Master Apprentice Archive Black Cloak, White Noise Quick search:

Rating: NC-17 just to be safe, for torture and implied non-con

Archive: M-A

Series: Suspension of Disbelief (Cinders and Padawans, Sleeping Master, What's In A Name?)

Categories: Q/O, AU

Feedback: Yes, please.

Summary: Continuation of "What's In A Name?" Obi-Wan is kidnapped by an unknown element and Qui-Gon must race to find him. This is not your standard Snow White.

Spoilers/Warnings: Sith, and all that entails. Padawan, you probably don't want to see this. Master, you probably do. WIP series installment with partial conclusion.

Disclaimers: Someday I intend to use my own beloved, beautiful characters to write for fame, fortune and glory. Today is not that day.

Notes: Thank you Catnip. I thought this thing was never coming out. And thanks to everyone who has waited for this one for so long. Next installment will be up quickly, I promise.

/..../ thoughts and bond speak.

The sun rose over the V'littan plains, illuminating a stand of trees against the blue foothills in the distance and a small cottage by a stream. Two men battled furiously by the banks of the small brook, swords clashing resoundingly on the early morning breeze.

Qui-Gon advanced, parrying back a slash aimed at his midsection and going on the offensive, angling forward as he thrust toward the tanned, naked chest inches from his blade. Obi-Wan twisted to the side, using the hilt of his sword to strike the wrist in front of him, knocking the blade free from his mentor's hand. He tugged it deftly to him with a pull of Force and bounded away, twirling it playfully.

"Outstanding," Qui-Gon beamed, pride swelling in his chest. His breathing came hard; they had been here since well before the light, beginning with meditation and ending with a long sparring session. He had watched Obi-Wan grow increasingly exhilarated, his skills sharpening as he warmed up, while he himself had slowly grown tired.

Obi-Wan bounced a little, hopping up and down with the adrenaline. He grinned broadly. "I finally did it," he breathed, awed. "I disarmed you."

Qui-Gon smiled broadly, receiving his blunt-tipped and quite-dull training blade as it was presented to him hilt-first. "That you did."

"Let's go again." Obi-Wan continued to hop from foot to foot.

The former Jedi Master laughed. "No, my energetic one. I think I will take my old bones home and have a bath and some tea and a nap as befits my age."

Shaking his head, Obi-Wan stepped close to Qui-Gon. "I know I didn't just hear you say that," he said quietly, seductively. He ran one fingertip down his master's bare chest, then tucked it into the waistband of his leggings. He tugged gently at the leggings, smiling.

"But I like it when you take it upon yourself to prove that I'm not old," Qui-Gon teased, then leaned down for a kiss.

The master, truly, had never felt so young, nor so free. In all of his years as a Jedi, he had been bound to the Order by tradition, duty, regulations. He had exercised his discretion where these were concerned, often flexing or breaking certain rules for what he saw as the greater good. Never had he been allowed-- never had he allowed himself-- the luxury of true liberty.

Now, he had it. Since he and Obi-Wan had left the Jedi behind, the rules they made were their own to keep or discard. The traditions he and Obi-Wan had created in their five months on V'littan belonged only to them. The decisions they made were often no more complicated than whether they wished to pump water up from the stream to have a bath, or to bathe in the stream itself.

It was not, however, without its pain. There were many luxuries that Qui-Gon, even in his overly simplified life as a Jedi, had come to take for granted. Instant communication was one of them. Space travel was another. Yes, the hardened, hyperdrive-weary traveler missed getting on a ship bound for parts unknown to him. It had so long been a part of his life that he wasn't sure, sometimes, what to do with himself in its absence. Qui-Gon was also concerned that others around them might discover that the two men had once been Jedi.

He greatly missed Mace Windu and his own former master, though he recognized with a half-grateful pang that Obi-Wan could not remember Othaina well enough to miss her much. What Obi-Wan missed most were the great Gardens. This puzzled Qui-Gon somewhat: his apprentice had been no fonder of them than anywhere else in the Temple. He attributed it to the shifts in the former padawan's personality since the fall from the catwalk.

That day now seemed distant and nightmarish, and as time took it further from them, the two erstwhile Jedi let it go.

They lived on the outskirts of a small shire consisting largely of ranchers and leather workers. Qui-Gon, being so adept with the Living Force, had been able to succeed with a small farm plot where many others in the area had failed. It gave them produce for trade: a valuable commodity on a planet that was largely arid, rocky plains, and mostly devoted to livestock.

Obi-Wan continued to regain flashes and bits of his former life, but no single incident had provided him with a key to opening the floodgate. He no longer struggled with it; he simply lived as he was. Qui-Gon had grown comfortable with the idea that his apprentice-- for that was how the shire knew him, though they knew him to be the apprentice of a gardener-- might never regain everything he had once known. It made little difference to them.

