin's arms. Every blast from outside, every scream had made him jerk, his body half turned, seemingly caught between saving Anakin and immediately running back to help his people. The decision had seemed to manifest physically, and he'd shifted his weight from foot to foot, almost spasmodically, as directions spilled out of his mouth.

There was a pathway. Take it. Go.

And take my son. He will guide you.

Anakin only remembers nodding, shoving the bag of supplies into the hand of the boy—he couldn't have been more than seventeen—and lunging for Obi-Wan. It hadn't been made easier by the fact that Obi-Wan had twisted against him, mumbling something that sounded vaguely like a denial. He didn't know where he was, and when Anakin had heaved him over his shoulders, knocking him out with some liberal use of the Force, his face had fallen against Anakin's arm. Even through Anakin's tunic—which was sufficiently thick, given the chilly nights of this planet—he'd been able to feel the heat radiating from Obi-Wan's head.

"Run," the man had said. And that was all he'd said, because the door to small hut they'd been given as a dwelling—a hut like most of the others that the tribe's people lived in—had smashed inward, and some droid's lucky shot found it's mark, straight through the man's heart.

The second bag he'd been reaching for had remained across the room.

Anakin hadn't been about to dive through a line of fire just to get it.

They'd run after that, tearing out into the night. Anakin hadn't been able to block shots—not with Obi-Wan on his back—and so he'd just shouted at the boy to run, to follow him. He'd really only been able to hope that he was obeyed, because if the boy had gotten lost in the melee, there would have been no finding him.

Apparently, though, the kid was fairly competent: he'd kept up as Anakin had gritted his teeth, bearing down into the Force as he'd rushed through the cross-pattern of shots and falling bodies. Screams had seared his ears. His back had burned from the weight. But he'd run, and he'd reached the woods—the cover of the trees. That had been the important thing. Cover hid them. And he'd needed cover.

The boy had still been at his heals, bag clutched to his chest. The way he'd looked when Anakin stopped for just that one minute, drawn almost irresistibly to take one last look at the village that was being destroyed because of Jedi presence—it had been eerie. His face had twisted, drawing all his features toward the center. He'd wanted to go back. That was obvious, but as far as Anakin had been able to tell, his assigned duty wasn't there. Not by Anakin's choice, of course: this culture took the protection of their guests very seriously, and it wasn't much of a surprise that they'd given one of their own to lead their guests to safety.

And so Anakin had kept running, eventually falling in behind the boy, letting him navigate the forest paths that he undoubtedly knew better. They'd kept at it for an hour or so, until Anakin's muscles had screamed in protest, and he'd had to take a quick break just so he could set Obi-Wan down. It wasn't that his master was a big man, but he was compact and well built, with enough muscle to make his fairly small size into a deceiving indicator of his weight: muscle did, after all, weigh more than fat.

They'd moved on quickly, though. Just kept going. An hour later, however, Anakin had almost reached his limit. The boy had even asked if he could carry Obi-Wan for a while. Anakin had let him, though he'd stayed closer to the boy then, often times even going so far as to reach out and clasp the back of Obi-Wan's tunic, holding on with slightly curled fingers. Trusting his master with another—even if it was only something as simple as letting the boy carry him—was not something that set well with him. He should be able to care for the people he loved all on his own.

An hour more after that. And then finally—finally—they'd reached their destination.

It had only been a trap door, hidden cleverly at the bottom of a dead—though still standing—and hollowed-out tree. No one would see it unless they looked directly into the opening of the trunk of the tree.

A store place, the boy had explained once he had set Obi-Wan down on the ground in favor of moving to pull up the door. Not used now. It was summer. It would be filled at the end of the growing season. A failsafe for winter, though unknown to all but the tribal elders. No one could steal from what they didn't know of.

They'd gone down into the storage area, Anakin lighting the way with his lightsaber. Once they'd descended down the surprisingly structurally sound ladder, he'd been able to see that, while the area wasn't overly large, it was certainly suitable. Given that six grown men could have lain down and fit comfortably in it, he hadn't been inclined to complain. He'd had far, far worse.

The boy had pulled a lamp out of the store pack at that point: his culture certainly had traditions that Anakin found somewhat primitive, but it seemed they'd embraced the use of some modern technology. Apparently, power packs and lamps were included, and he'd had to admit, he'd been thankful for that. He hadn't really been looking forward to having to use his lightsaber as a means to see. Blue light became a little hard on the eyes after a while.

Once the boy had lit the area, Anakin had carefully settled Obi-Wan down on the floor, removing a blanket from the sack and rolling Obi-Wan onto it. He had moved with no protest—not even stirring—and the pallor of his face had been worrying. Even his breathing… hadn't seemed quite right.

After a few moments, a movement at the corner of his vision had caught Anakin's eye, providing what was honestly a welcome relief from an analysis of Obi-Wan's condition. Though, the alternative he'd been given wasn't a promising one: he'd glanced up to find the boy kneading his head with one palm, his eyes squinted shut in discomfort.

"My head aches," the boy had told him.

And that brings him to now. That brings him to reality in a way so startling that he can no longer ignore it. In this moment, he knows: he is certainly no healer, and Force help him, because field experience or not, right now, they need someone who took that oath for real.

