L'Histoire d'Obi (The Story of Obi) Chapter 3 - Acceptance (continued)
by Lilith Sedai
The smithy was a smoking hell. Forges and bellows lined its edges, the stone walls fairly sizzling with heat. It took Obi-Wan's breath, but he struggled to project to Qui-Gon in spite of his distress. He had to be found. He had to be saved from this. Corm was rubbing his hands with pleasure, surveying the room.
"Fill a brazier with coals and prepare irons," he directed, and one of the smiths jumped to do his bidding. Obi-Wan gulped.
"What do you think you're doing to my slave?" The low, silky voice was so cold it nearly froze the room in spite of the searing heat. Qui-Gon Jinn stepped through the door, the hem of his cloak brushing the sooty floor.
"He has overstepped his bounds," Corm snapped. "Trespassed and spied in forbidden areas of the palace. I caught him in one myself. He will be punished, Jedi!" Corm lifted his lip, sneering. "I am within my rights. I am the High Priest of the Riadan Temple, Master of all slaves in Agus Ria, and acting steward to the regent of this palace."
Qui-Gon stared at Obi-Wan for a long moment. "Where was he found?"
"The slave lodgings. With a girl," Corm smirked.
Qui-Gon's eyelashes flickered very, very slightly at his padawan.
"She asked me to help her feed the other slaves, Master!" Obi-Wan injected hastily. "I carried the water ...."
"They were missing for quite a long time." Corm smiled evilly. "The girl is to be beaten."
Qui-Gon gazed up at Corm, refusing to take the bait. "The Republic will not regard this action kindly," he rumbled. "I advise you not to pursue it."
"Your Republic will respect my religious authority." Corm's smirk was wicked. He gestured at the guards, who pushed Obi-Wan to the floor.
"I shall suspend the talks and return to Coruscant!" Qui-Gon's anger broke through his voice, the volume rising to a near-bellow. Obi-Wan had never heard such wrath from his normally serene mentor. It warmed his heart, while simultaneously chilling him with fear.
"Then go, and take with you a worthless, branded slave!" Corm laughed in Qui-Gon's face. "I shall call you on charges before your Senate, expose all that you have done here! Your lies, your spying! The treachery of the Jedi!"
Obi-Wan winced. That could not happen. He had to salvage this ... and there was only one way to do so. Stunning emotion swept through him as he let himself consider, for the first time, what it might mean to bear the brand of a love slave. He remembered how he had felt, surveying himself, reading the marks of Qui-Gon's avid desire. The whip weals, the love bites -- all would fade. But Qui-Gon's brand on his body ....
*Yes.* Obi-Wan nearly groaned aloud, desire sweeping him with sudden, entirely unexpected force. To be fully owned by his Master. To be marked as Qui-Gon's. To wear the evidence of Qui-Gon's touch forever ... it was worth a moment of pain, and far more than worthwhile if it meant he could protect the reputation of the Jedi -- and of his Master.
Obi-Wan squirmed his way free, just enough to turn his head to Qui-Gon, catching his Master's anguished eye. "Brand me. I beg your favor, my Master!" He heard the lust in his own tones, the challenge. Obi-Wan winced at the shock in Qui-Gon's eyes. He'd known it would be this way, and yet he had no way to explain himself.
Brutal hands were on him, his face forced into the soot on the floor of the smithy, but to him it was as though Qui-Gon were the only other person present in the room. "As your slave, I beg that you honor me with your brand."
For a long moment, Qui-Gon's eyes bored into Obi-Wan, then flickered to Corm, and back again. Indecision and poised violence loomed large in him, duty warring against love and hate. The Dark Side beckoned. Obi-Wan swallowed hard, trying to make his eyes a lifeline to his Master. *No. You are a Jedi.* He could not be sure if his Master heard the desperate thought.
"I will not do this." Qui-Gon's jaw clenched until the muscles cramped, the darkness pulsing in him. His hair lifted in the hot breeze as a bellows blew blue flame from a brazier of coals nearby.
"Would you have me wear a mark given by another?" Obi-Wan's eyes were strong, clear blue, and Qui-Gon could hear the Jedi calm in his padawan's voice. "Would you trust another to wield the iron?"
"Remember Xanatos!" Qui-Gon growled, helpless to offer further excuses, hoping the memories conjured by that word would be enough.
"Xanatos wears a brand, a memory of you. At his choosing. Would you deny me the same?" Obi-Wan's voice rang with confidence and conviction, as it had so long ago on Bandomeer when he had planned to sacrifice himself to free Qui-Gon and save the mining colony above.
Qui-Gon was desperate, trapped, and his eyes darted about the room, searching for escape, searching to find a way out, as he had done so long ago. But this time, there wasn't one. It was Qui-Gon against an entire planet, even his own padawan. Even Obi-Wan, who somehow wanted this of him and had determined to get it.
"Would you, Master? Would you deny me the chance to wear your mark ... in love?" Obi-Wan's eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"Slaves have no rights." Qui-Gon felt the rage dissipating and his control along with it. He seized at the crumbling walls in desperation. "And you have no right to demand this of me."
"Obi-Wan Kenobi's rights do not exist. His wishes are immaterial here," Corm interrupted. He stepped close to Qui-Gon. "He is a slave. Master him." His whisper was low, thick with lust. "Master *yourself.*"
Qui-Gon bowed his head, clutching at the cool of an anvil. "I will not do this thing."
"Then I will!" Corm snapped back at him, furious with impatience. "The slave will be branded, Jinn, by you ... or by me." Qui-Gon just shook his head, the fall of his silver-brown hair hiding his face from Obi-Wan's sight.
Trembling, the young Jedi padawan began to struggle. Corm signaled, and the men holding Obi-Wan lifted him. The young man writhed and two of them flew, one nearly striking the brazier before he fell to the floor. Two more shrank away, crying out in fear, unable to understand what had happened. The High Priest merely gloated, glad to receive confirmation of his guess that Obi-Wan possessed Jedi abilities. This entire setup had proved worthwhile indeed. Now his plans could proceed apace.
He stepped forward into the melee. "Hold him tightly!" Corm warned, adding his strength to the fray. Another man crashed into a wall of hanging tools, but four still clung to Obi-Wan, and together they fought to push him into the vise set nearby, a huge device for immobilizing squirming, resistant bodies under the iron.
"Master!" Obi-Wan pleaded, his voice choked as he writhed furiously and desperately to free himself without injuring his captors. "Let it be you. *Please!*"
"Let him go." Qui-Gon's voice was hoarse with anguish, and he raised his head, his face gaunt. The men hesitated, fearing Obi-Wan's abilities. "I said, let him GO!" This time, the invisible crush of pressure flung bodies everywhere throughout the forge, pinning them to its walls. Obi-Wan very nearly dropped as their hands were removed, but was caught in midair and lowered gently to his feet.
Corm, cold sweat rolling form his brow in spite of the heat of the forge fires, stared at Qui-Gon, awed by the extent of the Jedi Master's power to effortlessly dispatch seven strong men at once.
"You will not need the vise, Master," Obi-Wan spoke softly, walking demurely to take his accustomed place at Qui-Gon's left side, one pace back.
"I know." Qui-Gon's voice was hollow, broken. He reached, taking a set of tongs in unsteady hands.
"How is this done?" He turned haunted eyes on Corm, who froze for a moment under the rage in the Jedi's stare. "How is it DONE?" Qui-Gon roared, dropping the tongs and lunging for the priest, catching his tunic in both fists, hauling the startled man up to eye-level, leaving his booted toes dangling inches above the floor.
"Heat each piece of metal until it is almost ready to glow, take it in the tongs," Corm babbled hastily. "Tap it to his flesh for the barest instant. Build the pattern you want. It must be done with a steady hand, and firmly, with an equal pressure for each piece, or the brand will blur, or be badly formed --"
"My hand will be steady," Qui-Gon snarled, shaking Corm.
"You will have to lock him into the vise, immobilize him --"
"No." Qui-Gon dropped the priest to the earthen floor with unceremonious contempt. "Watch and see a man, Corm. Watch my slave show you that he is a thousand times the man you are."
Obi-Wan was moving, covering three empty quenching barrels with their round lids so that they formed a raised platform for him to lie upon. He did so, palm moving low on the left side of his belly, inward and downward from the bone of his hip, but not too far. "Here, Master," he requested softly.
Qui-Gon nodded once, grimly, setting his teeth, and reached for the tongs. "What mark do you wish, Obi-Wan?" The words slurred between his closed teeth; Qui-Gon did not know if he could ever force his jaw to open again.
"As you like, Master." Obi-Wan's soft, calm voice would have soothed him if anything could.
Qui-Gon ran his fingers through the cold metal pieces in their wooden box on the anvil, extracting two inch-tall shapes, very similar ones. Set close together, they would form a stylized J. Very well. If Obi-Wan must be branded, then let it be a reinforcement of his identity. Let him be branded a Jedi.
Qui-Gon was aware of his padawan's eyes following him with interest as he took two pairs of tongs and set the tiny pieces in the coals. As he pumped the bellows, the orange and blue flames cast saturnine shadows on his features, scorching his hair and beard.
Obi-Wan's eyes locked on his as he turned, tongs in hand. Qui-Gon never let himself falter, stepping forward.
Corm watched in awe.