Obi-Wan learned anew every day, and it was enough. Qui-Gon sometimes worried that his apprentice would regain everything quite suddenly, and resent his master's pulling out of the Order. At any rate, Obi-Wan's progress was sporadic. He remembered odd portions of his training; out of nowhere one day, he had recalled a segment of the twelfth kata. He struggled with the bond still, and had not perfected its use. Qui-Gon could read him through it most of the time, but Obi-Wan's shielding techniques were also sporadic and sketchy. It made little difference but to Qui-Gon's peace of mind. He felt relatively safe here, so immediate contact with Obi-Wan was largely unnecessary, but a stable connection through the bond was something that Qui-Gon still missed.

They went up the small hill to their house, a simple cottage filled more with books than anything else. Sometimes it amazed Obi-Wan how many books his master could find in a shire that had no scholars in it. Qui-Gon had been known to trade away far more than a book was worth, simply so he could procure some lesser-known historical tome, or a badly written novel in Huttese. Once, he had come upon a battered bootleg copy of a philosophical text Yoda had written. It was one of two times Obi-Wan had ever seen his master with tears in his eyes, at least in his limited memory. The other time had been on the shuttle taking them away from Coruscant.

Qui-Gon set out a small breakfast: bread and cheese and cured, salted meat, accompanied by small cups of blue tea. Qui-Gon looked around as he carried the plates into the common room to the table, relishing the quiet atmosphere they had created with handmade shelves full of books and Obi-Wan's new penchant for carving wooden figurines. Surely, Obi-Wan had never had such patience. Certainly, not before.

Obi-Wan came out of the bedroom bearing towels, then disappeared into the 'fresher briefly. When he came out, he was wearing a robe, ready for a bath as soon as the meal was finished.

"What's happening after we get the leather, Master?" he asked, settling down to his plate. He ate eagerly, and it continually amazed Qui-Gon that with his seemingly limitless energy, Obi-Wan had any patience at all-- or any time to do anything other than eat and bound about.

"I thought perhaps we might set out those trays of seedlings. They're ready to go into the ground." Qui-Gon chewed thoughtfully, his mind on the plants momentarily. Then he looked at his apprentice, swallowing his bite of food. "Or I might simply work on my project."

Obi-Wan grinned. That particular project had taken weeks so far, and Qui-Gon would not say what it was. "A present" was all he would offer for an explanation, and he would smile, rather the way he was now.

Qui-Gon looked at Obi-Wan a moment, simply looked. The former padawan learner had never stopped calling Qui-Gon "Master" in all these months, though now there was no reason for him to use the term. His padawan haircut had grown out, and had only just reached past the shaggy, unruly stage to where it would frame his face rather than fly out around it. It was to the middle of his neck, and Qui-Gon adored it. He had never been able to properly run his fingers through that padawan hair. Now, he did it as a matter of course. He had asked, before it had crossed Obi-Wan's mind, that the padawan braid remain intact. For some reason, Qui-Gon could not stand the thought of it severed. Obi-Wan, surprised and touched, had left it.

He glanced up and caught his master staring. "What?" he asked around a bite of cheese. Self-consciously, he wiped his mouth with his napkin.

"I suppose," Qui-Gon said quietly, "I feel a little... doting today." He smiled fondly and reached across the table, taking Obi-Wan's hand. He was grateful for moments like this; he was not overly demonstrative of his love, but when he wished to display it he found himself glad he was no longer constrained by Consular order or rigid, masterly reputation.

Obi-Wan returned his lover's smile. He was glad they had come here, glad they had left Coruscant altogether. What he could glean out of his own mental recesses and the experience he'd had with Qui-Gon in the Order told him that the master was happier here than he had ever been before, but it was bittersweet. Obi-Wan was, literally, all Qui-Gon had left. He brushed his thumb over the large hand in his and remained quiet, basking in his lover's attention.

The former padawan was well aware of the sacrifice Qui-Gon had made in renouncing his commitment to the Jedi. At the time, Obi-Wan had been stunned, even a bit horrified. Though he could remember little enough about his master besides what they had told him in the healers' ward and the stories Qui-Gon himself had shared, he knew instinctively that being a Jedi was part of him. It defined him. That he had given it all up for a young, amnesiac padawan who'd been on the cusp of walking out on him forever-- sometimes it brought Obi-Wan nearly to tears.

In their late nights and early mornings, they talked. Qui-Gon still related stories of their past together, but not out of a desire to prod Obi-Wan's memories. Now, he spoke simply to share. Obi-Wan listened avidly, glad when the pieces of a story would coincide with a memory he had already retrieved.

The recollections came much as they had in those early days after the fall. Often it was something small, a scent, and the particular look of something, or a flash in Qui-Gon's eyes. Obi-Wan learned quickly, as he always had, and Qui-Gon still strove to teach him the ways of the Jedi, thinking-- but almost not daring to hope-- that someday they might return to the Order. As days bled into weeks, however, Obi-Wan could see that his lack of recollection took its toll on Qui-Gon's private daydreams. Soon, the master was resigned and eventually accepting: there would be no going back.