Anakin is not that person.

But there is no one around who is.

The boy collapses soon after he first feels the beginnings of a headache. The entire night thus far is a blur, but it finally seems to be slowing, narrowing, focusing in on this circumstance. Anakin isn't running anymore: everything has slowed to a crawl, drawing out one moment into the next, counted by the raspy breaths of the two men near him.

He's made them as comfortable as possible. The boy isn't at the stage Obi-Wan has hit—not yet—but in all probability it won't take long. It's a fast moving disease, attacking the lungs and stomach, at least from what Anakin can tell. That explains the raspy breathing and vomiting, anyway. Though, Obi-Wan seems to be past that. He's not under a sleep suggestion anymore, but he still lies unconscious on the blankets, shivering against a cold that's not in the air—and downright frustrating given the fever that's obviously controlling him—eyes moving restlessly under closed eyelids.

He's so pale. And so still. Obi-Wan is never like this. He's stronger than this. Anakin has seen him sleep many times before, and even in that state, he's not this still. Or maybe he is, but it's different. That, at least, is peaceful. Gripped by this illness, there's nothing peaceful about him: even unconscious, sweat beads over his skin, and when the dim light reflects off that sheen of moisture, he almost seems to glow, as though he can't control his energy. It's like his body is expending itself—and it is—even in unconsciousness.

The boy vomits. Over and over again, and maybe Anakin should help, but he just… can't. He should. He knows that. But Obi-Wan… is Obi-Wan, and it seems more important to stay beside him, using gentle application of the Force to ease him through the tremors that rack him. The boy is only vomiting, and Anakin is hardly his family—the boy would likely not welcome help that personal. Because vomiting is highly personal. It's easy to tell himself that. Too easy, really, and maybe that ease is what feeds the niggling voice whispering that he's only making excuses.

He doesn't want to go to the boy. Not when his master looks like this. And what is this? That… well, that's probably the crux of the whole thing. Dim light, dirty environment, sweaty? Torn clothes and a face that's not content but twists as much as it's able, fighting to stay alive?

In this moment, Obi-Wan looks like Anakin's mother did, right before she died.

That scene is imprinted in Anakin's mind in a way that surpasses classic permanence—it's something more, and simply because the concept is inexplicable doesn't negate it. Anakin would know. He lives with it every day, incessantly examining it, because how can he not when he lives in an Order that is so intent on annihilating the sort of attachment that makes him feel this way at all? They would say he should forgive himself… as if forgiveness is something you can offer on behalf of someone else. Sure, he can forgive himself, but what help is that when his mother—the person he wronged—is no longer alive? She is the one who has the right to extend forgiveness, because forgiveness is only good if it comes from the one who was harmed.

And she is no longer here to give him that absolution. What right, then, does he have to forgive himself for both what he's done and failed to do?

Sighing a little, he sits back in the dirt beside Obi-Wan's bed, and in a moment of impulse, he reaches out and brushes a piece of hair out of his master's face. The skin his fingers brush is clammy, and Obi-Wan doesn't stir.

Obi-Wan's eyes are closed now. Anakin's mothers weren't. If Obi-Wan dies, Anakin won't have to close his master's eyes like he did with his mother's. Should that be comforting? It's not. Somehow, that just makes Obi-Wan seem that much closer to the grave.

He has half a mind to shatter that lamp, just so the lighting won't look so much the same as it did in the Tusken camp.

Mom, Mom, I'm so sorry…

Off to the side, the boy vomits again, though Anakin can hardly comprehend how there's anything left in his stomach. Though, a quick glance confirms there's really not: just a noxious looking bile.

Anakin does look at him, then. Really looks—that is, in a way he hasn't taken care to do so far. The lamp doesn't give off much light, but it's better than the visibility he had back in the village. Blaster blots are not great to see by. They light things up for a moment, just long enough to show who's dying.

The boy is, as Anakin first thought, probably about seventeen. Three years younger than him, then. Not much. Like most of the tribal people, he's got violet eyes, rimmed with dark green around the lids. His skin is pale, though, and the shock of his shoulder-length dark hair makes it look even lighter. Beyond that, there's not much especially notable about him: he's perhaps two or so inches shorter than Anakin, not so powerfully built, and wearing the plain brown robes that are common to his people.

He's not exceptional, and maybe that's why his voice is so startling when he finally speaks.

"What did father put in the bag?"

Anakin jerks his gaze away from Obi-Wan, where it had inevitably strayed back to when it had left the boy. "What?"

"In the bag," he mutters weakly, still bent over the large rock Anakin had grabbed from outside, hollowed out quickly with his lightsaber, and given the boy as a place to throw up. Not pretty, but functional at least.

"The bag?" he echoes.

The boy just nods.

Huh. Anakin hadn't thought about that. He should have. Obi-Wan would have, if he'd been the one awake.

What Anakin would give for that to be the case.

But he's not awake, and so Anakin reaches out, fingers closing over the rough material of the bag as he drags it over toward him. It's fairly large, containing… well, not a lot, but as much as the man could stuff into it in the time he had. It's generous. It really is.

"What's in it?" the boy says again, though he's barely audible.

