L'Histoire d'Obi (The Story of Obi) Chapter 3 - Acceptance
by Lilith Sedai
Qui-Gon refused to open his eyes. It was morning, and the day had to be faced, but not yet. Not yet. Force, what had he done? He felt his throat closing with shame.
Obi-Wan was entangled with him, wrapped about him, knee between his Master's legs, chest half-over Qui-Gon's, fingers tangled in his hair. He could feel the weight of the padawan braid flung across his chest as though it were a lead-lined conduit. Obi-Wan's breath warmed his ear, and his lips nuzzled against his beard as he mumbled in his sleep. It sounded like his name, little though Qui-Gon deserved that.
It was not only that he'd had transgressed a strict point in the Jedi Code by having sex with his padawan learner; Obi-Wan had made it clear he wanted that from Qui-Gon, at least -- but the way it had happened was unacceptable to the Jedi Master. He'd released the animal inside himself, abandoned his control. It was a thing that rarely happened to him normally, but on this mission he had constantly felt himself riding that ragged edge as he was forced to cope with the expectations Riadan culture held for himself and for Obi-Wan. He had spent so long denying his feelings for his padawan that he was unable to cope with them when they surfaced. His feelings had jeopardized not only their training relationship, but also their mission ... and last night, he had let himself cross beyond the point of no return for both. Disaster.
His apprentice stirred a little more, waking, and Qui-Gon dropped into a subterfuge of slow and easy breathing, emptying his mind in order to fake sleep. He needed another few minutes to himself before he could face Obi-Wan and observe the effects of what he had done both to them and to their training bond.
Obi-Wan continued to awaken. It was a process that involved much sighing and nuzzling. As the last dregs of dreaming faded from his mind, Obi-Wan began sleepily running his fingers over Qui-Gon's chest, slowly mapping the terrain of smooth skin, fading scars, and rough hair he found there. His touch was light, soothing, and appreciative. It bore no residue of resentment, uncertainty, or malice in spite of what he'd been through in the past two days ... two days that seemed to Qui-Gon as though they had taken months to pass.
Obi-Wan's diffident fingers eventually trickled down his belly and, after a savoring pause, took him up softly and began to study him with loving pressure. Qui-Gon suffered the pleasurable examination guiltily, wondering if he would be allowed to continue in his pretense of sleep.
His body responded, of course, to Obi-Wan's manipulation, his penis coming erect slowly. Obi-Wan smiled against his skin, and moved to brush a kiss against Qui-Gon's cheek. "I love you, Master," Obi-Wan whispered huskily into what Qui-Gon knew he assumed was a sleeping ear.
In spite of their strong bond of respect and trust, those words had never been exchanged between them before this mission. They dropped into Qui-Gon like a stone into a pond, sinking to his core, spreading ripples of shame throughout his body. Obi-Wan had said them before, during the beating when Qui-Gon had been so preoccupied by his own anguish that he couldn't take the time to ponder them -- he'd had to ignore them, to keep his sanity -- but now ... to hear them spoken while lying abed, bodies entwined in the morning aftermath of rough, frenzied sex, Obi-Wan half-draped over his Master, unaware that Qui-Gon might be awake and listening ... they resounded with simple, poignant sincerity.
His apprentice loved him. Qui-Gon felt anguish spike his heart. He had badly failed Obi-Wan as a Master by permitting them to undertake this mission with his padawan so ill-prepared, by collaring him, by permitting his tender young body to be displayed and touched publicly, by forgetting to feed him. But even after all that, even after Qui-Gon himself had beaten Obi-Wan and taken him brutally, the only things Obi-Wan offered were his deep, abiding trust and self-effacing love, and the bright, scintillating gift of himself. How long had that been there, waiting, only to arise now when they had no leisure to come to terms with it, when the tension its demands exerted on Qui-Gon promised to destroy both their mission and their training bond?
His padawan was moving now, considerately half-levitating over Qui-Gon in order to leave the bed without waking him. He heard Obi-Wan pad into the 'fresher, heard the door click shut behind him.
He had several minutes to compose himself, to find the words that must be said to his padawan. To try to become again what he had given up his right to be the previous evening. To give Obi-Wan the support he had to have to survive this intact ... or at least salvageable.
Obi-Wan stood quietly before the mirror in the small room, carefully examining his body, even turning his back to survey the fading welts from the lash that had been applied to him. Qui-Gon had been too concerned with Obi-Wan's pain; if there were no marks on him today, Corm would surely notice that something was amiss.
But Obi-Wan was marked, and not merely upon his back. Wondering fingers rose to his throat, traced the dark print of teeth that lay there. On his upper arm and his hip were ten wide-splayed bruises, the exact size and shape of Qui-Gon's broad fingers. His lips were swollen, and there were miscellaneous bites, bruises, and tender red and pale purple patches scattered over his skin that he could not quite remember receiving. He had not been taken so much as he had simply been ... devoured. Even his thighs and calves had not escaped the inadvertent prints of Qui-Gon's strong hands and mouth. And he was sore elsewhere also, though it did not show so readily as the other marks, his body stretched and tender from accommodating his Master's rough entry.
He could read his body now, like a book that detailed the intimate secrets of Qui-Gon's desire for him, Qui-Gon's pleasure in him. The marks on his flesh were a calligraphy of lust that Qui-Gon had carefully inscribed onto him, the only recorded evidence of what had happened between himself and his Master.
He found that he loved looking at the visible results of Qui-Gon's loving on his flesh, and he touched a bite mark with trembling fingers. Its slight pain was an echo of pleasure, an echo of possession. It was a reminder that he was needed, and had been taken. It proved, in some subtle and disturbing way, that Qui-Gon valued him sexually, that his Master had wanted him so much that he had thrown everything aside and simply let himself take what Obi-Wan offered.
Obi-Wan realized that he never wanted these marks to fade from his body. He wanted them, needed them, to prove that he was desired, to prove that he had pierced that stolid, aloof barrier that had almost always stood between himself and Qui-Gon Jinn, since the earliest days of his near-thwarted apprenticeship to the Jedi Master. It had been years before Obi-Wan understood that Qui-Gon actually did truly want Obi-Wan as his apprentice, that he was not training him merely out of some measure of expedience or pity. And that understanding, when it arrived, had been purely intellectual, not emotional.
This ... this was something else entirely, and while it was not precisely the sort of emotional bond Obi-Wan had hoped for, it made him realize how thirsty his spirit was for indisputable confirmation that a deep, mutual emotional connection of some kind existed between himself and Qui-Gon. And now that that evidence existed ... he felt almost inordinate pride in the proofs of their lust manifested on him.