They were content here, however lonely Qui-Gon might be for his former life. He had freedom to be, to feel as he wished. Though he maintained much of his old reserve, the moments like these, in which Qui-Gon simply looked at Obi-Wan and touched him, were priceless.

Now Qui-Gon was looking at him with a speculative expression on his face. "When are we due to meet Srak for the leather?"

Obi-Wan smiled: he knew that look, and the tone that accompanied it. "Too soon, my Master." He stroked Qui-Gon's hand, smiling impishly to break the half-melancholy musings they had both been caught in. "We will have more than enough time when we get back. It shouldn't take too long to finish the transaction. Bring some of those melons he loves; he'll go down pretty easily."

Qui-Gon tipped his head down to hide a grin, then looked up with his eyes at Obi-Wan. "I don't particularly care how easily he goes down. I just want my hide."

Obi-Wan laughed.

They made the trip relatively quickly, leading a horse and cart filled with ripe melons and squashes. They chatted on the way, Obi-Wan picking up stones to throw, or sticks to consider carving on, and Qui-Gon leading the horse and feeding it the occasional handful of grass that Obi-Wan brought him. It was approximately an hour into town, and by the time they got there, Obi-Wan was beginning to lose the antsy edge from his energy after the sparring session.

Calmly and surely, Qui-Gon negotiated the trade for the leather. Obi-Wan stayed outside with the cart, talking to the horse and patting its neck. When Qui-Gon had finished talking with the tanner, they went outside to look at the produce.

"Ah," Srak smiled. He was a small, bright blond man just younger than Qui-Gon. "Those c'sa melons are perfect. Yes, this is fair wonderful." Warmly, he clapped Qui-Gon's shoulder and whistled for his apprentice to wheel out and load the leather.

"So," the proprietor turned to Qui-Gon. "Still won't borrow me your apprentice, eh? I could use two boys around here at times."

Qui-Gon smiled good-naturedly as he caught a look from Obi-Wan, who was helping the tanner's apprentice unload the produce. "I'm afraid he is far too necessary to me." Qui-Gon felt a thrumming pleasure through the bond and sent back amusement.

"Bother. I'll send my boy out a time or two," the merchant countered enticingly, but Qui-Gon noticed the way those narrow eyes appraised Obi-Wan: he certainly wasn't looking for a temporary assistant apprentice.

"No, thank you," Qui-Gon said, firmly but still politely, in the interest of not upsetting his leather purchase. "Obi-Wan knows my needs too well. He is indispensable to me."

The shop owner fell silent; the older men watched as the younger ones finished loading the rolled, oiled leather onto the cart.

"Come on then, Master," Obi-Wan said, quiet playfulness in his eyes. "That last squash patch is ready; we have to pick those for the smith tomorrow."

Qui-Gon turned to Srak and held his hand out flat, and Srak slapped it between his two palms, sealing the exchange satisfactorily. "I thank you," Qui-Gon said, bowing, and then turned and clicked to the horse, drawing at its reins.

Obi-Wan looped his arm through his master's. "I can't wait to get back home," he said contentedly.

Qui-Gon arched an eyebrow at him. "You're awfully animated today, Obi-Wan. I doubt you could make it to the river without upsetting all the fish."

Leaning up and walking on tiptoes, Obi-Wan whispered, "It's not the fish I'm animated about."

The master chuckled, glancing sideways at his apprentice.

Suddenly he went still, walking on, but utterly quiet in mind and speech. Obi-Wan felt the abrupt change and deliberately kept chattering on, wondering what was happening but knowing he should not draw attention.

As soon as they reached the edge of town, Obi-Wan said quietly, "What was that?"

"Someone was watching us," Qui-Gon replied, and looked at his apprentice.

Obi-Wan sighed. "Please don't keep me holed up, Qui-Gon. The town is too small."

"Obi-Wan." The warning tone came right out.

"Yes, Master." Obi-Wan ducked his head down, sighing. It was as much a concession as Qui-Gon could want; they both knew that Obi-Wan absolutely would stay holed up if Qui-Gon thought it necessary. Since they had moved to this quiet setting, they had learned the town proper wasn't nearly as peaceful as they had once thought. Obi-Wan's safety was the one area in which Qui-Gon still clung to the uneven state of their relationship: if being the master would net him that much, he was happy to maintain that authority.

"Thank you." Qui-Gon pulled Obi-Wan close to his side and hugged him briefly with one arm. He was generally overprotective since Obi-Wan's fall, and he had felt strange presences in the shire recently. Qui-Gon could not allow himself to relax completely where his young apprentice was concerned.

As soon as they reached their small farm, Obi-Wan began to unload the cart, bringing the oiled leather into the cottage while Qui-Gon unhitched the horse, then walked her to the barn. By the time they were finished with their respective tasks, it was close to midday.