It's an effort not to sigh. What's in it? Force, this could be just another camping trip. Maybe initiate training. He'd gone with a group once, to some moon he can't remember the name of. They'd learned the names of plants, what was good to eat, what wasn't, but at the end of the day, they'd had food in the camp. It had been safe and easy, because ten-year-old children weren't ready to be in any real danger yet.

Obi-Wan hadn't chaperoned that trip, he remembers. In retrospect, it makes sense: Anakin, as a youngling, had a bit of tendency to cling. He'd just lost his mother, and he does have to admit, he'd been afraid to let Obi-Wan out of his sight. That really hadn't done many favors to his ability to make friends. That hadn't been important, though—not really, not in the bigger picture. He'd lost his mother. Obi-Wan… simply had not been negotiable.

He still isn't.

"Some food," he answers eventually.

Yes. Some sort of dried fruit. Some dried meat. Vegetables. Some sort of plant too. It looks edible, but he'll certainly show it to the boy before trying it. Obi-Wan is the one who is good at identifying plants. Anakin—he just never really had the patience to memorize the facts that would help him do that sort of thing.

"Water." Or, more specifically, a large jug that when shaken allows him to hear said water sloshing. The shift in weight that water causes when it moves is obvious in his hands. At least they won't die of thirst.

Why bother? They're more than capable of dying of something else.

There are also a few more blankets, and Anakin pulls those out without comment. The boy can see for himself. Even if he doesn't, they're not particularly interesting, but just gray in color like the one under Obi-Wan. At least they seem to be warm, though.

At the bottom there's one last item. It's small and cylindrical, and as far as Anakin can tell, unremarkable.

"What's this?" he asks, holding it up for the boy to see.

Weakly, the boy raises his eyes. It's a little disturbing to see how bloodshot they are, especially given how the color clashes with his purple irises. He probably even knows how awful he looks, because he doesn't hesitate to prop his head on his knee when he sits back, like he can't hold his own neck up. He actually might not be able to. It didn't take Obi-Wan long before he reached the point where he was too weak to get out of bed.

Miracles of all miracles, though, the boy smiles. It's sharp and toothy, but really genuinely pleased. Even the fatigue threatening to pull the corners of his mouth back down into a frown can't drag it away entirely.

"Medicine."

That's…

"What?"

The boy shrugs, lankly shoulders rising and falling into a heap of skin and bone. "This—what we have. It's an illness. Known to our tribe. Not common, but treatable." The words seem to take a lot out of him, and he leans back, breathing heavily.

Common? How can this be common? It's enough to prompt Anakin to drop the object back onto the crumpled pool of fabric that's the empty sack. "But I thought you believed Obi-Wan and I had brought this—"

"Yes. As I said, not common."

Okay, then. It would seem that the Separatists didn't unleash this illness, and that is nearly as frustrating, because if they had, at least it would have been something more than just dumb luck. Instead, the Separatists benefited from the timing of an illness, just as much as he and Obi-Wan were crippled by it. Oh, there was obviously still a source that told them a Jedi team had been dispatched, but they'd only—only, of course, is something of an understatement—initiated the attack. Not the illness.

"Then why were your people sick if you knew how to cure this?"

"Only effective… after unconscious."

Seriously? What kind of people develops a medicine that only cures after the sick have suffered?

Blinking slowly, Anakin bites his tongue quite literally. It's easier than talking, and the pain is something of a release. Better than his temper, at least.

"Punishment from our gods," the boy mutters. "Not heal too soon."

Right. They're being punished.

If he could, Anakin would hurl something at the wall, just to watch it smash. Of course, he doesn't have anything breakable on him, which is certainly a disappointment. Course, he probably doesn't need anything. His life is already breaking apart far better than anything could against a wall. Melodramatic? Oh, yes, but at this point, he's pretty sure he's got a right to be. Obi-Wan would be irritated, but if he wants to complain, he's more than welcome to get himself conscious and run off at the mouth all he wants. At this point, Anakin might even welcome a lecture, just because it would mean Obi-Wan is alive enough to talk.

"Fine," he grits out between clenched teeth. "How much of this do I need to inject a person with?"

"All."

Everything in the tube? Well, that makes sense. It's apparently dispensed in containers sized to the necessary dose. Of course, that means he must have missed something at the bottom of the bag.

"All right," he says, reaching out for the lump of bag on the ground. He grabs it by his fingertips and pulls it closer, leaving a trail in the dirt. Once he's got it in his lap, he carefully pulls back the sides again and dives his hand into it.

There's nothing there.

His touch turns more painstaking at that realization: he brushes his fingers back and forth, digging into the fabric and scraping at it until he can feel fibers slide up under his fingers. He can dig all he wants, though—there's nothing there.

They've only got one dose.

And two sick people.

Right. Okay. He can… he can do this. He has to, and so he sits back slowly, propping his arms behind him, letting them take the weight that suddenly feels far, far heavier than he ever remembers it being in actuality when he weighed himself. Dirt joins the fibers under his nails—not that it matters. For the moment, he's entirely taken with watching the boy, who suddenly seems so much younger, so much more vulnerable—so much more useless—now that Anakin knows he's going to have to make a choice.

