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    Summary

    Feemor winced and shifted in his seat while he let his thoughts wander back towards the warrior. The ragged breathing of the stranger was a unique backdrop to his own even breathing. Having someone on the ship with him, someone extremely injured, was a new experience. It almost drummed up memories of his time as a padawan, almost. He tapped his finger against the arm of the pilot’s seat while he just watched the lights streak past the viewport. A small part of him wanted to call his Grandmaster or… a faint sigh escaped him. Calling Qui-Gon was useless. His Master had taken the whole thing with Xanatos poorly and had basically cut ties. That still smarted a bit, but Feemor tried his best not to let it eat at him. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that sometimes when he slept the duel that was the first sign of Xan’s issues played in his head.

     

    "As in every battle…since time immemorial…a farmer's son lies in the dirt…so the noble born might win the day!"

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