"Hungry?" Obi-Wan asked, moving toward the kitchen.

"No," Qui-Gon replied, running his gaze down Obi-Wan's long, slender form. The apprentice immediately turned on his heel, back toward Qui-Gon.

"Oh?" he asked, tugging at the ties on the neck of his tunic. "No second meal, then."

"Not food, at any rate," Qui-Gon replied, wondering at his own need even as he tucked one finger behind the lacing at Obi-Wan's throat and using it to pull him close. He bent his head and kissed his lover, inhaling fresh air and sun, something Obi-Wan had seldom smelled of at the Temple.

Obi-Wan hummed in his throat, winding his arms around his master's neck.

Obi-Wan stretched lazily in the midday sun that streamed through the window and across their bed. Qui-Gon had gone to the brook, deciding after all that he would do the fishing himself, as well as putter on his project. Obi-Wan had let him go, sensing he wanted some time alone.

Qui-Gon had grown tanned and somewhat relaxed in their absence from the Temple; his smiles came more readily, his manner was less gruff, and his affection was plainer. Obi-Wan knew, though, that in spite of this, Qui-Gon missed the Temple terribly. Sometimes, he thought to offer his master the chance to return alone, but knew for his own selfish reasons that it would never be a satisfactory option. There were times that he wondered if Qui-Gon would actually consider it. Obi-Wan couldn't bring himself to plant the seed, in case it might bear fruit. For all that he knew his master better than he had before, Obi-Wan still knew not enough.

He knew that Qui-Gon loved him, but he could not see as it as being enough to account for leaving the Order. He also knew that Qui-Gon was happy in their new life together, but he could not see as it was enough to account for staying away from the Order. At this point in his life, Obi-Wan knew he himself could go either way: the Jedi had brought him two things: irritation, and Qui-Gon. The irritation, he could do without. If Qui-Gon wished it, however, he would go back. He assumed he would want to, at any rate, if he ever regained enough memory to know who he had been.

He dressed quickly and silently, tugging on leggings, soft leather boots, and a tunic. He decided he could lay out the seedlings himself and then help Qui-Gon get the fishing done before third meal. He truly liked this life, and wished-- but he sighed and closed the thought off. It was no better for him to wish they could stay here forever than it was for Qui-Gon to wish they could return to the Order. The future was too uncertain, since it depended entirely on what resided-- or didn't-- in his head.

He stepped out of the cottage and went to the barn, across the yard. On one end of the barn was a small plasteel-covered awning, under which sat the seedlings and various garden implements. Pulling out a tray, he balanced them on a hip, hooking the other end with one hand, and took up a three-pronged digger in the other. He went out toward the plot where the gardens were situated.

Obi-Wan had only begun to loosen the soil in the rows when he saw three men coming from the road. They were cresting the hill that sat between the cottage and the shire, but were still quite a distance off. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he watched them approach for a moment, then decided it was altogether odd to see three men walking from the shire all the way out here. Seldom did he and Qui-Gon have visitors, and visitors almost always arrived on horseback.

/Master, three men are approaching on foot,/ he sent, wondering if it got through.

The men, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be ranchers; certainly Obi-Wan had never seen any farmers on this part of V'littan. They were dressed simply in jumpsuits and hats, and one of them had leather gloves on. Obi-Wan began to be a bit concerned about their arrival out of nowhere, since Qui-Gon was still down by the brook and well out of earshot. Sending a bolt of worry through the bond, Obi-Wan turned toward the men, projecting confidence and stability.

"Fitar," a rotund, red-faced man greeted, and Obi-Wan raised his hand in response. "Master Gardener about?"

Obi-Wan nodded toward the creek. "He'll be up in a moment. May I help you?" He felt a distinct unease rolling from one of the men; automatically, he put distance between himself and that one, who was pale-skinned and too nervous for Obi-Wan's liking.

"Horse collapsed on the road to the shire," the third man answered, and Obi-Wan thought he looked too pale; ill in fact. "We was hopin' t'get some gwilar root for'n."

"Hm," Obi-Wan responded, making a pretense of setting his work gloves on the porch to get yet more space between himself and the men, who were advancing uncomfortably. He sent another call of concern to his master, making this one louder and longer.

"We don't have any gwilar this time of the season, sorry," Obi-Wan told them, "but perhaps my master can help you with the horse when he comes--"

Almost before he could react, the men rushed him. He took up the hoe he'd only just set aside and brandished it. One of the men stepped back, but the other two advanced steadily.

"Not gwine hurtcha," one of them said soothingly, but Obi-Wan was not interested in platitudes. Thinking to call Qui-Gon verbally, he drew in a deep breath and abruptly felt a searing, tingling burn inundate him: the man who had seemed to retreat had produced a stun rod and fired it. Unable to cry out, Obi-Wan fell to his knees, nerves collapsing.