"You have to be unconscious before I can administer it?" he asks the boy.

Thankfully, his anxious search for the medicine that simply isn't there doesn't seem to have been taken note of: the boy has leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. He must have simply assumed there would be a second dose.

Assumed. Never do that. Not in war.

The boy's finger's clench together, intertwining, though they slip against each other, slicked by sweat. "Yes," he mutters.

"Can I inject my friend any time?"

The boy nods again, just once.

Anakin swallows and looks away.

Anakin never took a Healer's Oath… but he did take an oath to obey the Jedi Code.

There is no emotion, there is peace.

There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.

There is no passion, there is serenity.

There is no chaos, there is harmony.

There is no death, there is the Force.

He has been taught to understand that, as a Jedi, he saves lives. Occasionally, he may even have to take some. A responsibility like that—it's not something to be taken lightly. The first time he ever killed, he knew that for sure. That power—it's not something he wants, not when he really stops to think about it.

But it's reality.

It helps that the people he's killed are almost always armed adversaries. They intend him the same amount of harm that he ends up inflicting upon them, and it's certainly easier to feel less guilt when the person he kills has been eyeing his death like someone dying of thirst eyes water. It's really almost self-defense in most cases.

But this is different. This is a boy. This is Obi-Wan. Just a child and his master. Neither of them are armed, both are innocent, and the cruel truth is, he has to choose whom he saves.

He has to choose whom he essentially kills.

And that's not even what really scares him. If that were the case, he might be comforted, but as he leans back against the wall of the room, one hand trailing down the blanket covering Obi-Wan's shoulder, tucking it closer around his master, he finds that comfort has fled him entirely. His hands are shaking, and his chest feels tight, though not in the way of sickness. He doesn't get sick easily—frankly he doubts he even can get sick without being directly poisoned. All the times he's been ill, it's been because of something like that: he doesn't just catch colds or flues like a normal person. His Midicholorian count—it's simply that high. High enough to keep him from getting sick, and high enough to heal him fairly quickly in the few instances when he does.

"I was never in any danger at all," he murmurs, glancing down in Obi-Wan's direction.

His master's face has flushed sometime in the last hour or so. The blotchy quality of the redness is somewhat disturbing, and Anakin would very much like to rub it off, like anyone would do if there were something on his own face. It doesn't look natural on Obi-Wan's skin anyway—it looks like it could come off.

There is no response to Anakin's words from the boy across the room, and, in part, that was almost what Anakin was checking for by saying something like that. Almost. Part of it was… just a desire to have that statement pass his lips and soak into the walls of their room. It's not like it will stick—words don't—but this room feels like a grave, and it just seems right to imagine words like that buried here forever.

Because while this room isn't a grave yet? It will become one in the next few hours.

It's inevitable, no matter what Anakin chooses.

The boy is unconscious now. It's about two hours after they sequestered themselves down here, and he's already slipping away. About a day, and he'll reach a coma-like state. Anakin saw that in the village. He knows… and he wishes he didn't.

More than that, he knows the same is true of Obi-Wan. It might take longer because of his high Midichlorian count, but it will still happen.

Everyone dies eventually, Anakin, his master would tell him. Even the stars go out.

Looking back over at Obi-Wan, he frankly half expects him to sit up, those words tripping from his dry, cracked lips. Fever will do that—dry your lips out, that is. It doesn't cause hallucinations—or the expectation of them—for those who have to watch a sick one suffer, though. At least, Anakin doesn't think it should. Still, if he expects Obi-Wan to sit up and start talking, he certainly is expecting a hallucination: Obi-Wan is too ill to do that in reality.

It's a silly thought, he chides himself, shaking his head and pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose in frustration. He only expects to see Obi-Wan do something like that because he wants to see it so badly. He's not really going insane.

Everyone dies eventually, Anakin, and what right do you have to decide when that time comes? Death is the will of the Force. You can't play at being the Force's will.

Obi-Wan doesn't say any of that, though. Not this time. Instead, he just remains on his back, chest rising and falling. He's dreaming too—every so often, his face will contort into a grimace, and his lips will crush in against each other, as though they're trying to meld together and hold in the tiny groans that sometimes follow. It's all a product of feverish dreams, but the last one—a few minutes ago—had Anakin at his side, cupping his master's face and trying to talk him through it.

The heat of his skin had radiated into Anakin's hands. He'd rubbed them in the dirt after that, just to get that heat off.

That had been when the boy had finally slipped into unconsciousness—at least seemingly. Anakin just hadn't confirmed it until now.

And what to do with that confirmation?

When he slips forward to kneel in front of the boy, it's essentially out of obligation. He doesn't want to leave Obi-Wan's side—against every Jedi ideal and the Code he swore to, yes, he knows—but he owes the boy this, and so he crawls across the room, boots scraping in the dirt, until he's kneeling before the boy.

"I'm sorry," he says, and that's all.

The boy opens his eyes.

Sharp violet. Kind of like violent. Is he—is he bleeding? His eyes? They look like… but they slip closed before Anakin can truly look. That's okay. Better, actually. He could have sworn they were screaming "murderer" at him.

"I didn't, you know," he says to no one. "It was justice. They killed my mother."