Obi-Wan swallowed, caught suddenly by the incongruity of the vast, terrible craving to be loved that was revealed at the core of his soul. It was terrifying, alien, insatiable, and its passion and need was a complete contradiction to his training in independence and to the Jedi Code, which decreed that a Jedi should feel peace and serenity instead of passion. He suddenly needed anchoring in his own true identity, and he knew of only one place to turn in hopes of finding it.
"Master, I'm frightened." Obi-Wan emerged from the 'fresher cubicle still unwashed. Qui-Gon opened his eyes and looked at his student, sensing the unguarded truth and depth of the statement.
He chose his words with care, knowing Obi-Wan needed him badly, needed the reassurance he had not provided the previous night. Needed to know himself and Qui-Gon, needed to know that he had lost neither. "Obi-Wan ... my padawan. Our focus determines our reality," Qui-Gon said gently, with no hint of the reprimand that had so often accompanied such words. "Our focus is changing as we adapt to the demands of this culture, and we each feel it. But it does not eliminate the larger picture." He rose from the bed, wrapping a sheet about his loins, bringing one to drape around Obi-Wan's shoulders. His apprentice accepted it gratefully, catching it over his arms and folding them across his body.
"We must learn this world, come to know its ways," Qui-Gon continued. "We must live in the moment, accepting what we find there in others and ourselves, allowing the Force to guide us. It will guide us safely home again," Qui-Gon promised. "Trust the Force."
And don't trust me.
He could see that his unspoken words went unheard. Obi-Wan was relaxing, visibly immersing himself in the familiar comfort of Qui-Gon's calm teachings. "We were chosen for this because of the bond of trust that lies between us, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon spoke softly, switching briefly into the soft lilting language of his homeworld. "As Jedi, we are trained to survive adversity, and in surviving, be strengthened and deepened by it." Qui-Gon picked up Obi-Wan's padawan braid, running his fingers down its glossy length, drawing Obi-Wan's eyes to it as well, the visible reminder of the pledges and beliefs that united them. "We are Jedi."
"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan agreed, confidence flowing into him visibly. "And we are also human beings."
Qui-Gon looked down at his student for a long moment. "Yes," he acquiesced at last, very softly. "And you are a very beautiful one, Obi-Wan Kenobi."
Obi-Wan's eyes went round with surprise, the words sinking deeply into him, his expression growing radiant as his fear subsided, transmuted to shy wonder. "Thank you, Master," he whispered, his smile lighting his face with a beauty that Qui-Gon found almost beyond his ability to bear.
After the intimacy they had shared, Qui-Gon could not resist Obi-Wan's joy. "My padawan, no matter what may happen on this mission, know that I --"
The door chimed and Qui-Gon cursed, the moment shattered beyond recall. The same girl who had delivered Corm's note the previous evening now brought breakfast. Oh, yes. She had fine timing. Qui-Gon sighed.
Obi-Wan was hurrying to accept the tray, trying to rush her out of the room, but she was not alone. Three other slaves, two male, flowed in through the open door behind her to clean and change the bed linens. Obi-Wan cast a single chagrined glance at Qui-Gon as he moved to help them with the heavy mattress.
Obi-Wan threw his back into the work, but his mind was entirely preoccupied. What had Qui-Gon begun to say to him? Would he continue his words when they were alone again? There was so much Obi-Wan needed to know, so many things that needed to be said between them, but were prevented by the surveillance -- reversion to another language was a dangerous gambit that could not often be repeated. Obi-Wan understood the necessity to be circumspect and embraced it, but not knowing what the slaves had interrupted was killing him. Qui-Gon's eyes had been so deep, his expression so gentle, his voice husky with unaccustomed emotion ... Obi-Wan followed his Master with his eyes as Qui-Gon sat down to breakfast and was dismayed to see the mantle of Jedi aloofness re-descending over Qui-Gon Jinn.
He could not help himself, but tried to recapture the lost moment anyway after the slaves finally bustled out laughing amongst themselves. "Master, you were speaking." Obi-Wan moved to Qui-Gon's side, taking up a piece of bread that Qui-Gon had set aside for part of his breakfast.
"Oh. Yes," Qui-Gon nodded, but the warmth in his eyes had retreated once again behind the walls of Jedi composure. "You should know," Qui-Gon paused, "that I will protect you, my padawan. Now, and always." He almost choked at his own evasion, but he could not. Could not let himself. The truth would only hurt Obi-Wan more, in the long run.
"Yes, Master. I am grateful." Obi-Wan bowed his head and finished his breakfast, pleased with Qui-Gon's veiled reassurance but still disappointed that he had not heard the words that welled originally from the apparent fullness of Qui-Gon's heart.
So *many* things there were that needed to be said, and heard, between them now ... he thought of the way Qui-Gon had touched him the previous night, his hand trailing unconsciously over the bite on his neck, the flicker of pain enhancing the moment of memory. Qui-Gon had wanted and taken him. Qui-Gon thought he was beautiful. He basked in that knowledge, letting the sheet slip from his shoulders, suddenly proud of his nude body, and more than willing to permit Qui-Gon to see it.
Qui-Gon wanted his beauty, and the demands of this mission had brought them to such a pass of emotional tension that he had claimed it -- and yet Obi-Wan was still his Master's padawan, he was still Jedi. Qui-Gon had reassured him of that, subtly but strongly. It would be there, waiting for them both, when they could withdraw themselves from the powerful influence of this culture and the roles thrust on them within it.
Perhaps this thing that was happening between them would open up their relationship as part of the strengthening and deepening process Qui-Gon had implied would occur after they returned to Coruscant.
The thought put happy energy into Obi-Wan's steps as he finished breakfast and prepared his Master's clothing for their arrival on Ria. When there was nothing left to be done, he bathed himself, singing idly, secure in himself once more, ready for anything that might come.
Emerging from the bathroom, he saw that Qui-Gon had received company while he was unaware. His Master held a roll of parchment that had been tied with a red silk scarf in one hand, and a mass of heavy golden chains trailed from the other, puddling on the floor. A slave girl stood by, admiring the older Jedi openly. Qui-Gon tossed Obi-Wan a look of concern. "Compliments of His Highness, Qal of Ria." Qui-Gon shook the chains slightly. "They are a gift for me, to be placed on you."
Obi-Wan nodded, stepping forward with an eagerness he could not deny. He longed for Qui-Gon's touch, hoping that the previous night's events had not merely been a regretted lapse of control, and that more lovemaking would occur between them again, preferably soon and frequently. He would take any touch that he could get, however, even one that was not sensual.
Qui-Gon shook out the musical mass of links, confused, and turned a questioning eye on the girl. She stepped forward at his small gesture, taking up the chains and separating them with quick skill. "It is a sirik," she explained, her voice sultry. "Decorative chains, for a favored dancer."
There were four manacles, two anklets and two wristlets, joined by a circle of chain and fastened to a golden collar upon which Qui-Gon's name had been inscribed. The uppermost chain ran through a loop in that collar, and two more lengths of chain fastened the loop to the anklets.