Immediately two sets of hands were on his arms, hauling him up, and a third was snapping something around his neck. He wanted to shout but could not, and then he heard an audible, metallic clink before he was plunged into an agony so black, he could only sink into unconsciousness.

He woke slowly, wishing he weren't. The pain was huge, all-encompassing, and constant. Three sets of very worried eyes looked down at him.

"Wot's his prollem, then? 'E dead?" It was spoken by the man Obi-Wan had thought vaguely ill.

"No, he isn't dead," said the pale, nervous one. "Collar's got him in a bad hurt though. Damn I wish we didn't have to use the thing."

"Safe is safe, boss says," countered the red-faced one. He directed his attention to the half-conscious young man. "You 'wake, then?"

Obi-Wan didn't know how long his eyes had been open, but they were very dry, and he felt as though he'd been stepped on by a bantha.

"What?" Obi-Wan cleared his throat. "What?" It was all he could get out. His skull felt like it was being split in half with a prybar.

"Look 'ere," said the sickly one, "all un's armed and wotnot, so no funnyness, eh?" He held up a decrepit blaster, and while Obi-Wan doubted its serviceability, it made little difference: he was all but helpless, at least for the moment.

Obi-Wan nodded. "Why?" His tongue felt thick and dry, and he could not feel his body other than to note that it hurt. Had he been drugged? He couldn't tell, and was terrified that he could catalog nothing but pain.

The red-faced one said, "Got a Force collar on, sorry. We's worried your master'd have at us. Boss'd never like that."

"Where?" Obi-Wan felt the blackness consuming him again and fought it as best he could. He wanted at least one of his questions answered, shoddy though they were. Every cell in his body ached with the enforced shutdown of the midichlorians inside them, though Obi-Wan could form no such lucid explanation for his pain.

He could tell he was losing his grip on consciousness, though, as the red-faced man's voice faded and began to echo strangely, stretching out and slowing in Obi-Wan's ears. The pain was so sharp and so widespread that every instant throbbed, every second was agonizing. He began not to care about the answers anymore. Distantly, he was aware of footsteps in the room: heavy, long footsteps, even though the three men still peered at him anxiously. The round-faced man was speaking.

"You... can... show--"

Obi-Wan slid under, and gratefully.

Qui-Gon had heard one frantic, half-screamed cry through the bond before the voice-- and the bond itself-- disappeared completely from his mind, leaving behind a faint white noise. He sprinted up from the brook in time to see three men dragging Obi-Wan's limp body over the hill in the distance, toward the shire. He dashed to the barn and flung himself, with Force assistance, onto the horse, bareback, sending her off at a gallop. Connecting with her, he urged her to top speed; it wasn't fast, but was definitely faster than he could have managed on his own.

By the time he reached the hilltop, the men were gone. He assumed they had to have been in some kind of shuttle; too quickly for a cart, and without leaving tracks, they were gone-- with Obi-Wan.

Wheeling the horse about, he headed back for the barn to make preparations to go after them.

Obi-Wan sat at the window, staring out at the dark sky in miserable pain. He had been able to adjust to it slightly. The three farmers looked apologetic and miserable for him, but they would not remove the accursed thing.

He was, of all things, locked in an upper level of a tall building in the middle of nowhere. It appeared to be some kind of grain silo or water tower, though he really had no idea. Obi-Wan stared out the window, seeing no one come and go but those three men who had brought him here. He could barely move, let alone shout for help, even were there anyone to shout to. Locking the door behind them seemed, to him, a laughable idea. It had taken all his strength just to get to the chair by the window.

Dully, Obi-Wan looked around. There was a cot against one wall and the chair he was sitting in. Other than that, there was the door. They had not told him why he'd been brought here, other than the half-remembered, half-spoken phrase the red- aced one had tried to utter before Obi-Wan had slipped unconscious. Apparently, they'd given up on him after that; he'd awakened alone in the cool chamber as the sun was considering slinking down into the horizon. Now, it was dark.

He was in too much pain to be scared. Breathing hurt.

The door, an archaic thing that actually locked with a key and swung shut, unlocked then and swung open, creaking. It sounded impossibly loud to Obi-Wan. Slowly, carefully, he swiveled his head and looked. It was the "sickly one." He had shaggy, dark brown hair and stubble and was singularly ugly.

"Food, wot?" he said, bearing a small platter. Obi-Wan swallowed rising bile at the sight of it.

"No," he said, turning back to the window. "Thanks." He was sorry that he wasn't strong enough to project the desired sarcasm into his voice.

"Gotta eat." He put the plate down on the cot and pointed at it. "C'mon, wot?" He started to whine a little. "Force collar'n all, y'needs t'eat."

Obi-Wan wanted to ask why they had collared him. His master had always been adamant that they were to present an image of plain, mundane farmers with nothing more than a good working knowledge of fertilizer. He wondered what kind of work the man was talking about. He wondered why they seemed to be so concerned about him. Most of all, he wondered how he was meant to maintain a coherent thought through the thick cloud of pain. He certainly couldn't work up enough strength to ask such questions.