This time, the boy does nothing. His head has lolled to the side, resting on his shoulder on a cushion of dark hair. Looking closely—and he tries not to—Anakin could almost swear that hair moves like shadows in the dim light. But it's only just a trick of the light.

Either way, it's disturbing, and Anakin moves back away from the boy. He's too close to the shadows as it is—he doesn't need to find them in someone else.

"Ready, Master?" he asks as he slips back over to Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan, predictably, doesn't answer, though he does moan slightly in his sleep when Anakin reaches a hand under his head, lifting his body up and slipping in behind him. Settling against the wall, he rests Obi-Wan's back against his chest, and reaches for the small tube that he set aside on the crumpled sack.

It's not that he needs to hold Obi-Wan to do this, but the closeness is comforting. He needs to feel this, rules on attachment aside (and when has he really ever followed those anyway?), because it has to be worth something. It—what he's doing—has to mean something, and if he can feel Obi-Wan every step of the way, then it's the right decision. The weight of his master against him reminds him of just what he's saving.

This is the beautiful part. The opportunity to save a life.

The boy on the other side of the room—it's the opposite. He is the dreaded situation—the one where a life as to be taken.

Has to be taken? No, it's a choice. You're choosing to let him die so you can save Obi-Wan.

Though, it was never a choice. Someone has to die.

And there was never any question about whom Anakin had to choose.

That isn't the part that brings the ache, though. Not really. Truthfully, it doesn't scare him that he's killing someone. What's really, truly terrifying is that he never had to make this choice. There was never any deliberation: choosing Obi-Wan's life was instinct, and so was sacrificing the life of a boy in order to do that.

It—that killing—was just part of him, never a conscious decision. This is him.

He is a killer.

"I'm the Force's Chosen One," he murmurs to Obi-Wan as his fingers scrabble against the cap of the hypo. He pulls it off with little resistance. "I am the will of the Force. And it's my will that you live."

What I will the Force wills. I'm not playing at being the will of the Force. I just am.

The lamplight dances on the walls. How is it dancing? It's not a flame. It's a power cell. It's not even flickering. But the light dances. It is dancing.

Hypo uncapped, Anakin presses it to his master's neck. "You'll feel better soon," he promises.

Why? Because I say so?

Because I am the will of the Force.

Guilt pulls him down. An hour or so ago, he'd lowered the hatch on the storage pit, then had taken his lightsaber and hacked down the remnants of the tree above it, letting it fall, broken, over the door. He'd closed the hatch up and left it as what it had already unofficially become: a grave.

He's carried Obi-Wan since then, trying to get to higher ground where he might better be able to get a signal on his comlink. Just a little higher maybe, because the trees are getting shorter, and the ground is getting steeper. Maybe then… maybe then.

I'm sorry.

"I'm not sorry," he whispers, clinging more tightly to Obi-Wan as he grunts, clenching his jaw as he scrapes at his reserves, trying to rally strength. He's exhausted, shaking, the sweat pouring off him. Conscience seems to be smashing him from the inside of his skull, trying desperately to escape, so intense that it's almost physical.

He didn't have to think about whether or not to kill that boy.

It was so easy… and that, more than the death itself, gnaws at his mind.

"Worth it," he grunts.

"I know, Anakin."

The shock is enough to send him to his knees. He goes, not willingly, but without a fight, and dirt and small pebbles grind into his knees as he hits the earth. Somehow, he manages to ease Obi-Wan off his shoulders to the ground in front of him before he falls.

No one spoke. It is only his overtired mind, desperately wishing that the voice he thought he heard—Obi-Wan's—was real. Obi-Wan's not awake, though. Not so blotchy and red anymore, but still feverish—it hasn't broken yet—as becomes obvious when Anakin leans forward, burying his head against Obi-Wan's side. Help. I didn't want to kill him. He clenches his hands, grinding them into the ground as he gasps for breath, choking on something that is not a sob, though admittedly very like it.

Help. Help.

But no one is coming. Force, help him. No one is coming.

"We've got to keep going, Master," he says, pulling back away from Obi-Wan and reaching out with shaking hands. Obi-Wan doesn't answer, doesn't even stir when Anakin moves to pick him up again.

You killed me to save him…

Violet, violent eyes. Red.

Anakin groans, long and low. The thought of that boy leaning against the wall, head rolling to the side—it makes him sick. The boy had trusted that Anakin had enough medicine. He'd gone to sleep—fallen unconscious—thinking he'd wake back up. And Anakin had let him think that—had waited until he was no longer conscious, simply because giving the only medicine they had to Obi-Wan while the boy was watching—it seemed worse, like making him watch his own death.

You killed me just the same.

"I did," Anakin gasps. "I did, I know."

But he can't forget those eyes, and the thought of what they would have looked like if they'd known they were never going to wake up—it makes him physically sick, to the point where he leans over and vomits. It's more like he's vomiting guilt than the contents of his stomach.

Guilty over a lack of initial guilt.

But now just guilty.

He's hardly finished before he's reaching for Obi-Wan again. "We need to keep going."

You may be climbing up, but your life is spiraling down.

"I didn't have a choice," he bites out as he keeps walking.

