When the Noghri stirred, Jerek rushed to his side. The padawan glanced over his master's body, eyeing all the burns, every hole cauterized by the searing energy of a blaster. As he looked on, the boy felt as broken as his master looked. Fear creeped in through his mouth, his nose, his very pores, the fear that Vor'loch could not recover from his wounds. Fear of what would become of him if Vor'loch died, if Jerek was left alone. 

Yes, even in among the last surviving group of Jedi, Jerek felt alone. 

The boy looked on in wonder as Vor'loch opened his eyes. It was just a crack, a sliver of life, but Jerek felt his heart jump in elation. His master might live! That thought dispelled the padawan's own pain, his own wounds, the gnawing of his empty stomach. Joy flooded through his being, fighting and overcoming the fear that had threatened to rule the boy's heart. "Master!" Jerek fought the urge to wrap his arms around the injured Noghri, placing them instead on his master's hand, gently. "Master, can you hear me?"

Vor'loch's eyes shifted, and his voice came low and raspy. [i]"Jacen."[/i]

"No, Master, it's me," the boy insisted, "It's Jerek." The Noghri was silent, seemingly immune to the padawan's words. Jerek squeezed his master's hand firmly, a bit more rough than he intended, repeating his plea. "Vor'loch, it's Jerek." 

Why did Vor'loch not hear him? Why did he not respond? Didn't he want to live? Didn't he want to keep teaching Jerek? The thoughts plagued the boy as his pleas became soft cries, his body gently rocking back and forth next to the still form of his master. 

"...it's Jerek, Master, it's Jerek..."