"Please," he said, and could do no more than lower his eyes, hoping it was a close enough indication of the collar to be understood.

"Ohhh." The man wrung his hands, moving closer. "So, so sorry, me, but no. No. Ohh..." He looked out the window a moment and sighed. "Well." He stepped back, away from Obi-Wan, and his eyes were wells of worry and sympathy. "F'r a moment, wot? No more'n'at." He skittered closer again and retrieved something from a pocket of his grungy coveralls. It looked like a small fork. He fitted it into the side of the collar and with a metallic hiss, the thing was unlocked and being pulled away.

Obi-Wan slumped with a sighing grunt. "Sweet Force," he breathed, relief crashing into him, an indescribable lack of pain that was so great he had to struggle to remain conscious again. Clutching his head, he leaned his elbows on his knees and muttered, "Thank you."

The man was already wringing his hands. "Can't be long. Just a mom'nt, wot? So sorry."

Obi-Wan remained as he was, leaning forward and staring at the floor as he quickly began to gather his thoughts. It was too long a drop to jump. He didn't want to hurt this man, he only wanted answers, he wanted to get away. Distantly, through the bond, he could feel slow, thrumming pulses of worry.

"Please," he began, talking quickly, "Tell me why you're doing this. Do you need some kind of help? Because if you're in trouble, my master--"

"Ohh, no. No, we can't. We couldn'a took 'im, too, no. Just got t'have yer help alone. Jedi, wot?"

Thinking fast as he tried to comprehend the man's broken speech, Obi-Wan pretended he was still in pain as he held his head, closing his eyes and centering. He took a breath to speak, and with it, gathered as much of the Force from around him as he could. As he began to talk, he unleashed a full-blown mental scream through the bond, pushing a wide swath of mindless data to Qui-Gon, as much as he could and as fast as he could, hoping it would reach through. He didn't know if the distance was too great or even if Qui-Gon had been captured as well, but it was all he could think to do. He could only hope he was doing it right.

"Yes, Jedi," he said, knowing that was what this lackey wanted to hear, and not knowing what they would do to him if they realized he was actually former Jedi-- almost reduced to the state of an initiate, at that. His words sounded distant to his own ears as he spoke, still focusing every cell on pushing something through to his master. "But you must know I can't help you with the collar on." He feared the collar, feared the overwhelming pain, but if they would remove it for a while, even momentarily, he could keep pushing through the bond, every chance he got.

"I can't say," the man told him, fiddling with the collar nervously. "'T sounds right, but-- Ohhh, I'm'n such a mess if they catch me."

Obi-Wan dearly wished he had relearned the use of Force suggestion, if only to buy himself more time out of that collar. "I understand," he said, soothingly, raising his head. He met the man's flitting, nervous gaze and smiled as best he could. His stare went through the kidnapper as he focused everything once more and pushed, visual images, the smell of the food, the worry in the man's eyes, every stray thought and concept he could shove through the bond.

The sound of a shuttle's engine powering down threw the poor man into a frenzy of fear. "Ohhh! I can't-- look--" He came at Obi-Wan with the collar and snapped it on. Obi-Wan clenched his jaw, hard, screaming through his teeth as the soul-crushing pain seared through him again.

"Ohhh, shhh." The man placed three fingers over Obi-Wan's lips, and it crossed Obi-Wan's mind to bite him. It would net him nothing but an ugly satisfaction; at any rate, he was once again sapped of all strength. He could not have unclenched his jaw enough to bite.

The impossibly loud echo of footsteps and the scrape of the opening door reverberated through his skull.

Glaring as hard as he could through burning, aching eyes, he met the stare of his captor. His real captor: it became clear to Obi-Wan that these three workhands were little more than errand boys.

The man wore a long black cloak, and Obi-Wan studied him with a mixture of curiosity and resentment. So, this was "the Boss." He was tall, but perhaps not as tall as Qui-Gon, and he had a distinctly cold aura about him. His hair was a vivid red, long and pulled back into a sleek tail. His skin was fair, and his bright green eyes glittered with malice.

"He hasn't eaten, has he Grys?" the man asked in a cold, cultured voice.

Grys shook his head miserably. "'T hurts him, Sir. Makes 'm sick, wot?"

The man in black turned an icy stare on the shaking Grys. "Oh well. It's not important. Go down and summon the others. We'll discuss the subject of payment later."

The poor farmer cast a worried glance at Obi-Wan. "But..."

The red-haired man sighed lightly. "Grys..." he half-whispered, but the single word contained a wealth of unspoken threat. Grys fairly scurried out the door.

Obi-Wan's vision began to blur. He struggled for coherency and thought, but the pain was too great. The tall man was taking a step toward him, then another, his head cocked slightly, his eyes shining with curiosity. Before the man could reach him, unconsciousness did.