He gets a signal about half an hour later. It's enough to send out a distress call. They'll have help now. Someone will come for them. All he has to do is make Obi-Wan comfortable as they wait.

His master seems better, though. His fever is less pronounced, at least to the point where his cheeks don't seem like fire turned to flesh. More comfortingly, though he doesn't wake, his dreams seem less disturbed: he's not grimacing like he was.

"You'll forgive me, won't you, Master?"

Obi-Wan would have wanted Anakin to give the boy the medicine. There's no doubt about that. But Obi-Wan—he has never understood, not Anakin, not what Anakin is, not anything beyond duty and what a Jedi is, never anything more important, because Anakin isn't sure Obi-Wan has ever wanted anything more important. Not in the sense that it sets his blood boiling with need and tints the inside of his mouth with fear that tastes metallic. Obi-Wan wouldn't. That would be to fear that thing's loss, and a Jedi doesn't do that.

You killed me because you needed him.

The sky has, at some point, shifted colors: the blue has run out of it, leaving a tainted violet behind. How strange. He hadn't read about that in his briefing on this planet, but then again, he hadn't read all of his briefing anyway. He usually doesn't. Obi-Wan does that sort of thing—reads the minute details about a planet—and then he shares that information with Anakin if they find themselves in a situation where that knowledge is pertinent.

You killed me because you need him.

His guilt is insistent. It will be heard, and Anakin has to turn away from Obi-Wan as he talks back to it. His master doesn't need this.

"I did."

You need people.

"Yes. But not many."

You need enough. And you killed me to save him.

It's true. He does need. Everyone needs something. Purple is a needy color.

Anakin lays back then, stretching against the dirt, staring up at the sky. Purple. Violet. And red. There is red there. He can feel a bit of laughter bubbling up in his chest, and he lets it spill out, rolling into the air. Obi-Wan would laugh with him, if he were awake. He laughed last night anyway, when he was feverish and seeing things Anakin didn't.

What's that smell? It smells like sickness. Did Obi-Wan wake again, perhaps while Anakin was laughing? Rolling over, Anakin props himself up on an elbow, gaze shooting over to his master, but Obi-Wan is where he left him, his prone form motionless in the dirt.

Anakin lies back down. It's nothing. He'd rather look up at the sky, because help is coming. He'll count the stars in the meantime. There are just so many…

Would you kill him, like you killed me? To save your wife?

He stops counting. The sunlight is simply too bright. "I love them both."

Which more?

"I wouldn't kill him like I killed you. I couldn't look him in the face before I did it."

You looked me in the face, but I never knew you were killing me. That's certainly as cowardly.

"Maybe. But you don't matter as much."

Does he matter as much as your wife?

"He matters the same. Just differently."

What would it take?

Anakin feels himself frowning. There's a rock under his back that is bothering him, and he digs his fingers down to get it, pulling it out and tossing it down the incline. He hears it bounce at first, and then nothing. It either stopped moving or went too far for him to follow its noise.

Would anything make you kill him?

"If he was no longer worth killing for. If he abandoned me."

And your wife?

"I need them both."

Would you kill him for her?

"I don't… know."

A stalemate. You'd let them both die? Choose, like you chose for me.

"I'd save her."

Oh?

"Her love is more sure. He's a father, even if he'll never admit it, but she admits she's my wife. If I have to choose between the two of them, I need to hear that—that I'm loved. And his loyalty will never be to me more than to the Jedi."

Selfish, don't you think? Saving based on whom you need more—on who makes you feel more needed?

"If you had to choose between the two people you cared for most—if you loved them both—wouldn't you choose the one you were sure would never leave you? Better than sacrificing one to save the other when he might abandon you after he found out what you did. If that happened, you'd still be alone just as surely as if both of them were dead."

You'd destroy yourself killing him, you know.

"If I ever have reason to kill him, I assume my world will have already been destroyed anyway."

And when you killed me, do you think it was another step toward the end?

"Everything is going toward an end. All that matters is how quickly it comes, and if everything ends well."

No one pities an old man who dies in his sleep—not if he lived a good, long life. They only pity the young, or those whose death is painful.

They only hate those who have caused harm during their lives and who have died unredeemed.

He's tired of talking. Instead, he rolls over on his stomach, scooting a little closer to Obi-Wan. He'll just lie here with him, face down, and maybe close his eyes. A nap won't hurt. He can feel Obi-Wan breathing—he can keep an eye on him like this. If anything happens, he'll wake. He'll wake, and they'll be rescued, and the sky will be blue again.

Most importantly, he won't have to weigh life in light of a restrictive code that accepts death as nothing more than a final embrace.

There is no death, there is the Force.

Anakin swore to honor that code. Can he truly honor the Jedi without honoring that oath as well? Because he is a Jedi… and he has just chosen death to save a life—to stop a loss. He is a Jedi who cannot uphold his own code.

But he is the will of the Force, and how can he leave such things to the Force alone when they mean so much? Release them? No.

He cannot…

He cannot release those he loves to death, to the Force, to anything but himself…

"Anakin?"

There is a hand on his forehead. It's cool, though not uncomfortably so, and Anakin leans into it, murmuring something under his breath. It's not as though he really wants to wake up at the moment. In fact, he's rather enjoying lying on whatever this soft surface is. It's not as though he gets a lot of comfort in a war zone.