Qui-Gon's eyebrows rose. The chains, laid out on a flat surface, would have formed a top-heavy trapezoid with a manacle at each corner, the collar top and center, and an inverted V within. But on a body, they would drape gracefully, whispering with every motion, subtly shortening the strides of walking and also restricting the distance both arms could reach at once, though the slide of chain through the loop at the throat would allow either arm to be fully extended if the other followed it.
The chains were light but strong, fashioned of some alloy Qui-Gon didn't immediately recognize. He reached into his pocket for the metal key he carried and unlocked Obi-Wan's original collar, removing it. Obi-Wan rubbed his throat experimentally, wincing a little, and the slave girl brought a damp cloth for him to wash himself. Qui-Gon took it from her and did the job himself, giving Obi-Wan time to soothe his neck muscles. He also ensured that the key would open the lock before clasping the new bond onto his padawan.Then he picked up one of the wrist manacles and put it on Obi-Wan's arm, watching his student closely for signs of distress.
There were none. Instead, Qui-Gon observed the exact opposite. His padawan seemed to relax as the chains were locked onto his body, and Qui-Gon was startled at the growing eroticism in Obi-Wan's posture and expression. It was not merely Qui-Gon's perceptions changing as the chains were added; Obi-Wan's body actually moved. He held himself more sensually with the addition of each manacle until all four limbs were restrained.
Obi-Wan submitted, his eyes sultry, his head slightly tilted to one side. Hesat with his back straight and legs folded, seeming poised to rise and dance, feeling the weight of Qui-Gon's chains on him ... and quite obviously, enjoying the sensation.
"You wear your chains well," Qui-Gon told Obi-Wan, a thick lump in his throat. He stuffed the red silk scarf in his pocket. He had not missed the symbolism or the implicit taunt of Corm's portion of the gift, but he would not make use of it no matter how accurate it might be now. He wrapped the white scarf around Obi-Wan's new collar instead, to protect him from the touch of others.
Obi-Wan looked up at his Master through his thick red-gold lashes, the padawan's mouth curling in a truly wicked smile that set Qui-Gon's heart racing.
The moment did not make its demands solely of Obi-Wan.
Qui-Gon reached up, cradling Obi-Wan's jaw in his palm, sliding his thumb over his padawan's lips. Obi-Wan kissed at it gently, his eyes closing, and reached to catch his Master's arm, the metallic rustle of the chain offsetting his graceful motion. He nestled his face into Qui-Gon's palm, kissing it hotly, biting at Qui-Gon's long fingers. The Jedi Master exhaled a low sigh, feeling his desire stir, feeling the strength of his body's longing for the energy of another union with Obi-Wan.
"Master Jinn." The slave courier knelt, addressing Qui-Gon. "I was instructed to tell you that King Ahar requests your presence alone for the hour before landfall."
Tearing himself away by brute force with a mingling of relief and regret, Qui-Gon did not let himself pause for a regretful look back at his enslaved padawan.
Leaving Obi-Wan's presence was too difficult. He trusted his apprentice's abilities, but in this situation Obi-Wan was largely limited to mental domination as both a defensive and offensive strategy. It was not good to rely heavily upon such techniques, though Qui-Gon had often found himself forced to do so. They could all too often fail or be thwarted.
Worse, he hated leaving Obi-Wan knowing that he had not filled all the needs his padawan had for his support. He was desperately concerned that he had harmed Obi-Wan's training irrevocably by giving in to the madness of having him, leaving the lad no option but to give his body in the night, when they were alone together, when they should have been Jedi and padawan, not Master and slave. His fears had increased exponentially at the way Obi-Wan had stood this morning in sirik, aware of Qui-Gon's eyes on him, radiating pure, submissive sex .... Qui-Gon had indeed damaged his padawan, taken and twisted his innocence, made him a corrupt, wanton thing wanting only to be used.
Used by him.
Ahar was waiting for him in an anteroom near the feasting chamber, a silver goblet of wine in hand and another awaiting the Jedi Master on the table. "Ambassador Qui-Gon," he greeted, his tone amiable. "I hope you were pleased with my son's gift." For once, the curved pipe was not in his fist, though it lay well within reach.
"The sirik is a beautiful thing," Qui-Gon admitted. "I shall thank your son at my earliest opportunity."
Ahar looked at Qui-Gon, gauging the Jedi's sincerity. "Put it on your slave, Qui-Gon Jinn. Watch him in it. He will be happy, knowing that he wears your chains for you beautifully."
"As you say, your Majesty."
Ahar shifted, eyes wandering over the pipe restlessly. "My son would be best thanked by the gift of your slave for a night," he suggested. "You used one of his girls at the welcoming feast, and again last night. It is a courtesy among us to repay such favors in kind."
Qui-Gon blinked, his heart sinking. "I shall consider it carefully, Your Majesty." *And I'll agree to it on the day I win the Miss Republic Pageant. *
"The King is right about your slave, Ambassador Jinn." Of course, Corm strolled in, right on cue, not even bothering to hide that he had been eavesdropping. Qui-Gon's mouth tightened sourly.
"The happiness of a slave is a beautiful thing," Corm protested cordially. "A slave learns self-esteem through ownership, Qui-Gon. He, or she, is not merely a beast of burden, but a beautiful and beloved possession. Well-mastered, a slave learns to be fully free in sensuality. Your ... padawan ..." Corm used the unfamiliar word deliberately, "will be happier than you have ever known him, now that you have taken him."
As though anyone could be happy under the threat of the lash. Qui-Gon tried to stifle annoyance, forcing himself to nod. In a sense, Obi-Wan might be happy; certainly he had enjoyed the physical pleasures of intercourse. But Obi-Wan ... Obi-Wan was not a slave. Or rather, he should not become one ....
Corm continued, trampling Qui-Gon's thoughts. "Qal is indeed quite smitten with your slave -- your padawan, you call him? A lovely word for a beautiful boy." His smirk was positively smug.
Yet more insolence -- Qui-Gon had only used that word inside the confines of his quarters with Obi-Wan. He let his eyes narrow at Corm. He far preferred Qal's attentions to Obi-Wan to Corm's. At least Qal had demonstrated concern for the padawan's well-being and had respected his body.
Even as Qui-Gon thought it, the young Prince entered the room. Catching three sets of eyes swiveling toward him at once, he sensed that he had been the topic of conversation and flushed slightly.
"I trust your slave is recovering well." Qal spoke to Qui-Gon with dignity, assuming his position in the group.
"He is well." Qui-Gon nodded politely. "And we are most appreciative of your generosity, Your Highness."
"I hope soon to see him wear the sirik." Qal looked relieved. "It well befits his grace."