The slave -- the padawan Kenobi -- lay perfectly still, unbound, as the first iron touched his skin, darting in with the grace and speed of an adder, to kiss the smooth white flesh and flick away. Obi-Wan merely inhaled slightly, a faint hiss of pain, unmoving. His Master threw the tongs and iron down, face shuttered, as he lifted the second iron. Corm could not help himself, creeping closer, watching Obi-Wan's still, peaceful face and serene eyes. Again the viper struck and recoiled.
Qui-Gon flung the second pair of tongs from him and lunged to kick the brazier, spraying coals in a wide arc across the earthen floor. He would not look at the burns he had placed on his padawan.
Obi-Wan raised himself, examining the mark his Master had chosen to put on him. "Jinn," he whispered so softly that Qui-Gon was not sure Obi-Wan even knew he had spoken aloud. The low sound was filled with wonder and pleasure.
Qui-Gon wept.
The Jedi Master found no contentment in the afternoon's meal, despite the fact that Corm left him alone for once, contenting himself with sitting back and smirking at him. The negotiations were nearly at their end. Qui-Gon had no desire to continue them, even had Obi-Wan not found what they needed. But at what cost?
Qui-Gon could not bear to think on the many things he had done to his padawan during this mission. If only he had accepted and acted on his feelings for Obi-Wan before this damned fiasco began, they might never have come to this ... but he hadn't. And so Obi-Wan had *wanted* to be taken, craved Qui-Gon's abusive attention ... and finally, demanded Qui-Gon's own brand. The Jedi Master trusted his feelings, and they whispered incontrovertibly that his padawan had *needed* to be marked by him, his desire for evidence of his Master's possession hinting at an insecurity so vast that Qui-Gon could hardly comprehend how Obi-Wan might have hidden it so well.
And it had been unavoidable. Qui-Gon had been forced to save some of the shambles of their mission, to avoid the scandal of Corm's accusations against the Jedi. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon had both known it. Unavoidable, like so many other things. Like Obi-Wan's firm insistence that they play these roles to the hilt ... like Qui-Gon's own deep weakness, his inability to resist his padawan's allure.
Corm and Obi-Wan had each played Qui-Gon like a stringed instrument; he was fully aware of that now. He tried unsuccessfully to quash his resentment for his padawan's part in the fiasco. Obi-Wan had done what he thought he must to complete the mission successfully, and he had done a far better job than his Master. Distracted by his emotions, Qui-Gon had only been an impediment to Obi-Wan, as clumsy and unskilled as a new padawan, stumbling over his own feet.
After the branding was done, they had walked back to Qui-Gon's quarters silently, Qui-Gon's cheeks slowly drying and tightening in the wind of their passage. Obi-Wan's normal fluid, swaying walk was unbalanced, stiffened with pain as he tried to immobilize the area of the searing burn. Inside their door, Qui-Gon had immediately reached to heal it, and been gently deflected. The gesture had nearly undone him again, as so many things already had on this cursed farce of a mission. Struggling for serenity and command of the situation, Qui-Gon had leveled a flat stare at Obi-Wan. "My mission is over," he commented dryly.
Obi-Wan met his eyes with a quiet, significant nod. "Yes, Master. It is." Qui-Gon suspected that meant Obi-Wan thought he had succeeded in learning what he needed to know for the Council's purposes. In any case, his padawan knew better than to contradict Qui-Gon in this decision. Simultaneously relieved and aching, Qui-Gon had taken his beloved student by the hand and chained the young man to the wall, a tacit command that he refrain from running further risks. Obi-Wan had accepted the unexpected action willingly, and Qui-Gon had left him there.
"High Priest, I believe I have done all that I can at this time to create the agreements your people will need if your society is accepted into the Republic." The Jedi Master knew his hostility was barely veiled. "I wish to return to Coruscant."
"The transport offplanet will be ready tomorrow morning." Corm broke his silent thoughts, the comment almost jovial. He was amused by watching the play of Qui-Gon's emotions. "However, we have already scheduled a group of councilmen and city leaders for an evening's meeting with the Republic's emissary. We would be honored if you met with them before you leave."
It was one thing Qui-Gon could still do. He nodded almost imperceptibly, rose, and accompanied the dignitaries to a conference chamber, to set their petitions for trade privileges aside tactfully. They would not be needed, not if he had anything to say about it.
Obi-Wan drifted out of his light healing trance and reached for a sense of his Master. He was reassured to know that Qui-Gon was not far away. He hated being left alone, trussed like this, even though he understood why Qui-Gon had done it -- Obi-Wan had forced his Master's hand badly in the smithy. Not only did Qui-Gon require assurance that his padawan was safe and sound, but he also needed to re-establish his control over Obi-Wan's movements and actions.
The young Jedi fidgeted, sighing a little as he sought a more comfortable position. If something happened to Qui-Gon and he never came back, Obi-Wan would be in the very uncomfortable predicament of having to choose between their cover story and his own physical well-being. Qui-Gon had bound him wordlessly, pocketing the key. It was his Master's best way of ensuring that no further trouble would arise from his padawan's wanderings.
Obi-Wan tested the chains that held him to the wall, glad that the stones were on a sunward exposure. At least he was comfortably warm. He sighed, relaxing in the chains, and time crept slowly by. Soon they would go, and resume the lives that they had left. The thought gave Obi-Wan both a pang of hope and one of regret and fear. Surely Qui-Gon could not pretend that they had not made love, could not deny the strength of the desire that had risen between them.
Could he?
The heavy wooden door creaked open, interrupting the young Jedi's worries. Having recently been immersed in the living Force to find Qui-Gon's presence and location, Obi-Wan knew it was not his Master entering the room. His eyes snapped open even as he forced himself to preserve his calm in case he needed to defend. But it was just a slave girl.
"Your Master sends wine to his favored slave." The girl set a pitcher and goblet down on the table, filled the goblet. It was a pale wine, and Obi-Wan's mouth watered. He could smell the acidic, acerbic crushed-grape flavor from where he lay flush to the warm stones. His mouth *was* bone dry, and the brand throbbed in spite of the healing he had done, the small mark flaming on his lower belly. His Master must have sensed the touch of his mind when Obi-Wan reached out to him earlier and thought to send his padawan a drink. He should have let Qui-Gon work a healing to ease his pain, but he had suspected that the older Jedi would elect to remove the mark altogether.
The girl approached Obi-Wan humbly, admiring his body, and set the pitcher aside, filling a deep goblet. Obi-Wan blinked as she performed the ritual of obeisance to him, touching the wine cup to her own lips before moving to loosen the gorget that held his head against the wall. He leaned forward to accept the liquid from her, and she stood on tiptoe to tilt it against his mouth. Obi-Wan drank thirstily.
The alcohol sent a burning rush through him immediately, the intoxicants acting quickly on his empty stomach. Obi-Wan carefully adjusted his metabolism to burn them away. Left alone as he was, he was too vulnerable to get drunk. He only needed the moisture.
The girl tipped the goblet too far, and a droplet of wine flowed down from his mouth, over his jaw, dripping onto his chest. The goblet fell away, empty, and the girl leaned forward. Her tongue was delicate on his sweat-soaked skin, sending a rush of desire through him. His head was swimming. Obi-Wan blinked fuzzily, and then it seemed that the ceiling descended on him with a crash, though some part of his mind whispered that it was only his eyelids. 'Tricked again ...' a mocking voice seemed to whisper as he drifted into black.
He awakened in a different room. His mouth tasted of sour wine and his stomach threatened to expel its contents. His entire body felt heavy and leaden, and his concentration was foggy, but the metabolic boost he had set in motion was still working, and the fog was lifting even as he lay there estimating his condition.
The wine had been drugged. Obviously it had not been sent by Qui-Gon at all, and Obi-Wan had clearly been a fool twice in one day, falling for a pretty slave's tricks in the house of a known enemy. He thanked the Force for having had the insight to alter his metabolism before the drug had time to work, but he didn't have time to waste on trifles. What mattered now was getting out of here, finding Qui-Gon. He reached for his Master's presence, but the fog was too thick and he subsided, saving his energy.
Who had taken him, and why? Corm, obviously, and probably to destroy him, so that Obi-Wan could not carry tales of the slave pens of the palace in Agus Ria back to the Senate. The padawan took a moment to study his surroundings. They were not pleasant. He was strapped to a rack that was like the one upon which he had once been whipped, only on this one there was a loose web of supporting straps, holding his body relatively immobile instead of letting it swing. Across the room was a wall of kennels, each holding a slave. Obi-Wan felt a renewed rush of nausea.
This was a different room than the one he had visited this morning -- different, and worse. Each kennel was recessed into the wall, barely large enough for the single tightly-curled body it held. Weary, defeated slaves lay or squatted within, eyes dull, waiting to be freed for their duties -- Obi-Wan could even sense the life signature of someone who had been stuffed into an amazingly small closed box, with airholes in its lid. Whimpers resounded throughout the room from the beaten ... and the tortured.
Around the room were ranged a variety of implements that could only be intended for savage punishment and torture. Whips, pincers, racks that could be extended by the turning of wheels, devices for piercing and crushing ... he shuddered with sympathy for the poor wretches in their cages. Nothing he had seen before on Ria had prepared him for this. Again he reached for his Master but was unable to penetrate the fog between them. He had to make sure Qui-Gon knew of this! But perhaps his Master had been drugged, as well.