"Anakin, I know you're awake."

It doesn't take him much work to figure out whom that voice belongs to. There are really only two people who ever wake him up, and Padme is a lot more… well, gentle about it. She's kind of soothing in how she does it, smoothing a hand up his arm and into his hair, stroking at it gently and coaxing him back into awareness.

The hand on his head is gentle, but it's more comforting, and certainly not Padme. Of course, that means there's really only one other option. Force help him, did he get a concussion again? Obi-Wan's only ever this nice about waking him up after he's been injured. He's certainly not this courteous when Anakin simply oversleeps and finds himself late for whatever early appointments he has that day. Then it's more along the lines of having the sheets yanked off him.

"Please tell me you impaled the guy who hit me," he mutters, eyes still resolutely squeezed shut.

No, seriously—that guy better be in some kind of discomfort too, because Anakin certainly is. Are his limbs supposed to feel like they've all turned to rubber?

Obi-Wan's hand drops from Anakin's forehead to his shoulder as he chuckles. The sound is nice, sort of like a throwback to good times, and Anakin feels himself smile at the noise. He can't be too injured if Obi-Wan is laughing.

Either that or he got himself injured in a really stupid way.

"You've been sick, Anakin. Don't you remember? Though, after hauling me halfway up a mountain while in the process of succumbing to the illness yourself, I'm not surprised you don't remember. You're body was entirely overtaxed. Dehydrated. Exhausted. And disease-ridden."

"I am not disease-ridden." That just makes him sound like some sort of mangy animal—like the kind Obi-Wan complains that Qui-Gon used to drag home to nurse back to health.

Obi-Wan laughs again. If Anakin were to open his eyes, he'd probably be met with one of those half smiles that light Obi-Wan's eyes more than they curve his mouth. "You were. I'm pleased to say that you've received an antidote and are doing substantially better."

Antidote? Yes, because he was sick. There's something in his mind about that, but it's kind of jumbled, and that's enough to prompt him to finally open his eyes. Like he figured, Obi-Wan is smiling, perched in a chair next to his bed in the healer's ward, one hand still on Anakin's shoulder.

"Problems?" Obi-Wan asks, eyes smirking where his mouth does not.

Anakin waves him off and fights back a scowl. "Just… give me a second."

"One."

"Not funny."

He does remember something. It's just—it's foggy. Raking a hand up over the crown of his head and through his surprisingly clean hair—they must have washed it while he was asleep—he lets the pillows behind him take his weight as he rummages through his own mind, looking for answers.

He and Obi-Wan had been sent to negotiate… or, rather, Obi-Wan had been sent to negotiate. Anakin had been along in case the negotiations turned aggressive. It had been going okay, right?

"We ever get anything solved?" he asks Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan shrugs. "Somewhat. Of course, what we got accomplished probably won't matter now that the tribe we were negotiating with has been, for all intents and purposes, wiped out or scattered. Either way, when the survivors regroup, I suspect they'll be more than happy to sell us their resources. They'll need the money to rebuild."

In other words, they've gotten what they want, but Obi-Wan's clearly not pleased by how. He only ever frowns like that when he's very displeased… and a little sad. Obi-Wan did get to know some of the tribesmen, if Anakin remembers correctly, and it's certainly never pleasant to know that people you were talking with just days before are dead now.

"They all got sick. You got sick."

It all comes surging back then. Every bit of memory Anakin didn't want to remember comes rushing to the forefront all at once. Or most of it—what he was thinking at the time is a bit unclear, especially toward the end—what happened on the mountain escapes him almost altogether. But he remembers the essentials. Obi-Wan was sick. The village was attacked. The boy. They ran. Not enough medicine.

Suddenly, he feels sick all over again.

"Obi-Wan…"

Obviously sensing the tension in Anakin's voice, Obi-Wan leans forward a little more until he's bent over the bed. The hand on Anakin's shoulder tightens momentarily and then loosens again in something of a gesture of reassurance. "Yes?"

"I—there was a boy. The tribal elder. When he sent us away, he sent his son with us."

Obi-Wan's eyes darken. They were blue-green a moment ago, but now they seem to fade to something more gray. He knows. He knows what's coming. "Anakin, there was no boy with us when we were rescued," he says a little hesitantly.

"He didn't make it. He… died." And I killed him. Maybe not directly, but I chose his death.

"I thought—the healers said you gave me something. Didn't you give it to him as well?"

Lie. It's all he can do. Because Obi-Wan can't know that Anakin chose based on attachment. "The antidote only kicked in once you were unconscious. You were already unconscious, so I did what he told me and gave you a dose. But there wasn't anymore in the bag. I didn't-" He pauses, voice breaking. "There was nothing I could have done."

It's true. He could not have conceivably done anything differently. Not with who he is and what he needs. There was another choice, but he simply wasn't capable of making it.

Obi-Wan's face relaxes into an expression of sadness. "You watched him die?"

"I didn't—I won't—I'd rather not talk about this."

That's one thing Obi-Wan usually honors. Since Anakin was knighted, he leaves well enough alone. It's likely that he'd prefer Anakin to come to him on his own, and Anakin does know that, but in cases like this—it's just not something he can do.