Qui-Gon gave a low bow, and Qal seemed to regain some confidence, reaching into his satchel and withdrawing a sheaf of papers left from their talks of the previous day. "There are a variety of welcoming ceremonies planned to greet you, Ambassador. I will read through them so that you may be prepared."
"That would be a kindness." Qui-Gon inclined his head and took a seat gracefully.
Qui-Gon was often tempted to curse Corm over the next few days. On Ria, Obi-Wan seemed to blossom with exuberant joy, as the Priest had predicted. Rather than keep his padawan kneeling at his side during interminable diplomatic events, talks, and feasts, Qui-Gon let him run at large to discover what he could of Riadan culture. His padawan swiftly became popular among the other slaves, and the fluttering bit of white at his throat, while no longer an accurate statement of his sexual condition, protected him more or less from the Masters. Qui-Gon continually reminded himself that Obi-Wan was as capable of destroying carnal desire with a thought as he was of inspiring it. He was fairly unlikely to suffer rape, and so Qui-Gon resigned himself to the time apart from his apprentice with reluctant grace, though he often chafed at the lengthy formal interactions and wished that he knew exactly where Obi-Wan might be.
As the days passed, Qui-Gon tried to relax without growing complacent. His padawan had begun to fit smoothly into palace life, and he watched as Obi-Wan gradually assumed more independent duties, coming to know the wide open-air marketplaces and narrow alleys of the city, the shortcuts and the merchants. He was entrusted to go out with his wrists bound, bearing coins in his mouth, to purchase bread and meats with the other slaves, returning them to Ahar's palace slung around his neck in a bag. Whether by day in iron collar or by night wearing the golden chains of Qal's sirik, Obi-Wan seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once, moving so agilely he seemed always to dance.
And so the days passed, rudimentary agreements beginning to fall into place against the hoped-for day when the Republic might decide to permit the Riadans their trading privileges. Qui-Gon was conscious of his own skill in working out the involved diplomatic language, the necessary trappings of political intercourse. He was gratified by his ability to pacify the delegates and factions, but it felt hollow without the knowledge that his hard work would certainly be useful in the future.
He watched out of the corner of his eye as his padawan helped serve Qal with infinite courtesy and grace, obviously basking in the sensation of the Prince's warm brown eyes upon him. Obi-Wan was the target of many such stares wherever he went, and he often seemed almost feline as he arched and preened under the unspoken praise nearly as unabashedly as the bred slaves that surrounded him. Qal spoke softly to Obi-Wan and was rewarded with a shy smile. The Prince reached out and stroked a finger lightly up the padawan's arm. Qui-Gon's teeth gritted; his padawan merely savored the attention, purring a little, almost catlike, aware of the attraction he held over the young Riadan man. He did not flinch away, as he had done from Corm. Instead, he preened.
Qui-Gon hooded his eyes, pretending to concentrate on his meal, although he could barely choke down another bite. Qal was a diplomat and an ally. By the standards of his culture, he had a right to Obi-Wan's company, and more. It was unreasonable that Qui-Gon could not stop his teeth from grinding.
He hadn't so much as kissed Obi-Wan since the night his lust had overtaken him, though he'd thought on more than one occasion that he might have to chain the lad to the ring at the bottom of his couch if he wanted to avoid his padawan's kisses and that which would inevitably follow them. He played a subtler game now to avoid Obi-Wan's persistent attempts at seduction, trying to ensure that his padawan would be utterly exhausted at the end of each day of duties, ready to fall into dreamless slumber as soon as his head touched the pillow.
Or failing that, Qui-Gon ensured that he was engaged late in the night, staying at endless receptions and feastings until even Obi-Wan's boundless energy faded. At the first sign of weariness, Qui-Gon would make his padawan drink a deep cup of strong wine and send him away to sleep, returning to their quarters perhaps an hour or two later and using all his stealth to slip into the single bed without waking the young man who slept there, nude, awaiting him.
It was the mornings that were worst. It was pure torment waking to feel Obi-Wan's sturdy erection nudging his backside, or worse, the young man's silky lips wandering worshipfully over his neck and back. Such things were almost more than Qui-Gon could bear. He would turn, making distance between them, and push Obi-Wan away with a single shake of his head and a finger on the boy's lips, commanding silence. Obi-Wan would press his lips forward and kiss that finger sadly. It was like ripping his own heart from his chest to leave the bed then, but Qui-Gon always did.
Padawan, not paramour, he would remind himself stubbornly, setting the shower in the 'fresher as many degrees below body temperature as he could stand it.
And when he emerged, Obi-Wan would be kneeling, awaiting his instructions for the day, waiting to be fed rather than eating himself, though Qui-Gon had given him permission to do so. Qui-Gon would endure the sweet torment of his padawan's lips and tongue, though he swore they grew hotter and more liquid every day, more like warm melted honey. He would endure, and he would eat, and then he would set Obi-Wan at liberty to do communal serving tasks as the Palace Slavemaster commanded, cautioning him always to behave well. And so Obi-Wan did. Up to a point.
To everyone but his own Master, Obi-Wan's conduct seemed flawless. But to Qui-Gon .... Obi-Wan's sultry looks and touches were to be expected, but Qui-Gon found himself grinding his teeth when Obi-Wan flirted or let his hips sway for the benefit of another, especially Qal.
Qui-Gon always called him to heel for it, but the effects of his sharp words lasted only minutes. The Jedi Master began to understand that more would be required, but he resisted, ignoring Obi-Wan as completely as possible, hoping his padawan would give up. But he knew that was not to be.
"I beg your favor, my Master." Qui-Gon blinked. Obi-Wan had materialized noiselessly to kneel before him.
"Yes?" Qui-Gon felt a pang of apprehension, but hid it behind smooth serenity.
"Master Qal requests the favor of my services for the evening." Obi-Wan raised a perfectly bland face to Qui-Gon.
Qui-Gon hesitated. He had hoped to avoid this confrontation, but Obi-Wan's flirting had pressed it to its crisis. He was vaguely aware of Corm's ears pricking up, and of Qal's silent, steady regard. Well. Obi-Wan could take care of himself, could he not? In private, his padawan could twist the Riadan's mind into knots if he wanted. He could easily make the man believe they had slept together when they had not, which was probably what he intended.
Wasn't it? Was this done for the sake of their mission ... or was it for his padawan's own pleasure?
Jealousy flared deep in Qui-Gon, and he saw Obi-Wan reading it in his eyes, sensed a flicker of triumph in his padawan's aura. He felt anger start to form, and crushed the flare of his own emotions to steely indifference. If Obi-Wan actually wanted to go with Qal, that was his own affair. He was not, after all, actually Qui-Gon's slave, the Jedi Master reasoned distantly. And more, what right did Qui-Gon have to deny Obi-Wan in his desire to join with another, when Qui-Gon would not accept the young man's advances himself?
