"He's healing," Jerek remarked, his hazel eyes downcast as he spoke the words. The youth's hand fell from hers as he picked at the strings on his boots, the corners of his mouth turned sour as he added, "slowly." 

As if to back him up, the padawans could hear the Sector Ranger, the one called Jacen, explain why Vor'loch couldn't be moved. The man didn't seem comfortable in saying so, but the end result he hinted at for moving the Noghri too soon was death, a term that seemed to have far less weight after the tragedy the Jedi had collectively experienced. Jerek had seen enough death in his young life, too much of it in the events of three days prior. 

The fact that Vor'loch was still alive was the source of the only hope the padawan still felt. As they had escaped, flying away from his childhood home, the enclave that had become a tomb to his dearest friends and teachers, Jerek missed the chance to see the temple for the last time. It had burned, he was told, blackened and scarred from the weapons of the invading troopers. No, as the gunship receded from their lost home, Jerek's focus had been consumed by the well-being of his master, Vor'loch, over the wounds the Noghri had sustained. The boy was grateful for the Sector Ranger's refusal to move his master, averting the padawan more uncertainty. 

Whether the thought of his Noghri master prompted him, or the familiar touch of his master's mind in his, Jerek didn't know. All at once, he found himself standing, and he glanced down at Erin. Suddenly cheery, the blond youth chirped, "Want to come see him?"