Obi-Wan struggled against the straps for a moment, furious. The Force slid clumsily through his head; he could manage some crude control but not enough yet to work the fine catches in the clasps at his wrists. Even as Obi-Wan struggled to free himself, he heard the doors of the small dungeon opening and voices from the hall without. One he recognized. Corm.
Obi-Wan felt his lips draw back in a snarl. Very well. Obi-Wan would play along with the charade, regaining his clarity and control with every moment, husbanding his strength until he had to strike. He let his eyes shut and sagged in the straps.
"The slave drank all the wine?" Corm questioned sharply, and there was a frightened feminine assent. "Then he will be unconscious till the evening." Corm's voice was thick with gloating and with lust. "We'll give him a mild neural purgative and return him to Jinn, and neither of them will know the difference."
A second voice, an unfamiliar one. "Return him to Jinn? I thought we were to keep this one, use him to train the others."
"I had planned to do that, but it is too dangerous." Corm sounded faintly nervous for the first time. "The Jedi Knight would take the planet apart stone by stone to regain his love slave. Best to let him go. Perhaps the abilities manifest on their own. Or perhaps we could seek others who might be willing to train them, others with less delicate consciences ..."
Train them? Train whom? And in what? Abilities ... he must mean the Force. There could be Force-sensitives on Ria; who else might Obi-Wan be expected to train? He listened sharply, hoping for more information. The steps of the unknown man receded, and Corm approached. His boots were loud on the stone floor, approaching Obi-Wan, and the young Jedi padawan could feel the caress coming and chose not to flinch away from it. For the moment. Perhaps Corm would yet reveal more of what he was up to.
"Beautiful boy," Corm sighed, as his hand traced the stretched muscles in Obi-Wan's chest. "I'll have him, and then we'll take our genetic sample. It can be used to inseminate many slaves. We'll soon learn if the Republic's citizens are compatible with our own."
Obi-Wan lay perfectly still, but he felt as though his ears had pricked to points, and his mind raced. Why would Corm need to do such a thing? Why would he need Obi-Wan for the breeding of slaves, when he had an entire population to choose from? Corm could already breed slaves to torture. If he wanted Obi-Wan's genetic material ... the padawan struggled against the lingering fogginess of the drug in his brain. The obvious conclusion was terribly clear. With Obi-Wan, with a Jedi, Corm could breed slaves who could be trained to use the Force, Force-enhanced bodyguards, field laborers, work servants, pleasure slaves -- all with extraordinary supernatural ability to enhance their performance. Sons and daughters of Obi-Wan's own, to be branded and tormented in slavery, only a very few at best finding the pampered life of a favored pleasure slave -- and even that would not be of their choosing.
Suffice it to say, Corm wouldn't obtain either the sex or the sample he was after. Not while Obi-Wan still lived. Better to die than to permit a child of his to be brought into such a life.
Even worse, Obi-Wan knew that he could expect it to be the same for countless other Republic citizens, citizens and children and especially failed Jedi candidates who might themselves be enticed to Ria somehow and fall slave, be captured by the Hutt and sold to the Riadans ... he released his rage into the Force, centering himself in serenity again. He would do all that one man could to prevent such things. Beyond that, there was only the will of the Force.
And Obi-Wan was not without power to influence *some* things. Corm thought he knew what he needed to proceed with his plans, but he was far from understanding the powers of the Jedi. Even half-drugged, bound, and incapacitated, Obi-Wan could do what he had to do to defend himself from simple sexual assault. None of his own children would be made slave, at the least.
Corm added a second hand to his caresses, and his thick wet lips touched Obi-Wan's skin. The young Jedi still waited, biding his time, hoping for more information, but none was forthcoming, only more of the loathsome caresses. Then Corm fumbled at his belt, and Obi-Wan knew the time had come.
He opened his eyes, staring into Corm's startled gaze, his stare the angry blue fire at the nimbus of a lightsaber blade.
Corm faltered slightly, swallowing. "Did he drink it all?" he stepped back, glancing for the girl he had brought.
"I did," Obi-Wan said, his voice crystal clear. "But I am a Jedi. Like my Master." He bared his teeth. The time for pretense was past.
Corm stepped back hastily, knocking the girl aside. Damn the boy's strength! He remembered the young man's control, had seen him take a branding, unbound, unmoving. He should have known this might happen. "Go!" Corm kicked at her with his boot in panic. "Fetch Raf! If we can't drug him, we'll have to dispose of him after all!"
Obi-Wan felt his lips stretch into a malicious smile. He reached for his Master again, inwardly damning the dregs of the intoxicant that still clung to him, preventing that contact.
Corm rushed to the side of the room, fumbling in an alcove, preparing more drugged wine, cursing. He'd wanted the boy so badly he'd miscalculated, forced his hand, rushed by Qui-Gon's decision to abandon negotiations and return to Coruscant.
Obi-Wan relaxed, watching, unafraid. Corm's hands were shaking wildly; he dropped several of the white pellets before he managed to get a few inside the wine cup and pour the liquor in with them. Rushing back to Obi-Wan, wine slopping, he cranked the rack over until Obi-Wan lay horizontal with the floor. Corm reached and clamped Obi-Wan's nose shut, planning to force him to take the wine.
Five minutes later, Obi-Wan's perfectly alert, serene eyes still watched Corm calmly with no hint of distress, the padawan's lips firmly shut.
Ten minutes later, the same.
At last Corm cursed desperately, flinging aside the drugged liquid and releasing Obi-Wan, who immediately resumed normal breathing.
"You Jedi aren't human!" The priest was badly shaken, his thick tongue slicking his lips with terror. Obi-Wan shrugged as well as he was able, tied as he was. The fog was still thinning, though he could not yet feel Qui-Gon's presence through it. Soon. Very soon.
Obi-Wan let his lips thin in an intimidating smile. He still couldn't reach Qui-Gon, but there was one thing he *could* do now that he couldn't earlier. The blood drained from Corm's face as the leather threaded through the buckles that held Obi-Wan's hands slowly began to slide free, untouched.
A clattering of boots down the corridor spurred Obi-Wan to extra haste, and his right wrist fell free. Corm's sword slid from its scabbard and flew to Obi-Wan's fist. The weapon was heavy and awkward, its balance entirely different from a lightsaber, and it felt wrong in Obi-Wan's hand, but as the remainder of the restraints fell away, he launched himself forward anyway.
His knees very nearly buckled, but Obi-Wan turned the stumble into a feint and slashed at Corm's legs. The Riadan had not lied. He *was* a warrior, jumping instantly to evade the rapid slash, buying enough time for his men to begin pouring into the room, dividing Obi-Wan's attention. Many of these men had seen Obi-Wan perform the Grand Dance; those respected him immediately. The ones who didn't swiftly learned to do so.
Obi-Wan danced with his sword, naked against armored men, and was untouched. He seemed to blur, leaping, whirling, parrying from all angles at once, but it was all he could do to block blows from so many opponents without launching any of his own.
Then more men flowed into the room, pressing him backward perforce, narrowing his field of motion. The stalemate shifted slightly; he could not maintain this pace forever. Soon he must kill or be killed.
He blinked, his concentration wavering, and nearly faltered in a parry. He quickly somersaulted backward, lighting in a crouch atop the topmost tier of kennels. He could not keep up a battle indefinitely against so many men, and he needed to summon total concentration to seek Qui-Gon's consciousness through the drug. He reached out again, desperate, searching for that familiar presence, but it was beyond him.
Still, there was nothing further to be gained by fighting; he could not win through an entire army. Even the corridor outside was crowded now, jammed with men. Obi-Wan dropped the sword.
"I surrender."
None wanted to be first to advance on Obi-Wan and drag him down from his perch, but one man kicked his sword away, and it disappeared under the feet of the press of armed soldiers and guards. Obi-Wan gracefully vaulted down and offered his arms for binding.
He would have to trust in himself.
"We'll run a full neural purge on him before his Master learns what I've done." Corm was sweating. "That one would be the death of us all!"
A man stood forth out of the mob, eyes terrified, tongue darting to slick his lips. Obi-Wan recognized him; he'd been one of the guards who had dragged the padawan to the smithy for branding. He was burly and dirty, with long curling black hair. He'd had courage then, withstanding Obi-Wan's use of the Force and refusing to cower from Qui-Gon even after the display of his mastery of the same power, but he had apparently reached the end of his rope this time.
"You are a fool, Corm of the Temple." Raf hissed the words fearfully. "Bringing this boy down here to rape, without first accounting for his Master! Are you mad? A thousand slaves are for rent in the city, each one prettier than the last, but you must have the preferred love-slave of the diplomatic liaison -- a Jedi Knight!"
Obi-Wan remained silent.
"I had him drugged!" Corm mustered an intimidating stare. "How was I to know the boy would shake it off so quickly?"
"You watched him branded this very day! I was there, Corm! You saw him send men flying with his mind, and you saw how much stronger his Master is! You saw this boy take the iron unbound, without even a whimper! Surely that might have taught you a lesson, enough to guess that there was unacceptable risk involved in kidnapping him!" Raf was shouting by the end of his tirade, glancing nervously about as though he expected Qui-Gon Jinn to materialize among them at any moment, as he had done at the smithy.