"Of course he has them if he wishes." Qui-Gon flicked his fingers in irritable dismissal. "Go, and trouble me no more until the morning."
"Thank you, Master." Obi-Wan bowed and hurried back to Qal's side, eagerness apparent in his every motion.
The Jedi took a bitter sip of his wine, keeping his eyes hooded. A solemn promise to himself, broken that simply. His padawan was now publicly in the arms of another man. Qal had received him tenderly, stroking the ridge of his cheekbone as Qui-Gon longed to do himself. The Riadan bent to Obi-Wan's mouth gently, and his padawan returned the kiss, chained limbs rising gracefully into an embrace.
Qui-Gon felt himself harden at the spectacle -- with lust, and with fury. Abruptly he rose, and decorum be damned. "With your Majesty's kind indulgence, I shall retire," he announced, bowing before Ahar.
"Certainly, Ambassador Jinn," the King exhaled a long slow puff of smoke. "I trust you are well."
"Perfectly," Qui-Gon managed to sound polite. "The negotiations will begin early. It is best to be rested." He turned in a swirl of cloak and left the room, his peripheral vision seared by the vision of Qal's hand sliding slowly up Obi-Wan's smooth-muscled flank.
Obi-Wan was keenly conscious of Qui-Gon's eyes and of his rapid exit. He sighed a little. Perhaps it was best -- he was not fully sure his Master understood what he was up to, and there was no way to explain. Qal was entirely absorbed in him, the Prince's hands and mouth gentle. When Qui-Gon had left, Obi-Wan let himself relax a little, accepting the kisses with more grace. They were not his Master's, but they were sweet and pleasant, and Qal was young and strong, well-built. Kind.
"Let us go to my rooms, Obi-Wan," Qal suggested. Obi-Wan nodded acquiescence and rose. He had noted that the Prince did not seem to care for the public orgies his father and Corm held so dear, and had more than half-expected to be led away as he now was.
The Prince smiled at him, reassuring, as they entered his quarters. They were smaller than Obi-Wan's and Qui-Gon's, the padawan noted. Qal surely stood low on the ladder of power.
"I know you are new to your slavery, Obi-Wan, and I do not want you to fear that I would hurt or force you," Qal said simply. "Have no fear. While you are at my command, no harm will come to you."
"I thank you, Master." Obi-Wan did not like to use the term with anyone but Qui-Gon, and it must have showed, because Qal smiled very faintly, his eyes a little sad.
"Qal for tonight, Obi-Wan." The Prince sighed. "Let there be trust between us."
"Yes, Qal." Obi-Wan remained obedient.
"You love your Master," Qal mused. "It shines in your eyes." Again, the Prince seemed rueful, and Obi-Wan bent his head.
"Yes, Qal." The young Jedi replied simply, the words heartfelt.
The Prince nodded, drawing a deep breath, obviously forcing himself to the point of resolve. "I asked you to come here not so that I might use you as a slave, though I would be pleased if you are willing, but so that I might apologize for the hard use you have endured while you have been among us," Qal explained. "I regret your treatment at the hands of the High Priest. If it were within my power as it should be, I would have intervened, spared you that pain. But I could not."
"I know you tried," Obi-Wan murmured. "I am grateful."
Qal crossed the room slowly, moving behind Obi-Wan to survey his back. "You heal quickly and well," he commented. A mirror across the room reflected his hand, hovering over the fading marks of Qui-Gon's mouth on Obi-Wan's throat. He withdrew it without touching Obi-Wan, though.
"Thank you, Qal," Obi-Wan spoke softly. He felt deep sympathy for the thwarted desire of the Riadan Prince. He had felt similar pangs himself very frequently in the past days.
"Did your Master see to it that you received medical care?" The Riadan Prince tried to make the question seem offhand, and failed.
"He cared for me with his own hands," Obi-Wan murmured. "He is a kind man, and a good Master."
The Riadan nodded, not fully convinced, but let the issue pass. He turned from Obi-Wan, moving over to a crowded workbench in the corner. Obi-Wan watched with interest, trying to identify the primitive components without much success. Qal sighed, picking up a handful of wires attached to a small metal box. "I begin to wonder if it was wise for me to build my transmitter to contact offworlders," he admitted. "Coruscant was quite different from what I had expected." He set the device aside, looking back to Obi-Wan. "They don't have slaves at all in the Republic, do they?"
Obi-Wan felt his nerves ratchet up a notch. "There are some," he said. "But it is not usual."
Qal nodded without surprise. "You are not a slave, then."
Obi-Wan lifted his chin, displaying his collar. "Qui-Gon Jinn owns me," he said firmly. "I am his, without reservation."
"I can see that." Qal's eyes were pained. "Would that you were mine, or that I had anyone, slave or free, who loved me so well."
"I am sorry," Obi-Wan breathed, sincerely regretting the Riadan's anguish.
Qal groaned, tortured by Obi-Wan's response. "What are you?" Qal breathed, stepping in front of Obi-Wan, his eyes tortured, lonely. "What are you, that you can do this to me, with only a look or word?"
The Prince leaned toward him, hesitant, his mouth trembling, and Obi-Wan mercifully leaned to meet him, letting his mouth fall open as their lips touched, gently guiding the Riadan toward the small, richly covered sleeping couch. He pressed Qal down, kneeling over him, breaking the sweetness of the kiss at last.
"Will you, Obi-Wan?" Qal's eyes shone.
The young padawan gathered the Force. "I already have." He passed his hand over the Riadan's eyes. "You gave me much pleasure." Qal mumbled the words, half-incoherently parroting Obi-Wan, and as always when he did this, the young Jedi felt a sharp pang of guilt. But the situation had been deteriorating; Qal had forced his hand. "And I have satisfied your desire." Obi-Wan finished the suggestion, releasing his hold on the Prince's mind.
Qal's tension immediately slackened, his eyes clouding and then warming to shine up at the padawan. "You have satisfied my desire," he sighed and shifted, lifting a hand to stroke Obi-Wan's cheek. "I thank you," he murmured huskily.
Obi-Wan leaned in and kissed him, then lay down at his side, spooning up against the confused Prince gently. "Talk to me, Qal," he requested softly. The last of his mind-touch had dissipated, but there was no need of more. "Tell me of Ria."
Qal sighed, snuggling his hips back into the crook of Obi-Wan's body. "My mother was a pleasure slave," he began, "but I was the only heir my father produced, so he claimed me and raised me as a noble. They were good days. Maru was still High Priest of the Riadan Temple, and all seemed well in Agus Ria. Until he died, when I was only sixteen."