Qui-Gon was standing where he'd last seen the men, looking for any kind of tracks or indication of which way they had taken Obi-Wan, when the first mental shriek hit him.

It began slowly, like the backward echo of a shout, then abruptly reached its impetus. It flooded Qui-Gon's entire consciousness with a sonic stream of color, light, images, and the memory of a pain so astounding, just the leftover remnant of it sent him to his knees, clutching his ears.

Gasping, Qui-Gon staggered to his feet and probed back through the training bond even as the last echoes died in his head. He looked straight across the plain, past the shire, shooting a visual azimuth as far as he could see, picking up a swell of grass here or a large tree there, memorizing details. Then he ran (back to) [for] the house. Halfway there, he was bowled over, sprawled out and dizzy in the grass, by another sickeningly strong wave of thought.

Quickly, he gathered himself up again, staggering, then walking, then running as the mental noise abated and his equilibrium returned. Obi-Wan obviously had enough of his faculties to think, to plan somewhat. Somehow he had managed to get through to the bond, but as Qui-Gon shoved food, a poncho, and water canisters into a satchel, he felt a flash of rebounding fear before the bond went dead again, leaving that hissing, snowy noise behind. He rushed to the brook to pick up the things he had left there, shoving them into his pouch. There were some tools, some electronics... and one particularly important item that he knew, knew, he would need.

He wished he had thought to push a thought back through the bond, but he, even he, wasn't sure he had that kind of mental capability. It was the loudest, most disturbing set of thoughts he'd ever witnessed, and the sheer volume of the information was staggering. Qui-Gon could not account for it, but that did not matter now. Quickly, he saddled the horse and set off in the direction his frantic soul told him to go.

Obi-Wan woke to a pale pink sunrise and the same screaming pain to which he'd fallen unconscious. He was on the cot, though he could not recall how it was he'd arrived there. The tray of food was immediately beside his head.

Nearly retching at the smell of it, he slowly dragged his arm up, caught the edge of the plate, and shoved it off the bed. It made an explosively loud clatter when it hit, and Obi-Wan gritted his teeth and moaned. Breathing slowly, he rested, trying to crawl inside himself mentally, away from the pain.

It dawned on him that his bladder was as tense as the rest of his body.

/Sith,/ he thought, and let his eyes slide closed. He wondered if he could even make it as far as the window, knowing that was the best he would manage. Then he decided if he passed out halfway there, he wouldn't much care one way or the other.

He levered his torso up and slid his legs over the side of the cot, letting out a tight moan as his still-booted feet hit the floor, jarring him. Sitting upright but slumped over, he looked around the room. Someone had put something like a chamberpot on the other side of the room; distantly, Obi-Wan appreciated the consideration that he might not want it near the bed, but suppressed a wave of irritation that they'd placed it so far away.

Obviously he was going to have to learn to function through the pain of the Force-inhibitor. The man's comment about "work" unnerved Obi-Wan, but he had more pressing details to think about.

First, getting over to that chamberpot.

He took two deep breaths, then stood shakily. The pain was no worse standing, sitting, or lying down, it simply was, all the time. It sapped him, weakened him terribly. Obi-Wan knew if he was going to manage a way out of here, he would have to overcome that.

Ruefully, he looked down at the meal he'd shoved onto the floor; that was a mistake. He wasn't hungry, but he could tell he would need to force food down simply for his strength.

/Forget the food,/ he told himself, nauseated at the sight of it. /The toilet's more important./ And it was, much more so since he'd stood. Carefully, mindful of his shaky equilibrium, he began to move toward the chamberpot, shuffling his feet. It seemed an interminable walk; his nerves sizzled with constant overload, his head pounded, every noise sounded too loud, jangling his thoughts. Even the slide of his feet across the floor planks vibrated through him roughly. Finally, though, he stood over the chamberpot, unlacing his leggings with hands that fumbled, feeling nothing but the same perpetual ache as the rest of him.

As he was almost finishing, the door creaked open. He looked over his shoulder and saw the blond, nervous-looking man come in, then freeze where he was.

"I-- fitar, sorry." The man spun around, slammed the door shut, then remained facing it, fidgeting. "Was bringin' water." He sloshed a plasteel bottle to prove his intentions.

"Thanks," Obi-Wan gritted out, trying his best to ignore the lancing pain in his head. Privately, he was glad that the man had shown up swishing water around after Obi-Wan made it across the room.

He laced himself up and turned around, beginning his shuffle back to the cot. Immediately the nervous man went to him, taking his arm and helping him get back to where he could sit. Helpfully, he opened the bottle and held it up for Obi-Wan to drink. Obi-Wan took two token swallows and pushed it away.

By now, he'd gathered enough understanding to know that they were far too nervous of him to be a real threat, but there was that darkly-dressed man... he had to be at the back of it all. He almost certainly didn't have any use for a presumably half-trained Jedi, no matter what the farmers told him about needing his assistance for their crops.