"I had to get the --" Corm halted, remembering Obi-Wan's presence. "Will none of you bind the slave?" he yelled to his men, spittle flying from his mouth.
Two men nervously stepped forward and put irons on the young padawan, who suffered it quietly, distracted by his continuing fruitless search for Qui-Gon's aura.
"The neural purge will take care of him. You'll have to knock him unconscious and inject it in him. The tranquilizer worked, for a time. How can he shake that off, when it works in less than a minute?" The priest hesitated, calming himself. "And pray to whatever gods you favor that it *does* work, or the Ambassador will cut your throats with your own swords."
"And your throat, Corm of the Temple?" Raf's eyes glittered. "If the purge fails, your throat will be first under the Ambassador's blade, I think."
Corm hesitated, fear waxing within him so strongly Obi-Wan could feel it leaking out and into the other men. "Very well. We will forego the sample for now, and use thrice the maximum dose in the purge. Then we'll sell him, keeping track of who makes the purchase. If he cannot be found, the Ambassador will have no proof against us! It has been clear for days that there is conflict between them. None of our people will hesitate to believe the boy has run away."
The Priest began to regain his confidence. "We will let Ahar answer any inquiries from the Republic. His mind is clear. Even if Jedi can see through the confusion of the bitterroot, they will find no guilt there."
"We should kill him." Raf's voice was flat. "There is too much risk in leaving him alive."
"Fool!" Corm lunged forward, catching Raf's tunic in his fist and flinging his subordinate against the wall. "If we kill him, there will be no way to complete our plans! Once the Ambassador has given up his search, once the Republic has forgotten him, we will know where he is, and we can retrieve him. Then I will be his Master." Corm's hot eyes grew crafty as he turned a triumphant stare on Obi-Wan.
Obi-Wan could have laughed in the Riadan's face. Corm was playing into his hands; the Priest's greed had blinded him fatally. The padawan hid his triumph, stilling his face ... except for the faintest misleading quiver in his lip. The Riadan's smile widened into a leer, and he signaled Raf harshly. "Do not injure him seriously."
"NO!" Obi-Wan feigned despair, struggling. He flung men from him indiscriminately, squirming, fleeing until he was tripped and flung to his face. Eventually he let the crowd overwhelm him, pretending despair as he stumbled after Raf, twelve mercenary guardsmen hustling him from the room. The Riadan mercenary was cursing, nursing a split lip, and several of his men were limping. Obi-Wan found it difficult not to take satisfaction in the fact.
He had little enough fear of the mental purge -- another drug; if he did not get a chance to dominate Raf's mind and avoid the dosage, its effects could be retarded; at worst he could enter a trance and force it out of his system.
Feeling in control of the situation once more, Obi-Wan decided against contacting his Master just yet. It could actually be advantageous to their mission that he be sold, that he delay their return to Coruscant just long enough for further crucial research. There was no way he could discover the full extent of Riadan slavery while he nestled in the palace under Qui-Gon's protective wing. Anonymous in the public slave pens, alone on the block, forsaken in the house of an unknowing Riadan Master, Obi-Wan would discover whether or not the state of affairs he had glimpsed in Corm's private slave pens was an exception ... or the Riadan norm.
It was easy enough to sense the unannounced blow falling toward his skull, imitate the pillow of cushioning Force Qui-Gon had used to soften his whipping, and feign unconsciousness from the blow he had so subtly diverted. It was not much more difficult to isolate a tiny patch of tissue around the needle inserted into his arm, confining the drug and forcing it osmotically out of his body, where it could evaporate harmlessly from his skin.
Obi-Wan lolled, letting himself be dragged from the palace.
From the crenellated wall of the palace garden, hooded eyes watched, and as the guards turned a corner with their burden, a cloaked figure dropped outside the wall. The watcher melted into the streets, following them at a safe distance until he was sure of their destination. Then he turned aside. There was little more he could do, for the moment.
Qui-Gon finished with the last diplomatic liaison well after sunset, bowing politely, impatience screaming for release inside the serenity. Something itched at his nerves, a sense of things out of place, hidden wrongness. The sooner they were off this blasted planet, the better.
It took additional restraint to moderate his stride as he moved toward the suite of rooms he and Obi-Wan had been given. He tried to deny both his eagerness and his guilt as he opened the door and stepped within. Obi-Wan had been left chained for far longer than Qui-Gon had anticipated. He tossed aside his cloak quickly, moving for the antechamber where he had left his student.
"Are you ready for supper, pada--" Qui-Gon's gentle words died in his throat. The chains hung empty on the wall. Obi-Wan was gone.
He forced himself to stand still while his mind raced. Obi-Wan could have freed himself, or he could have been taken. Who would have taken him? If it were Corm, he would get no satisfactory answers from the man ... perhaps Qal would be of help.
Qui-Gon hurried out, and found himself unable to locate the Riadan Prince. Immediately, his suspicions began to grow. His padawan and Qal, both missing at once ... it was almost certain they were cooperating in some hare-brained, useless, dangerous scheme together. Qui-Gon felt his temper heating as he wondered what it might be. Had Obi-Wan decided to intervene between Corm and King Ahar at Qal's urging?
Casting about with the Force, he began to seek the Prince's life signature. Finding it, Qui-Gon swept through the corridors like an angel of wrath. Obi-Wan's signature was not present; the more cause for his growing concern and the building threat of sudden, overwhelming fury.
He rounded the corner, coming on Qal with a suddenness that clearly intimidated the young Prince, who instinctively stepped back until a wall halted his motion. The girl at his side cowered back more nervously, stepping well away from Qui-Gon.
"Your Highness." Qui-Gon reined in his tone and temper carefully. "Have you seen my Obi-Wan?"
"Not since earlier this afternoon." Qal's answer was a shade too careful.
"Indeed." Qui-Gon's tone was cool. "If you see him, I would ask your favor. Command him that he is to return to my side. Immediately." The final word was ice as it left his lips, and he fixed the Prince with a gaze of barely veiled threat.
Guilt and resentment, vibrating through the Force around him like a swamp-snake crawling through slime. Qui-Gon had already let that snake curl around him; it was difficult to pry it loose. He watched as Qal hurriedly turned and strode away. At last he tamed himself, but he could feel the wrath lingering, waiting to sink its fangs into him again.
He had to find Obi-Wan.
Silent, drawing the Force around him like a cloak of shadows, he fell in behind Qal. He was certain the Prince would lead him to his padawan.
The young Jedi was dragged through a maze of dusty streets, and eventually was tumbled to the filthy floor of a building. Slitting his eyelids, he watched the transaction: a receipt in exchange for his body, and the promise of the funds he brought ... minus, of course, the auction house's commission. A tag was wired onto his collar -- his lot number.
And then he was stuffed into one of the tiny kennels to wait until he regained consciousness. Obi-Wan drew into himself, glad that his body was limber. He could neither raise his head nor extend any part of his body fully. He sighed, settling into the Force. For what he must do now, he required a perfect trance, and this posture would make that difficult.
Obi-Wan sank away from himself, opening to the outer world, and to the people in it. Dozens, hundreds of slaves. Career slavers. A moving, gelatinous mass of humanity.
And of misery.
The flicker of the lash. The searing kiss of the iron. Torment under hot pincers. Verbal abuse. The separation of mothers and children. Hours of senseless labor, poor rations ... overlapping experiences cascaded over him mercilessly. He turned himself away from the unbearable cataract of pain, reaching to the slavers.
Cruelty, pleasure in the pain of others. Precious little love or caring, even for their fellow free men. A callous disregard of the slaves, who were merely animals. The only god they truly worshipped was the fulfillment of selfish pleasures and the pursuit of money.
Obi-Wan filtered out of his trance. He had his final proofs. Now he needed only to wait for his opportunity to escape.
That opportunity was slow in coming. Though he had expected to be sold quickly, several hours passed as he was carefully prepared for the auction block. At last, resigned, Obi-Wan permitted himself to relax and enjoy what was being done to him, a slow, careful process of maximizing his physical beauty.
Lazily he reached out with his senses. It was well after nightfall already -- and for the first time in hours, he could sense Qui-Gon. His Master was approaching rapidly; he must have learned Obi-Wan's whereabouts and come after him. And it was well -- Obi-Wan needed to learn no more.
Suddenly, all that he could think of was how he would look to Qui-Gon when he was displayed upon the block. There was no shame in him, no fear of the eyes of others. There was only his relief that Qui-Gon had come for him, and pleasure in imagining how his Master might see him. This might be his last chance to display himself so boldly for Qui-Gon's eyes, his last chance to melt his Master's determined reserve with the brazen beauty and paradoxical freedom his role had permitted him.
He would not waste it.
He was bathed thoroughly and dried by slave girls, who marveled both at his body and at its lack of response to them. Their clever fingers reworked and retied his braid, and Obi-Wan lay serene, accepting. Then his body was oiled with a dark musky oil that turned his skin to gold and highlighted his muscles. Obi-Wan enjoyed the sensation of its warmth being massaged onto his body, simply being in the moment.