Obi-Wan nodded, softly stroking a soothing design on Qal's chest with his fingertips. The Prince arched and sighed, snuggling a bit closer to Obi-Wan. "Corm is not a good man," he said suddenly. "Do not judge all Riadans by him, Obi-Wan Kenobi."
"I do not," Obi-Wan assured him softly. "But if I judged them by yourself, might I not be guilty of making a similar error on the side of goodness?"
Qal turned over, eyes locking to the young Jedi's. "You are too thoughtful for a slave, Obi-Wan." He reached and traced the padawan's lips with his fingertip, and Obi-Wan gently bit the seeking digit and released it.
"Tell me of your father, Qal," Obi-Wan murmured softly. Pillow talk. The Riadan would be much more open to his soft probes now, in the illusion of intimacy they shared.
The Prince sighed. "I never knew my mother," he admitted. "She was sold after my birth. I was raised and trained here, in the palace. Ahar was a strong King then ...." Again, pain in the fine voice. "As I hoped to be." Qal laughed bitterly. "Then I, like my mother, fell from favor. Unfortunately, my father could not sell me."
"I'm sure he didn't want to." Obi-Wan kissed Qal's forehead lightly.
"He wants to do anything Corm says," Qal laughed bitterly. "Ever since he started smoking Corm's special bitterroot ...." The Prince halted himself suddenly, sobered. "I should not have said that, Obi-Wan."
"'Let there be trust between us,'" Obi-Wan quoted him softly. "I shall not betray you to Corm."
Qal's eyes softened and he leaned in to claim a kiss, his arousal stirring once more in spite of Obi-Wan's earlier mind touch. The Jedi sighed with regret, directing the Prince's lips to his throat. That was an end to his pursuit of information. "Sleep, Qal," he murmured, and the Riadan's breath whispered against his throat as he sagged into slumber. Obi-Wan kissed the Prince's forehead again softly and lay awake for a long while, thinking.
Morning was a long time in coming.
The click and creak of the door to his quarters did not awaken Qui-Gon; he had lain without sleep for most of the night. It did not mend matters that the faint brush of personality against his own now was a slave girl's, and not his padawan's. The sleeping couch felt curiously cold and empty without Obi-Wan in it at his side.
Qui-Gon had little interest in breakfast, and he drank his juice automatically but left the fruit and bread untouched. Obi-Wan still made no appearance. At last it became clear that he would not have the furtive, guilty pleasure of feeding his padawan from his hand this morning. Obi-Wan was probably still abed. With Qal.
The Jedi Master tried to banish the image, but it was too late. Sourly he rose and disposed of the remains of his meal. There was a day's routine to be completed, with or without Obi-Wan at his side.
He dressed himself and combed his hair quickly, then stalked down the hall to the main audience chamber, where the morning of meetings was to begin.
Obi-Wan knelt there, at Qal's side. He had been given a loincloth to wear and a narrow mantle of long gold cloth, glittering with a carefully sewn pattern of jewels and seed pearls. He had wrapped it around his shoulders and arms, to protect himself from the morning's chill. The Prince fondled Qui-Gon's padawan absently as he wrote, his arm sliding over Obi-Wan's shoulders so that he could twine his fingers in the young man's long braid. Obi-Wan bent his head against the Prince's casually. There was no longer any real separation of personal space between them, as was to be expected of lovers.
Qui-Gon glided in silently, hiding his expression under his deep cowl. He took a seat as far from Qal as was diplomatically possible given the U-shaped table of sturdy marble. Obi-Wan was intently watching what the Riadan inscribed on the parchment, leaning close over the Prince's leg, lips slightly parted in concentration. The Prince was murmuring softly to Obi-Wan, but he fell silent as he felt the pressure of the Jedi Master's regard.
"Return to your Master, Obi-Wan," he directed softly, and the padawan flinched, startled that Qui-Gon had entered without him sensing it. Obi-Wan rose quickly, beginning to slide the richly decorated cloth from his shoulders, but Qal stopped him with a hand on his wrist. "Keep it, if he permits you." The Prince smiled and lifted Obi-Wan's hand, kissing the center of its palm gently.
Obi-Wan smiled his gratitude, leaning into a deep bow, and quickly turned, hurrying around the open bottom of the table to assume his place at Qui-Gon's side.
"Good morning, my Master," Obi-Wan murmured, sinking to his knees next to Qui-Gon's chair.
"I trust you had a pleasant night." Qui-Gon's words were wintry cold.
"Qal is very kind, Master." Obi-Wan's words were mild. "He was good to me."
*And I am not?* Rationally Qui-Gon knew his padawan meant no such thing, but the inescapable implication was that Obi-Wan had enjoyed his tumble in Qal's bed, something that Qui-Gon had vowed not to consent to do with his padawan again. He gritted his teeth, struggling with jealousy.
Obi-Wan felt the surge of his Master's anger, but he did not understand it. He'd only meant to assure Qui-Gon that he had not been harmed or forced, but the Jedi Master seemed determined to misinterpret his words, and so Obi-Wan fell silent, not offering more.
"Take off that wrap," Qui-Gon instructed sharply. "You are under my discipline again now."
"Yes, Master." Obi-Wan bent his head humbly. He was keenly aware of Qui-Gon's intense scrutiny as he slid the rich jeweled cloth from his arms, folding it carefully and placing it on the floor. "This as well, my Master?" His hands paused on the knot of the belt that held his loincloth.
"That as well." Qui-Gon brushed the question aside impatiently. Obi-Wan could feel his Master's eyes raking him, and suddenly he realized that Qui-Gon was examining him carefully for evidence of kisses or love bites. His Master, jealous?
Clearly it was so. Qui-Gon's eyes were hard, his expression closed. Obi-Wan felt a curious mix of guilt and exhilaration sweep through him. So. Qui-Gon was not as emotionally indifferent as he pretended to be. Obi-Wan felt himself shift slightly, his body responding to the sensual rush that accompanied the thought, his shoulders lifting, his posture becoming sultry, leaning sensually into Qui-Gon's thigh.
"You needn't try that with me, either," Qui-Gon hissed, leaning right into Obi-Wan's face, his voice pitched for his padawan's ears alone. He was no lonely, half-infatuated boy like Qal, to be won over effortlessly by Obi-Wan's sensuous, promiscuous wiles. "Do you think you are a cat in heat?" The Jedi Master's brows knit together thunderously.
"No, my Master," Obi-Wan whispered, flinching back. Jealousy? Perhaps, but he had not anticipated this uncharacteristic withering, cold anger. Gingerly he drew into himself, subtly folding his posture into an unassuming crouch. He was aware of Qal's startled, worried gaze, but did not dare to meet it.
The day did not improve after that. Qui-Gon's temper was short and his commands curt and frequent. Whether Obi-Wan was bringing paper and quills or serving his Master's meal, it seemed he could do nothing right. After five hours of constant rebuke, he had actually begun to stumble and cringe as he scampered to do his Master's bidding. Qal's eyes had grown bright and hard as he watched, and Corm's mellow humor had increased tenfold.