"All right," Obi-Wan says, nodding curtly and leaning back away from the bed. His lips purse as though he'd like to say more, but nothing further comes. It's a few seconds before he speaks again. "Did you even know you were sick?"

That's not quite a pleasant topic, but it is at least one that he'd like an answer to. "No. I don't… usually get sick. You know that."

"Yes," Obi-Wan agrees, folding his hands in front of him, "unless you're directly poisoned."

"Was I?"

"Yes."

"But the boy—he'd said the tribe had seen this before."

Again, Obi-Wan nods. "Yes, they would have. You recall the drink they served us when the illness began breaking out?" When Anakin nods shortly, he continues, "It's a drink they only serve when illness strikes their village, and only illness of certain symptoms. Apparently, they believe that drinking it summons their gods."

"What symptoms?"

"Vomiting, usually. As it turns out, someone probably just had a common flu. However, they had them consume this drink, though not before the flu had already spread. Then, when others began presenting symptoms, they were also given the same treatment."

"So… the poison was in the drink?"

"Exactly. They only got the water for this drink from a particular stream… one that was near the natural resources used in making fuel. The runoff from those resources contaminated the stream. It was, essentially, poison. However, because they only used water from that stream when making this ceremonial drink, they had no reason to suspect."

"Because the people were already sick when given the drink. They just thought it was an illness getting worse—not a poison all its own."

Obi-Wan sighs and looks down at his folded hands. "Exactly."

Of course that would happen. Muttering obscenities, Anakin leans further back into his pillows, staring blankly up at the ceiling. He has the strangest urge—actually, not that strange for him—to throw things. "Then how were they curing the sick?"

"They had submitted blood samples from the sick to a facility on their planet. All they wanted was a cure. The tribe never asked anyone to come investigate how they were harmed in the first place, and so no one did. I presume that they assumed the tribe knew what had caused the problem."

"And why did it only work after the victim had fallen unconscious?"

That draws a low, bitter laugh out of Obi-Wan. Shaking his head, he runs his hand over his beard, regarding Anakin with half-lidded eyes and displeasure. "It would have worked before. They simply believed it was a requirement to suffer. That because their gods were punishing them with an illness, they had to wait."

"So the boy knew I could have cured you earlier?"

Obi-Wan shrugs. "I doubt it. Probably no one but the elder tribesmen knew that."

With any luck, those men died. All of them. Such stupidity—Anakin can hardly fathom it. It makes his gut roll with disgust, and he can even feel a flush rising on his face. Obi-Wan could have been cured sooner. It didn't all have to happen like it did. If Obi-Wan had been well, together they might have both been able to get the boy help.

None of this had to happen.

"Anakin?"

Obi-Wan is staring at him with furrowed brows and a curiosity that belays worry. Anakin just shakes his head. "It's just that if you'd been well earlier, we might have been able to prevent that boy's death."

I wouldn't have had to choose his death.

"You had no control of that." Still frowning, Obi-Wan leans forward again and raises his eyes to Anakin's face. "Anakin, look at me," he says gently.

And Anakin does. The colors of Obi-Wan's eyes are calming. Blue. Green. Gray.

No violet.

"It wasn't your fault."

He looks away then, because he can't handle the understanding in the face of his guilt. Obi-Wan won't read it for what it is: Anakin always mourns those he can't save. Obi-Wan won't take it to mean that, this time, Anakin actually could have saved the boy… and chose not to.

He doesn't flinch when Obi-Wan's hand settles comfortingly on his arm, though it's a near thing. "There was nothing you could have done, Anakin. You did the best you could in a very bad situation."

That, at least, is true. He did his best. He did the only thing he could.

Because he couldn't lose Obi-Wan.

"I know," he says, nodding very slowly. He finally looks back to Obi-Wan, not shrinking from the compassion he finds there. He needs this. He did the only thing he could. "I know."

And he does.

There is nothing he could have done differently. This is just who he is.

And what does that make me?

"Obi-Wan?"

Obi-Wan hasn't looked away from him, but at the sound of his name his face shifts, brows drawing upward. "Yes?"

"I saved your life… but the boy died."

It is as close to a confession as he can get… and he knows that Obi-Wan will not see it for what it is. He's not looking. He wouldn't be, because whether he loves Anakin or not, he does not see all of him. That's all right, though—Anakin understands.

No one ever wants to see that someone they care for is a killer.

"Anakin," he says slowly. His hand pauses for a moment, hovering above Anakin's shoulder, and then with a jerky movement, he raises it to Anakin's face. It's a hesitant gesture, as though he's not quite sure it's right, at least not until Anakin leans into it.

Obi-Wan relaxes then.

"Thank you for saving my life, Anakin," he says quietly. "I don't know what I'd do without you to get me out of such scrapes." He smiles a little. "Though, half the time they're your fault in the first place."

Something in Anakin's chest eases. Obi-Wan is thankful to be alive. He is alive, and he appreciates Anakin's place in that. Words like that ease the guilt—make the sacrifice worth it. Obi-Wan is worth it. His continued existence is worth it.

And that is enough.

At least for now.

End