He was rouged next, made up with subtle care, his nipples and penis darkened to rose-amber, the deep ash blond of his chest and pubic hair dusted subtly darker. Then his face was painted almost as though he were a girl, subtle highlights on cheek and jaw, kohl around his eyelids, more of the darkening dust on lashes and brows. His lips were rouged and oiled, accenting their narrow line with a touch of fullness, and more of the sweet musky oil was teased into his hair, making it appear as though he were fresh with the sweat of some pleasant erotic activity.
A perfumer touched him with another subtle musk and Obi-Wan could feel the pheromone base of the perfume melding with his own body chemistry. Anyone near him would experience it also.
His only moment of distress came when the collar bearing Qui-Gon's name was cut from him, hacksawed from his neck and replaced with an anonymous one, un-engraved. The loss of Qui-Gon's collar felt like he had lost his Master, somehow, and it forced him to reach again for Qui-Gon's reassuring presence. Finding it, he forced himself to relax as the lot number was wired onto him once more.
A constant shuffle began and he was moved through cage after cage, approaching the block. Heightening anticipation, a growing swell of excited noise. Finally Obi-Wan's eyes were retouched and his lashes were dusted dark once more, and he was ready to ascend the block. Not a moment too soon. He felt the chill of metal under his bare feet as he climbed into blazing glare. The room was circular, steeply slanted. He squinted, finding a half-circle of open floor packed with free persons, a tilted row of seating, and a tall tier of private boxes. Much like a small theater, then, and he was at center stage.
The auctioneer was a woman, and most of those in the crowd were women also. Obi-Wan glanced about, looking for a glimpse of Qui-Gon, but he could only see a mass of anonymous female faces.
There was a moment of expectant hush, and then a swelling shout greeted him as a spotlight fell on his upturned face, casting his body into sharp relief, but he was hardly aware of it, seeking Qui-Gon's reaction.
There was none.
Surprise, then irritation, flared in Obi-Wan at Qui-Gon's calm, injuring his vanity. Very well. He would *make* his Master react, then. He knew he could.
The auctioneer had begun to speak. "This young warrior, but recently fallen slave, is an offworlder. Note his muscular thighs." Her whip tapped at Obi-Wan's leg, and he moved, flexing the limb, conscious of a gush of sighed approval from the crowd. But not from Qui-Gon.
"Well-endowed, youthful, vigorous. A fine bedmate and a strong worker. Who will bid, ladies, on this handsome silk slave?"
An eager voice called from the crowd, and another. The numbers meant little to Obi-Wan, he knew nothing of Riadan currency, but the bidding was steady, and rising quickly, stimulating his pride.
"Or gentlemen? A battle every night to tame his spirit, to make him cry your name in chains." The auctioneer smiled, flicking her arm at Obi-Wan, pointing a path for him.
Obi-Wan lifted his chin defiantly, but obeyed the auctioneer's gesture, walking back and forth across the front of the block, displaying himself. He thought of Qui-Gon's eyes on him, following him from somewhere far in the back of the crowd, and let his hips begin to sway sensually. The bidding continued, creeping upward.
"Slave paces!" The auctioneer snapped as he passed her podium, flicking the whip lightly at him.
Obi-Wan did not know them, but he did not let that stop him.
Harnessing the tension in his body, the heady exhilaration of so much public admiration and his growing frustration with Qui-Gon's emotional silence, he fell into a pose, slightly out of range of the auctioneer's whip.
An Art of Grace, a meditative exercise. Many Masters did them, melding body, spirit, and mind. Each created his own, following the Force in his body. It was the most individual expression of harmony between the physical self and the Force. Padawans never did such, learning formal katas. A Knight might begin to create his, but it was never completed until he had mastered himself and the Force, and been granted the rank of that achievement.
Obi-Wan fell into the pose for the first move of Qui-Gon's own Art of Grace.
Qui-Gon stood, arms folded into the sleeves of his cloak, watching his student ascend the block. Obi-Wan was stunningly beautiful as the lights exploded onto him, and the women in the audience gasped, delighted.
Qui-Gon closed himself down immediately, refusing to participate in the hysteria that rose about him, and refusing also to participate in darker emotions. He had spied Qal waiting in the crowd almost as soon as he entered. Qal was clad in a gray cloak like any one of a hundred, his features covered and anonymous, but Qui-Gon knew his life-signature well from following it halfway across Agus Ria. The Prince was holding a bidder's paddle, preparing to make a purchase.
The Prince might be planning to buy Obi-Wan, he might be planning to drive the padawan's price as high as possible, to ensure that Obi-Wan would be bought by someone of wealth. Whatever the case, the two of them had clearly conspired, independent of the Jedi Master, to expand Obi-Wan's experience of slavery. Perhaps they had even conspired to use this as a ruse to torment Qui-Gon, to break his restraint, to force him to seek solace and peace in the relief of Obi-Wan's strong arms and welcoming body when his padawan was returned to him.
If that were their motive, they would be sorely disappointed.
Five hundred pairs of eyes or more were in that crowd, all devouring his Obi-Wan. All caressing the taut, oiled body of his padawan. The beauty that was his, Qui-Gon's by right, no one else's to see. No one else's to feel. His. He forced himself to numbness, battling back the temptation to succumb to his jealousy. Qui-Gon Jinn was not a Jedi Master for nothing. Ragged though it had been during the mission to date, at the moment, his control was honed and complete. This was, after all, far less terrible than setting heated iron to his padawan's flesh. The young man upon the block ceased to be Obi-Wan to him.
Qui-Gon watched, indifferent, as the young man was paraded across the stage. When the bidding ceased, then perhaps he would speak. Not before. There was little point in driving up the bids, and he was keenly curious to see what Qal might do.
Obi-Wan was tapped by a whip, and stepping aside, slid into a pose, freezing there for a moment. Qui-Gon's Force-enhanced senses let him hear the auctioneer's command. Slave paces. Obi-Wan knew no such things, and Qui-Gon felt an instant's worry that his padawan might be beaten for his lack of knowledge.
But the pose began to flow into a kata Qui-Gon did not recognize, and the auctioneer, though momentarily surprised, flourished her whip, recommending Obi-Wan's movements to the breathless audience.
Where had his padawan learned this thing? The motions were slow, measured, infinitely graceful. They harnessed, sublimated, and dispersed what seemed to be an infinite tension, transmuting it into an inevitable flow of motion. If he didn't know better, he'd think his padawan was doing an ... an ... Art of Grace. Yes.
But his padawan was not ready, and the Art escaped him; beautiful as it was, harmony was missing from the dance, and the motions Obi-Wan made did not perfectly connect him with the living Force. Qui-Gon could see that here the arc of a sweep should have been longer, the reach greater. There, a stride should have moved him a pace further left. That bow should have been deeper. The energy of the routine needed to be harder, stronger, more mature ....
Qui-Gon's control shuddered as he suddenly understood.
This was not Obi-Wan's own attempt at an Art. This was one he had seen and copied, one someone else had performed, a bigger man, and Obi-Wan was doing it himself, as he should not. This was *his* Art of Grace. Qui-Gon's. And it was on clumsy display in his padawan's body, before a roomful of slavering buyers, who even now were shouting higher and higher purchase prices at the stunned, delighted auctioneer. Any kata would have done as well, or better. That Obi-Wan had chosen this one was a message. A taunt. An arrogant demand that Qui-Gon admire and bid. Obi-Wan had taken a very private, quiet part of his Master's being and set it contemptuously, and poorly, on display.
The Jedi Master was too proud and angry to bid upon what he already rightfully owned.
The bids began to thin as the price rose. Qui-Gon watched in silent, growing anger as Qal handed his paddle to the slave girl he had brought, let her bid on Obi-Wan. It must be as he had suspected, then. This was a cruel ruse. The last bid was made, Qal's slave holding her paddle aloft in triumph, and the auctioneer acknowledged the sale.
Turning, he walked out into the night.
Qal frowned, watching Qui-Gon slide away. He'd recognized the Jedi partway through the sale, and had fully expected Jinn to buy his padawan. He could not understand why the man had held his silence, let Obi-Wan be bought by someone else ... did he no longer want his slave? Might Qal have him now?
"Pick up the slave and return him to the palace. Secretly." He hurriedly took leave of his girl. Hustling through the crowd rudely, he pursued Qui-Gon Jinn to the exit and beyond.
Obi-Wan moved, remembering his Master's form, striving for it, knowing it was beyond him. Qui-Gon's aura was still silent and uncommunicative. Obi-Wan continued the Art, hearing the cries of women, the rapidly escalating bids.
No male voice had yet spoken.
Perhaps Qui-Gon merely wanted to discover his padawan's value, see what Obi-Wan would sell for. Obi-Wan did not wish to disappoint him, so he threw himself into the routine, overreaching himself, straining muscle and sinew, trying to perfect what he knew he could not do.
Finishing, he was aware of sweat rolling down his body, and he let his eyes open. He stepped to the edge of the stage, standing above the shifting crowd and waiting, body drooping with exhaustion.
No bid came.
Shrieked shrill offers, feminine pandemonium, but none from Qui-Gon. Where was his Master? Obi-Wan reached for Qui-Gon's presence again, beginning to feel desperation -- and felt that presence receding from him, already far from the auction house where he stood.
The color drained from his face and his body seized with cramp and goosebumps from the chill rejection that emanated down their bond when his touch on it was recognized.
He could fight. He could fight, and die, in an attempt to escape, to follow his Master. But what was the point? He had been spurned.