They adjourned at last for the evening feast, Obi-Wan cautiously heeling his Master, just out of his range of vision. The meal was no better than the earlier part of the day, and in fact, it grew worse.
"Go into the kitchen and fetch more fruit." Qui-Gon let a stern frown creep between his brows. Obi-Wan had been clumsy serving Qui-Gon's wine, pouring hastily, forgetting to perform the obeisance the pouring ritual required, though he had done it for the others he served -- including Qal. It was a breach of respect that no native Riadan Master would permit to go unpunished.
As Qui-Gon sat, trying to ponder the best way that he could take Obi-Wan's punishment a crucial step forward in order to convince the Riadans to believe he had adequately chastened Obi-Wan, but without actually harming him, he was distracted suddenly by a slave girl approaching him and kneeling at his feet. She brought the fruit for which he had asked, bowing her head deeply and offering it in upraised hands.
Qui-Gon noticed nothing unusual and reached to accept the fruit, but Corm nudged his arm. "Her hair, Jedi."
Qui-Gon looked. Her hair was long and dark, one piece separated and tied in a loose loop at her cheek. She was familiar to him; he realized she was the slave he had taken and set aside on the night he gave in to his desire for Obi-Wan.
"She wears the bondage knot for you." Corm's voice was gleeful, and he reached to lift the lock of hair. "A sign of her surrender. She fears to speak, but wishes to be taken in the furs. She offers herself to you, begging your mercy." Qui-Gon gazed down at the girl with a sudden surge of pity, accepting a slice of fruit. He had served her ill, used her hard and left her without a word, and she sought him again?
She lifted her face to Qui-Gon, eyes shining with worship as she moved forward on her knees, her breasts bare, swaying gently. He swallowed. He was not immune to the charms of her beauty. Taking the tray from the slave girl, Qui-Gon set it aside. "Come here, my lovely one."
This, perhaps, would chasten Obi-Wan, give him the shock he needed to return to a more acceptable frame of mind. Qui-Gon did not let himself pause to consider the pettiness or the vengeance inherent in his act, justifying himself by remembering that he owed the girl an apology of sorts for his rough ways.
He gathered the slave into his lap, his hand sliding up to support her breast, his thumb stroking across her nipple, bringing it erect. She squirmed close, lifting her lush mouth to him, and he tasted it, feeling warmth begin to glow inside him. He'd been in a constant state of arousal, really, ever since permitting himself to taste the forbidden fruits of Obi-Wan's body. Now he could obtain release without guilt.
But he could sense the spike of his padawan's jealousy the moment Obi-Wan walked back into the room.
Obi-Wan approached, fairly shaking with anger. What was he here for, if not to play the role of the slave to his Master? He had been treated unfairly and harshly throughout the day; this intrusion was more than he could bear. Qui-Gon, after all, had commanded him to go with Qal, and Obi-Wan had barely let the Riadan touch him.
He set the tray aside, ignoring Corm's stare of intent interest. "I have brought what you asked, Master," Obi-Wan bit out, failing to sound either pleasant or obedient.
Qui-Gon lifted his head with deliberate, casual leisure and nodded. "Next time, see that you do not dally."Obi-Wan visibly swallowed his anger and bowed his head, then moved to Qui-Gon's shoulder.
He was ignored. He simmered for a moment, watching Qui-Gon stroke the girl from breast to hip, then he bent to his Master's neck, trying to distract him with teasing kisses.
Idly, Qui-Gon shoved him away, beginning to feel irritation of his own at his padawan's persistence. He began to feed the girl the fruit Obi-Wan had brought, and she licked his hands eagerly, snuggling close to his body.
Obi-Wan recovered his balance, crouching on fingertips and toes. His eyes narrowed. A cat in heat? What exactly did Qui-Gon think he had in his lap? Without thinking, he reached out, touched raw power, channeled it delicately.
Qui-Gon felt the stirring, felt the girl move, felt her surprise as she was levered away from his body. He set her aside carefully.
"That's enough, padawan." His voice was deadly. Obi-Wan ignored him, instead making a miserable bid for his Master's now-empty lap, and received a lazy cuff that sent him sprawling.
Raising himself to hands and knees, he began to return to Qui-Gon again, a stubborn light burning in his eyes that Qui-Gon knew all too well.
He would not give up.
Qui-Gon walled his conflicting emotions to steely silence, knowing what his role demanded. He rose and bound his apprentice, turning his face away, leaving him trussed tightly, ankles to wrists. Then using his superior power, he pushed Obi-Wan's mind, hard. "Don't interfere again."
Qui-Gon returned to the slave girl who awaited him. He picked her up, accepting the kiss she offered, and began to touch her gently.
"You learn." Corm's voice was rich with satisfaction.
Qui-Gon resisted the impulse to growl at the Riadan ambassador and addressed himself to the slave. But as his anger ebbed, he realized he was unable to enjoy the girl. His mind kept wandering to the knowledge that Obi-Wan lay bound by his hand only feet away, suffering. Finally, Qui-Gon pleasured the woman with his hands and then released her, sending her scampering happily away, his debt to her paid.
Corm had complimented him. *Complimented* him. Approved his savagery, his bitter anger, his abuse of his padawan. Qui-Gon shuddered. What had he become, to behave so? When had he ceased to be Jedi and become the petty, cruel, domineering slave Master to Obi-Wan? How had he allowed himself to become so angry? It was unworthy of a man, much less a Jedi Master.
He sat with his legs crossed for several minutes after, releasing his anger into the Force, quietly letting his eyes trace the curve of his padawan's spine. Remorse gnawed him viciously. Obi-Wan lay absolutely still, his breath only barely moving his ribs. He looked very small and thoroughly chastened lying as he was. Qui-Gon felt his heart dip and wrench as he remembered the day of cruelty. He rose quietly, kneeling next to his padawan and stroking his fingertips up the curved shell of the young man's vertebrae. Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, eyes closed.
Qui-Gon gently unfastened the bonds he had placed on his padawan and drew Obi-Wan up from the floor. Suffering blue eyes met his as thick lashes rose, and Qui-Gon felt his own shuddering groan ripple down his spine.
"You destroy me, padawan." The words were almost inaudible, exhaled on a sigh. "Come into my arms."
Obi-Wan obeyed like an arrow shot from a bow, lifting his mouth for kisses that Qui-Gon was obliged to give. Wanted to give. Needed to give.
Corm observed silently as the young fighter finally drew away from his Master's hungry mouth and moved downward gracefully. The Jedi Master's hands trembled indecisively for a long moment, then touched the smaller man's face, guiding him. The slave hardly needed it, moving unerringly for his target, burrowing into the complex tangle of thick-layered garments with the ease of long practice.