Obi-Wan sank to his knees, and the auctioneer's fist closed, signaling acceptance of the final bid. A woman moved forward through the crowd, accepting a sale ticket. Numbly, the young Jedi let himself be led away.
In an anteroom, the auction lock-collar was removed from him, and bonds placed on him yet again. Obi-Wan, too crushed to resist, nevertheless hated them now, hated the feel of the obdurate metal on his body. He was carefully blindfolded and leashed, another collar locked onto his throat. Not his Master's. Obi-Wan had not even energy to weep or speak to his new Mistress.
He let himself be led through the streets of the city, every noise and sensation impacting his body like a blow.
He was led indoors at last, into a damp chilly room with a stone floor. Obi-Wan hardly cared. He was not sure what he had done to anger Qui-Gon so severely that his Master would leave him. He could escape this, of course, could and would ... but would he then be welcome to return to Qui-Gon?
"Kneel," the woman said, and Obi-Wan knelt miserably in the middle of the floor. He sensed fear as feminine fingers touched him, moving over his arms, loosening the bindings. It puzzled him. Would it not be obvious to anyone that he was beaten, that he had no defiance left in him?
She freed him of all but the tight blindfold. "Dance," she commanded. "The one from the block."
Obi-Wan hesitated. "I can't."
The woman hesitated. "You will," she told him, her voice determined. He felt her sudden nervousness and a flicker of pity formed in his heart. She did not know what she had stepped into.
"Ask any other dance of me," Obi-Wan begged.
"No. Do that one." She padded around him, her feet pattering on the floor. "I have a whip," she said, trailing its blades against his back. "I will use it."
Obi-Wan shrugged and half-heartedly moved himself into the opening position of Qui-Gon's Art. He would fake it, pretend to repeat it, but his limbs would never touch that form again. Never.
He began to move.
"That is not what you did before," she said after a moment.
Obi-Wan stopped, shoulders sinking. "I cannot," he said, his voice breaking with sincerity.
"Do it." She was relentless, and Obi-Wan despaired. He had already lost everything that mattered to him. He deserved the punishment it would be to put his body and mind through Qui-Gon's Art once more.
He found himself assuming the opening position again, reluctantly beginning to move into the second form. And then a booted foot kicked his ankles apart, widening his stance as the Art demanded.
"Continue," the woman spoke as Obi-Wan froze, confused. He had sensed no one else present in the room, but her voice came from the wrong place for her to have kicked him... and how would she have known...?
Obi-Wan automatically stretched his arm into the second arc, and his wrist was caught, dragged outward, his fingers curled by a huge rough palm, no woman's.
A cold lump froze in Obi-Wan's stomach, and he nearly fell.
The third stance, and hard angry hands clamped on his shoulders, demanding the stillness required by the pose. He could not stop trembling beneath those hands, but he tried to flow toward the fourth position, was seized and dragged back, his back bent further forward, his knee folded the slightest fraction more.
He tried again.
This time his arms fell into that grip of ice and iron, pulled outward until Obi-Wan cried out in pain in spite of himself, and the rotation was done for him, into the fifth pose.
Then the sixth, and the hand that curled around his neck, palm to nape, brought the tips of his toes effortlessly from the floor, attaining the height he could not reach. Obi-Wan gasped, tears coming to his eyes as his body screamed its inability to yield to the relentless pressure.
And so he was led, sinews straining, muscles shrieking, every error ruthlessly noted and corrected.
Vaguely, Obi-Wan heard the voice of the woman, weeping her pity for him, from a corner of the room where she watched.
At last the first Form of the Art was finished.
"Now." The voice, so harsh it seemed alien to itself, was before him. Qui-Gon reached, tangling his fingers in the thin leather leash, dragging his padawan forward once more into the first position of the Art of Grace even as Obi-Wan clutched desperately at his sleeve for balance. "Do it *right.*"
And he did. Obi-Wan reached for the Art, reached for the pain, embraced it. Became what he was not. The Force was his yet, though he might have lost his Master's love, and he used it, stretched himself into it, let it build and exaggerate his movements, let it augment him, providing a pillow of illusory reach and bodily strength.
Qui-Gon stood, eyes hooded and dark, not permitting himself to feel, watching for the slightest error.
There was none.
He gestured the girl forward when Obi-Wan finished and collapsed to the floor. She unlaced the knotted cloth Obi-Wan wore over his eyes, peeling it off him, and he raised his gaze slowly to Qui-Gon.
Obi-Wan took in his Master's dark heavy boots. His tailored trousers. The hem of the stola and the tunics. The broad belt with its small gold buckle. The narrowing gap of the dark brown cloak, the slight V of sturdy chest exposed above the layered tunics. The fringe of his silver-brown hair. His Master had never before seemed so tall. Never before had Obi-Wan felt himself so reluctant to let his eyes complete the upward journey to Qui-Gon's.
There was a large bundle of gray cloth crumpled in the corner -- a person, or a heap of rags? He could not be sure. Obi-Wan glanced nervously aside at it and at the woman who had bought him, and was startled to recognize her as one of Qal's favored slaves. Her eyes were red, her face swollen, and she flinched away, her fear warning Obi-Wan just as his head was seized and forced around and up, until ice-cold blue eyes bored into his own.
"You wanted a slave Master." Qui-Gon's voice was flat. "Now you have him."
Obi-Wan struggled to swallow against the dryness in his throat, near-crippling relief battling stark terror in him. Unable to help himself, he lifted his shaking fingers and caught his padawan braid, looping it and pulling the end loosely through the circle, making the bondage knot at his cheek, a silent plea.
A long silence, Qui-Gon's ice-cold eyes judging him minutely, and then the Master lifted Obi-Wan ungently and flung him over his shoulder, hauling him from the room with leisurely strides that nonetheless ate two steps at a time as they climbed, and Obi-Wan realized they were in the palace, began to understand they were heading for Qui-Gon's rooms.
Once there, Qui-Gon placed Obi-Wan on his feet and began jerking at his clothing, discarding it carelessly. Obi-Wan was irresistible. Perspiration had carried away most of the oil and makeup, but enough remained to render his padawan exotically beautiful. Kicking his boots away, Qui-Gon laid his broad fingertips on the boy's fresh brand, watched a shiver run through Obi-Wan involuntarily.
"You want this." Not just the brand, but all of it. His Master's fierceness, his relentless and complete frenzied possession ... wanted to be forced to surrender with total abandon, needed to leave all things Jedi behind both of them and simply belong to Qui-Gon. It was not a question but a truth, and the Master did not bother to listen for the answer he already knew.
The Master's mouth fell on his willing slave's lips, biting them, forcing them open. Obi-Wan tasted blood, and his arms rose of their own volition to twine around Qui-Gon's neck, locking him to the kiss in a stranglehold.
Qui-Gon crushed him to the floor, forcing his arms back. Obi-Wan felt the breath shoved out of his lungs, but he didn't care. Opening himself fully, unresisting, he surrendered everything he had to the ruthless half-stranger who lay atop him.
Obi-Wan was perfectly pliant, boneless. Qui-Gon growled, sinking his teeth into his padawan's neck, listening to the whimper that issued, but Obi-Wan's hips arched into his as the contact galvanized him.Qui-Gon moved his body away from his padawan's, continuing the series of punishing nips and bites, holding Obi-Wan down fiercely, forbidding his attempts to touch. He could feel the skin bruising as Obi-Wan struggled against him, body struggling mindlessly to obtain what Qui-Gon withheld.
"Master, my Master!" Obi-Wan moaned, writhing wildly, his hips rising from the floor, back curving into a graceful arc.
"What do you want?" Qui-Gon caught Obi-Wan, held him there, aloft, hand cradled under his padawan's hips, one finger sinking into the seam, waiting there, poised.
"That ... ohhhh ...." Obi-Wan squirmed, trying to shift his hips, but Qui-Gon held him fast, the heel of his free hand pushing Obi-Wan's chin up, immobilizing him.
"What?" Qui-Gon's voice fell to a hoarse rasp.
"You inside me!" Obi-Wan choked.
"Inside you? Why?"
"Because ...." Obi-Wan's throat spasmed as Qui-Gon flicked his fingertip over the soft folded ring. "I need you to ...." He swallowed desperately, frozen where Qui-Gon held him. "Please, Master!"
The broad finger sank deep and Obi-Wan accepted it with a whimper of relief. Qui-Gon let his padawan's back and hips settle to the floor, sliding his hand out, and then thrust and lifted again, raising Obi-Wan's body. He resumed and held the cruel balance, shifting his hand, lightly and briefly grazing the elusive locus of pleasure inside his padawan's body.
"Please, Master!" Obi-Wan begged him immediately.
His padawan had never been a slow student, Qui-Gon reflected, savoring his perfect control, savoring the begging words. "Please what, padawan?" He hardly heard himself use the word, it seemed so synonymous with slavery in that moment between them.
"Please touch me there again." Obi-Wan's pink tongue snaked out to lick dry lips. "*Please.*"
Qui-Gon rewarded him with a swift caress, loosening the pressure on his chin. "And what else do you want, Obi-Wan?"
"Whatever you wish." Obi-Wan used his newfound freedom to squirm against Qui-Gon's seeking fingers, his mouth falling slack, lips parted with pleasure.
Qui-Gon's mouth closed over the young man's nipple, a fierce bite. "What do you *want,* Obi-Wan?"
"You, Master!" Obi-Wan's voice broke. "Have me!"
"*How?*" Qui-Gon's voice was a deep growl.
Obi-Wan hesitated, seeing the flicker of growing irritation at the delay. "Like this," he whispered, and moved, rolling to his belly, letting his legs fall to the sides of Qui-Gon's thighs. "Like before, my Master."
A beautifully submissive position, one that would do admirably. Catching the slim, hard-muscled thighs, Qui-Gon drew the young man onto his lap, watching the spine arch, the shoulders shift, the small smooth scar on the skin below the left shoulderblade slide across muscle and bone.
"What do you want now?" he asked, voice tightly controlled, and Obi-Wan turned his head, palms braced flat on the floor, gazing back at Qui-Gon with disbelief, his breath coming harsh and shallow. Fire kindled in his eyes.
"Do it, Master," Obi-Wan breathed, his narrow mouth hard. "Take me. You know I want you. So do it."
It was what he needed to hear. Qui-Gon's hands seized Obi-Wan's shoulders and he dragged his padawan backward, onto his thickness. Obi-Wan moaned, a deep guttural sound, bracing himself on trembling arms, as Qui-Gon's strong hands forced his hips all the way down. Qui-Gon's hard hands circled his pelvis, and his Master rolled backward, leaving Obi-Wan kneeling atop him.
"Move," Qui-Gon commanded, sliding both palms under his padawan's hips.
Obi-Wan obeyed, letting the powerful hands direct him subtly, rising and falling, sweat bursting out all over his skin. He set the pace to please himself, but modified it under Qui-Gon's slight pressure, speeding and slowing, his hands braced on his Master's knees. He was hard, but dissatisfied, aching for the touch of skin and lip on his body.
"Please, Master," Obi-Wan moaned. "Your skin against me."
Qui-Gon raised himself on an elbow, catching his padawan's waist, drawing him back against his chest and then rolling over, burying the smaller man beneath him. Obi-Wan gave a faint cry, his hips tensing as Qui-Gon took over the smooth rhythm and speeded it. Qui-Gon tilted them, catching Obi-Wan's shoulder and bending to nip it fiercely. Obi-Wan gasped, struggling to lay his head back and feel Qui-Gon's hair on his face. The heat was building in him, devastating. He could not believe Qui-Gon had not yet seemed to feel it; the friction was unbearable but the pleasure was worse, rising without quite cresting, close but not close enough ....
"Let me come, Master!" Obi-Wan heard himself beg.
"No." Not yet. Oh, not yet. Something won and something lost, both in that sweet, desperate plea. He was humbling Obi-Wan, destroying his own pride and self-image, but he could not stop. Could. Not. Stop. Force, but he craved Obi-Wan more than air! Wanted him a thousand ways, and for an eternity of nights, but this was the last. It had to be.
And so Qui-Gon could not surrender it, not a moment or its fraction. Not when the future was already broken, and the present was all that remained to him.
He thrust hard, a last savage stab, and expelled himself deep in his padawan's body. Obi-Wan writhed and whimpered, still unsatisfied. Breathing hard, Qui-Gon pulled away, then cradled his student gently in his arms. He'd forgotten how strong he was in the heat of his passion, clearly. Obi-Wan was a mess of bruises and bites, some bleeding, especially the slanted bite across his lips. He'd have to heal them ... but no. No, he could not. The Temple Healers had to bear witness to his padawan's injuries. He could not run the risk that the Council might ignore the seriousness of what he had done ....
"This time is for you, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon's voice was hoarse with love and sorrow. Bending, hoping to repay some of the pain he had caused, Qui-Gon gently addressed himself to Obi-Wan's pleasure.
He made it last as long as possible, guiltily tasting and re-tasting his padawan, using lips, tongue, and teeth to tease him to the edge of climax again and again, ignoring Obi-Wan's wild, pleading cries until he felt himself trembling on the verge of exhaustion. Then, reaching deeply into his padawan's mind, he sank his mouth all the way down on the young man's erection and pulled up swiftly, stimulating Obi-Wan's pleasure centers hard. His Obi-Wan screamed in surrender, writhing, but Qui-Gon held him still, taking the bitter fluid in his mouth and savoring it, thinking of the pleasure it represented ... and the pain that was to follow.
He gathered Obi-Wan up in his arms. "Come, Obi-Wan," he whispered. "It is time to go home."
"Yes, my Master." Obi-Wan's eyes fluttered open, dazed but adoring, but then a shadow clouded them. "Master?"
"Yes, Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon rose, found his clothes, and stepped into his leggings wearily. He tucked in his undershirt, found the first tunic.
"How did you know where to find me?" his padawan asked timidly.
Qui-Gon pressed down a flutter of renewed anger as he buckled his belt and stamped his feet into his boots.
"I followed Qal, of course." Impatience roughened his voice. "The two of you were fools. What possessed you to plan that wild charade? Having yourself sold!" Qui-Gon slapped his palm irritably against the wall, turning an accusing stare on the young man.
"Qal?" Obi-Wan remembered Qui-Gon's jealousy of the Prince and was suddenly deeply concerned. "I planned nothing with Qal, Master. Corm drugged me, would have taken me ... he wants to use me to breed Force-user slaves, but I threw off the drug, and he was frightened to return me to you given what I'd witnessed. He tried to purge my mind, and he shipped me off to be sold. He was going to tell you I must have run away ... I knew you wouldn't believe it, but I knew I could escape and win back to you on my own."
Qui-Gon had frozen in place, half into his dark overcloak, staring doubtfully at Obi-Wan, astonishment and anguish shading over his features as he processed the new information. "Then you did not plan for Qal to buy you?" His voice very nearly broke.
"Of course not, Master ... I have not spoken to Qal since ...." Obi-Wan trailed off with dawning fear, his agitation growing by leaps and bounds. "Where is Qal, Master?"
Qui-Gon jerked, startled. Clearly his thoughts had taken an entirely different path. "I left him with the girl, when I carried you here ...." Qui-Gon's lips pinched and he tilted his head, reaching out visibly for a sense of the young Prince. "He followed me from the auction. I was in no mood to hear his prattle; I made him sleep and hauled him back to the compound. He should be lying in the room where you were brought. I'm sure his slave will care for ...." Qui-Gon's forehead pinched into a sudden frown and he exploded into motion, snatching at pants and tunic.
"Master?" Obi-Wan's voice was sharp with alarm, and he struggled to his feet.
Qui-Gon paused only long enough to shove his other arm into his cloak and fling a single word over his shoulder, his hands diving into the chest that held their sabers, coming up with his own settled snugly in his palm. "Corm would have watched to see who bought you." He tossed his padawan's lightsaber across the room, not bothering to glance, knowing Obi-Wan would catch it. "Qal's life may be in danger."
The Jedi Master flew from the room, his padawan in close pursuit.
Qal woke to frantic patting on his cheeks. Blinking blearily, he gazed up into Ara's face, groggily surprised to see genuine worry on the slave girl's lovely features.
"My Master! You wouldn't wake up!" she gasped. "What did that wizard do to you?"
Qal couldn't remember.
He'd gone out to seek Qui-Gon in the aftermath of the auction, trotting to catch up to the taller man's long, ground-eating strides. Putting his hand on Qui-Gon's shoulder, he'd begun to demand why the Jedi Ambassador had abandoned Obi-Wan on the block ... and then, nothing.
"Where's Obi-Wan?" Qal shook his head, struggling to throw off black shrouds of sleep that threatened to enclose him once again.
"I ..." Ara shivered. "I couldn't stop him, Master. Master Jinn was waiting for us when we returned. He ... he made me ask Obi to do the dance from the block, but he wasn't pleased with him."
Ara turned her dark, haunted eyes outward into the room. "He was angry, my Master. He corrected Obi-Wan, made him do it again. Then Obi-Wan tied the bondage knot in his braid to beg mercy and plead love, and Master Jinn carried him away."
Qal's anger helped him muster adrenaline to push away the heavy, false weariness that dogged his heels.
"I found you lying here when they had gone. I've been trying to wake you for almost an hour." Ara buried her face against Qal, seeking comfort.
"I'm well now." Qal soothed the girl absently, taking stock of his body. Jinn's mind powers must extend to mental domination, then. An interesting ability he had not suspected. At least he'd been left undamaged. If the same was not true of Obi-Wan ....
Qal's teeth gritted, and he forced himself to stand in spite of the heaviness of his head. If the Ambassador had injured his innocent slave, there would be hell to pay.
Qal shifted his cloak and robes, settling them. Jinn had been confident, not even bothering to disarm him. He felt his hand clench around the hilt of his sword. That might prove to be a serious miscalculation.
"Ah." A low voice, and a light laugh. "So, Qal."
Corm. The Priest stood at the edge of the room, the stair he'd just descended rising up toward the heart of the palace. Corm's hand lay on the hilt of his sword, and his eyes glittered with triumphant contempt. Qal flickered his eyes at Corm. Apparently there was pressing business to attend before he could settle his grudge with Jinn. Very well.
"So, Corm." Qal declined to give the other man his honorific. "What brings you here?"
"My agents spied you at the auction." Corm bared his teeth. "You made a purchase, I hear. A rather ill-advised one."