Corm swallowed thickly, riveted to the tableau before him. Jinn's serenity shattered, his breath hitching and sobbing in his chest as the young man found his objective. The slave's strong hand rested on the older man's thigh, and his sleek muscles worked rhythmically in the bare, beautiful shoulders and back, rising and falling. Dipping and cresting.
Beautiful, both of them, in the heat of their passionate emotion. The subtle, despairing guilt, jealousy, and lust of the elder. The desperate attempts of the younger to defeat that guilt and redeem his favored status through pure erotic ecstasy. Corm licked his lips. He could hardly decide what he desired most. To break the raw harshness and power of Jinn, to ravish the tender vulnerability of Obi-Wan ... watching them together, he could not decide. But he knew what was within his reach. What he could do, and what he could have.
The slave shifted slightly, and now Corm was treated to glimpses of the Master's shaft gleaming slick and wet as his slave rose and fell on it, Jinn's broad hand trembling as it moved to cup the back of the young man's skull, directing him gently. The slave's pink, wet tongue protruding over his lower lip, shielding his Master from his teeth. His bright blue eyes opening and carefully estimating the progress of his Master's pleasure. Jinn's bone-deep shudder, and the soft aching cry torn from his chest as the slave shifted and took his Master deep into his throat. Jinn thrusting helplessly into the welcoming mouth, fingers tangling in the slave's braid and twining in his short hair, holding him down as his hips jerked upward, his body curling around the young man helplessly, the strangled moan of his pleasure escaping against his will.
Corm smiled, stroking his hand over the hip of a blonde beauty who had begun to nuzzle against him. Obi-Wan carefully licked away every trace of his Master's orgasm, unaware that he was under the Riadan priest's eye, plainly relishing the moment, delicately savoring each warm, bitter droplet. It was time to put both man and boy to the test, and reveal the treachery he had suspected from the very beginning. Even if there was none to be found, his purposes would be served.
Obi-Wan trotted through the tiled hall of the west wing of the royal palace, bearing a heavy ewer of lamp oil to its destination in the scullery. Qui-Gon was in audience with Corm and Ahar again, working on hammering out a trade treaty with representatives of the western continent that his padawan strongly suspected would never be used. His experience with Qui-Gon's temporary rejection last night had led to sobering insight. As a love slave, his life and duties could be exceptionally pleasant. But what of those slaves who were not loved? Qal's sorrow when he spoke of his mother and his sober apology when he spoke of Corm indicated that there was such a thing.
It had come to him as he slept pillowed on Qui-Gon's broad chest that he had actually seen very little of the life of a typical slave, only of certain slave duties. By his count, there were easily twice as many pleasure slaves as free persons in the palace; not each of them could have a love-Master. And he had seen kitchen slaves, but did not know where they slept or ate. How were they housed? What and when were they fed? He knew already that a displeasing slave's punishment could be severe and inhumane. What were the extremes to which the work slaves and unwanted ones were subjected? He knew that everything had not yet been revealed to him, but he needed to know so that he could make an accurate report to the Council and the Senate.
Entering the scullery, he set the ewer in a row of nine others and straightened his back. The scullions were busy, preoccupied with a game of cards, barely glancing at him. Looking purposeful, Obi-Wan trotted back out as though on business for a Master.
Behind him, one of the scullions looked up sharply and gestured at a petite girl with chestnut hair. She quickly skipped out after Obi-Wan.
"Obi." A soft call accompanied the light patter of feet, and Obi-Wan turned automatically, not bowing. The name was what the other slaves had taken as his; they seemed to think "Obi-Wan" too dignified, too like the name of a free man.
"Yes?" His smile was equally automatic, but genuine, as the pretty slave approached him.
"I need someone strong to help me, and my Master's workslaves are all busy." She returned the smile seven-fold, an inviting expression even though he was not a Master. "Are you under orders, Obi?"
"Not at the moment." Obi-Wan turned fully to face her. "What do you need?"
She gestured back to the scullery. "I must feed and water the kennel slaves, and I cannot carry the water bags alone."
Obi-Wan nodded sympathetically, hiding a flare of excitement. Kennel slaves? That sounded like something he very much needed to see -- her asking him was an oversight in the careful assignation of duties. He followed her and shouldered two huge tied sacks of water, then fell in behind her. She towed a small sledge with more sacks atop it, presumably containing food.
Slipping through a door he had barely noticed before, she led him down a long spiraled ramp into cool darkness.
The first thing Obi-Wan noticed was the smell. A smell of waste and vermin, iron and old blood. He blinked uneasily. This might be worse than he'd feared.
It was.
They reached the bottom of the ramp, a small area centrally spaced between tier upon tier of narrow iron pens. Some were under the floor, hands grasping upward. Obi-Wan forced himself to maintain his serenity, trailing after the slave-girl and pouring water into pans, troughs, cupped hands, open mouths, while she did the same with meal and dried meat.
Rats scurried about boldly, hardly frightened of the people they wove between. Some of the slaves were even bound inside their tiny kennels, thin and haggard. Some were scarred from the lash, or from multiple brands or other mutilations -- lost ears, hands, noses.
Fighting slaves with missing eyes gave him sullen, hating looks with the one remaining. Slaves fought for the meager rations. Some were too terrified of their cellmates even to try; some of the women had been bound to the bars by their hair.
This, then, was true slavery on Ria. A broad strata of misery that supported the debauchery of a lucky few. These were the work slaves, the displeasing slaves, the unwanted and overworked miserable creatures that a pretense at piety and love in slave-owning could not rationalize away.
Obi-Wan tried not to retch. This was all he needed to know of Corm and Ahar. Somehow, he had to find out if this situation was general on the planet. The Council would have to know that before they could judge fairly.
He finished the task grimly, turning briefly to his companion. "I have to --" He turned, starting to leave, and halted, his stomach sinking like a stone. Six large guards stood at the foot of the ramp, staring out at him. Corm stood behind them, a sneer spreading across his wide, hard face.
"We have caught him in his spying," Corm stated with satisfaction. "Seize him."
"Your pardon, Masters," Obi-Wan spoke hastily. "I was asked to attend to this task."
"Outsiders are not permitted in the slave pens," Corm informed him coolly. "Only branded slaves may come here, without my special dispensation." His glee was barely disguised in his eyes. "You will be punished."
"Forgive me, Master. I did not know." Obi-Wan desperately gathered the force of his will and reached for Qui-Gon's mind even as he spoke the mild words, felt his Master's consternation at the sudden mind-touch, felt his reassurance and haste.
Corm smirked at him nastily, even as Obi-Wan knelt in supplication. "Brand him," he snapped to the guards, and they caught Obi-Wan, dragging him away.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7