Qal could hear the sleek whispering slide of metal as the priest drew his sword, and responded in kind. Ara quickly pulled his cloak from his shoulders so that it would not impede him.
Corm was the more experienced fighter, tough and seasoned. Qal, by contrast, was younger and quicker, but far less trained with the sword. Cautiously, he began to edge around the priest, wanting to get his own back to the corridor that led up into the palace.
"Are you sure you want to kill me, Corm? Who will you use to build and operate the technology you want, to contact the Republic again?" Qal thought fast. "When the Ambassador takes the transport, you'll be left with nothing!"
"I already have what I need. Or I would have, if not for you! Fool, you let the Ambassador follow you, let him retrieve his slave!" Corm's mouth worked silently, his expression twisting with anger. "I will kill you, Qal. Kill you and take your body to the ambassador. I gave the slave a neural purge; they will believe me when I say it was you who tried to steal and sell him."
Qal lunged, fury at Corm's taunt flooding him. Their blades clashed, striking sparks, and they began to circle, testing one another carefully at first, then harder and faster.
The ringing of blades could be heard long before the Jedi came in sight of the room. They found Qal limping on a slashed leg, blood streaming from another cut above his eye, being backed steadily into a corner by the larger warrior.
Obi-Wan gathered like a spring, preparing to fling himself into the room and intercede, but Qui-Gon acted faster.
"STOP!"
The Jedi's Force-enhanced bellow very nearly shook the walls, and dust sifted from the ceiling. Qal and Corm halted in mid-motion, then Qal danced back, out of the priest's range, gasping for breath, exhausted.
Qui-Gon stormed into the room with Obi-Wan hot on his heels.
"Corm of Ria, you have broken diplomatic custom. You have assaulted the Republic's ambassadorial liaison. You traffic in slaves for profit and take pleasure in cruelty!" Qui-Gon thundered. "You will accompany me to the Republic and stand trial for your crimes against my padawan."
"My crimes?" Corm's face was white with fear, but his lip curled with just a trace of genuine amusement. "*You* branded him. Perhaps that is a crime in your Republic." He laughed with keen amusement, then grounded the point of his sword between two stones in the floor, satisfied that his words had struck home. "I suggest you carefully reconsider, Ambassador."
Qal glared at Qui-Gon contemptuously and returned his stare to Corm. "You will not escape Riadan justice," he promised, raising the tip of his sword again. "For crimes against the state and against my father. I have known of the bitterroot for many years, Corm, I have seen you wind your way into my father's confidence and usurp his throne. You will pay; I shall see to that." He snapped a quick glare to Qui-Gon, who had begun to edge forward. "This is none of your affair, *Ambassador*!"
"He'll kill him." Obi-Wan's tense whisper prompted Qui-Gon to fling up an arm to hold his padawan back. "Master, we can't let --"
"We can't stop them, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon's voice was taut with regret. "Qal is right."
Corm laughed at Qui-Gon's words, lunging forward, blade ringing against Qal's once more. In spite of the brief respite, the Prince was exhausted and tiring as the priest beat on his blade, forcing him back, inflicting taunting wounds that slowed him even further. Qal scrubbed his sleeve across his face, wiping blood from his eye, and Qui-Gon could feel his padawan quivering with helpless anger behind the arm the Jedi Master had flung across his chest.
The battle surged back across the floor, Qal stumbling desperately to evade a savage slash, nearly falling over his slave. And suddenly Obi-Wan's eyes focused. Ara held one of the small oil lamps in her palms; before Obi-Wan could blink, she hurled it viciously at Corm.
It glanced off his chest, but shattered on contact with the floor, and the oil spilled. Flame flared, greedily devouring the slick flow, a hellish lake around the two men, tongues of fire rapidly twining up Corm's oil-spattered legs and tunic. He screamed, backpedaling and beating at the flames with his hands, dropping his blade.
Qal pursued, the soles of his boots aflame and curling, his tight leggings starting to singe. Even as Qui-Gon hastily flung up a hand and a deafening explosion of air rang through the room, the shockwave quenching the hungry flames, Qal's sword plunged into Corm's breast and emerged dripping from his back.
Obi-Wan nearly collapsed with relief. Freed of Qui-Gon's restraint, he ran forward, ignoring the smoking hot floor beneath his feet.
"Stop, Obi-Wan!" Qal jerked his sword free, indifferently dropping Corm to the floor. The priest's hands clenched feebly, trying to reach for his wound. "This is not yet finished." Qal's eyes burned over Obi-Wan's shoulder with determination, and he stepped forward proudly, bleeding and scorched.
"I challenge you, Ambassador Qui-Gon Jinn. I would duel you for the right to own your slave."
Obi-Wan's mouth fell open and he stared, shocked.
"There will be no challenge," Qui-Gon's mild, sad voice answered him.
Qal's lip curled with anger, and he lunged, crimson-stained blade leading. "You will fight!"
The snap-hiss of igniting lightsabers was simultaneous and instant. Obi-Wan flung himself forward between the two men, landing on one knee before his Master, blade flashing in a guard over his head, just as Qui-Gon's saber darted forward with a subtle twist. The beams tangled for the briefest instant, the blue nimbus of Obi-Wan's blade singeing the top of his hair at the jar of the impact.
Intercepted twice by the wicked energy blades, Qal's sword clattered to the floor in two pieces, leaving him to stare at the melted hilt in his hand.
"Obi-Wan is free." Qui-Gon powered down his saber, warily watching Qal as he reattached it to his belt. Obi-Wan took a moment more before rising from his protective crouch, his own saber hissing to silence.
Qui-Gon's strong hands came forward to settle on his padawan's neck, and the lock collar clicked, springing open under the pressure of Qui-Gon's single strong finger, the Force triggering its mechanism. He lifted the heavy metal away. "I renounce all ownership claims to the slave known as Obi-Wan Kenobi. I declare him a free citizen of the Republic." Qui-Gon handed the opened circlet of metal to his padawan.
"And I, Qal, Prince of Agus Ria, declare the slave known as Obi-Wan Kenobi free in all the demesnes of Ria," Qal responded immediately, surprised pleasure filling his voice. "Let him from this day be his own man."
Qui-Gon slipped his cloak from his shoulders and folded it around his padawan's slim, bare form. Obi-Wan glanced up at Qui-Gon, covering the broad hand on his shoulder with his own.
The Jedi Master did not return the young man's smile, still gazing at Qal sternly. "Who now will be Priest of the Riadan Temple, your Highness? And what consequences will you face for the deeds you have done here tonight?"
"Fewer than you fear." Qal smiled suddenly. "I am next in line for the priesthood, Ambassador. It would have been mine had I been of age when Corm's predecessor died. And the quarrel? A duel of honor. There will be no consequences from that. Corm's men will either come to my service or sell their swords elsewhere. And there will be no more tainted bitterroot for my father." Qal's face was fiercely triumphant.
"Indeed." Qui-Gon's voice was neutral. "So you will come into Corm's position, then. Will you also hold his chattels?"
Qal nodded curtly. "Chattels that will no longer be mistreated," he stated flatly. "And as High Priest, I will have the power to change the state of slavery on Ria, Ambassador."
"That is well." Qui-Gon nodded. "I fear that as things stand, the trade agreements you wish will not be granted by the Senate."
Qal sighed, deflating visibly. "I had hoped it would not be so."
"Perhaps it will not always be so." Obi-Wan tucked the heavy collar away in a pocket of Qui-Gon's robe and stepped forward, careful not to let the trailing fabric drag through oily ash. "When the changes you wish are made, contact the Jedi again, Qal of Ria. I shall come personally to carry a new report back to the Senate."
"I would be grateful for that, Obi-Wan Kenobi." Qal's eyes brightened.
Qui-Gon made an abortive attempt to speak his disagreement, then halted, drawing back into himself. By that time, Obi-Wan might well have passed his Knighthood trials. Even if he had not ... Qui-Gon Jinn still would have no say in what was done. He folded his arms, forcing his face to display only sheer, utter calm.
Qal placed his hands on Obi-Wan's shoulders and ritually kissed the padawan's cheeks. "It will take many years to change the minds and hearts of men."
"You have the strength and the will." The young Jedi smiled. "I'm sure of it."
Qal hugged him impulsively. "It is past dawn already. Will you stay for my investiture?"
"We cannot do that," Qui-Gon broke in soberly. "We must make our report to the Senate ... and I have other pressing matters to which I must attend."
Obi-Wan withdrew from Qal slightly, and the Prince understood the small motion. "Then you will go with him." Qal frowned slightly at Obi-Wan, worry puckering his brows. "You need not."
"It is what I choose, Qal. I am a Jedi." Obi-Wan shrugged apologetically, but without regret. "I belong with Qui-Gon Jinn. He is my teacher, and I will complete my training. When I return to Ria, I will be a Knight of the Order."
Qal smiled with pleasure. "Perhaps we will spar then, and you will tell me more of the Jedi way."
Obi-Wan returned the smile warmly. "I would be honored." He leaned back toward the Riadan Prince and returned the ceremonial kiss.
Qui-Gon cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Your Highness, I feel it best if we leave immediately. I would not care for the Jedi to be implicated in Corm's death."
"Of course." Qal bowed, regal in spite of his tattered condition, and ushered them from the room, Ara in tow.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7