But the man bent low and whispered, "All right. Grys said he took it off ye, and nothing went bad. So I will." And Obi-Wan could think of nothing else for a moment but his own anticipated relief.

It flooded him as the man keyed the lock on the back of the collar and pulled it off, setting it aside. Obi-Wan was dizzied with it. Thinking fast, he muttered a question about the "Boss" while he gathered his strength, preparing to make another massive push through the bond.

"Boss likes ye," the blond man said, half-conversationally. "Promised us he'd let ye go after ye started the crops. Oh, it'll be fine t'have greens growin' agin. Always hated nerfherding, I did."

Screaming more information through the bond, Obi-Wan struggled to keep his voice neutral. "Why not contact AgriCorps? My master-- we can help you, we know who to reach--"

The man shook his head, but when Obi-Wan looked at him he could see the confusion in the grungy features, as though he'd never heard of AgriCorps.

Obi-Wan held his tongue. He felt a distinct sense of wrongness here even beyond what this nervous little man knew, but could not place it beyond that it must come from the man in black he'd half-seen the previous day. He gestured for the bottle and the man handed it to him. Obi-Wan drank a bit, then pulled in a deep breath and pushed through the bond again, long and loud. He tried to be specific this time, pushing images of the view from the window, the plain grass fields around him, the sound of the shuttle the men used. There was no echo, no reverberation, so he pushed again, worried that his master wasn't getting any of it.

There was nothing in reply. He sighed and went still, relishing his last few painless seconds as the man chattered on about how good it would be to harvest again in the autumn, how tired he was of ranching, how the drought had ruined everything for him and he missed his old ways.

That sense of unease began to increase as the man hovered over him, waiting to put the collar back on. Obi-Wan knew that whatever was about to happen, he hoped Qui-Gon would find a way to him, and quickly.

"I won't be needing you gentlemen any longer," Bane announced quietly, closing his eyes briefly as he felt the three men's indignation and anger rolling from them like smoke.

The four men stood at the base of the tower. Grys stared; this wasn't at all what they'd agreed on. The Jedi was supposed to help them with their crops. That was why this Bane character had set them to fetching him. Now it appeared he was altering the arrangements.

"But-- we done what ye asked," Grys protested, falling silent when a deeply green gaze pierced him, and the others looked on in horror as Grys went red and then faintly blue, his eyes wide. He tugged at his collar desperately. No sound issued from his throat, though he looked as though he were screaming and gasping.

Bane continued casually as he made a dismissive gesture in Grys' direction, sending him slumping to the ground lifelessly. "You delivered the Jedi, and my presence is unknown, and yes, that is what I asked you to do. I require nothing more of you." He glanced casually between the two remaining men, who stared, aghast, only a second before scrambling for their transport.

With an air of relaxed ease, Bane strolled toward his own transport and got in, activating the comm. A small holographic figure appeared before him. He bowed his head before the thickly-hooded humanoid.

"He is secured, Master," he said, his voice full of humility.

"Good," the guttural voice issued from the holo. "Do not let them reunite; if you do, they will defeat you. Jinn is formidable in the protection of that apprentice. I need them both taken out, one way or another."

"Yes, Master," Bane nodded, bowing his head again as the transmission was cut from the receiving end. He knew all too well of the lengthy list of missions he'd been sent on, only to be thwarted the moment those two damnable Jedi arrived. Negotiations that were supposed to have failed were saved; wars that were supposed to have been long and bloody were ended cleanly. It was as though the Council sensed the presence of the Dark Side everywhere Bane went, though he knew he shielded carefully and the Jedi themselves had never detected his presence. He knew his work well, and yet they kept him from success time and again. Even though they'd left the Order, they were still a potential threat. Lord Sidious was miserably displeased with him; he knew he would not last much longer.

It was time for all of that careful Jedi correction to end.

Qui-Gon nearly fell off his horse when the wave of noise hit him. He'd been trying to anticipate it, but was unwilling to shield against it lest he lose the trail. At this point, no discomfort, however intense, was going to keep him from remaining open to whatever contact he could get with his erstwhile apprentice.

When it came, he hissed and shouted and jerked back on the reins reflexively, causing the mare to start, alarmed at him. By the time he'd got down and calmed her, the second wave hit, and he was doubled over with the intensity of it. Nauseated, he tried to pick apart the images. He could make little sense of them, though he hoped perhaps as he grew closer he might be able to make use of the information Obi-Wan was forcing through the bond. He felt the stretching of it now, like an overfilled water skin, but had no time to wonder about it. As soon as the mental scream contracted and trailed off, it began again. Gritting his teeth, Qui-Gon reseated himself in the saddle and adjusted his direction, moving with enough caution to spare the horse.

/I'm coming, Obi-Wan,/ he tried to send, but heard it dwindle to nothing long before it reached its destination, too thin and quiet to pass upstream against Obi-Wan's overwhelming scream. Whatever Obi-Wan was doing, Qui-Gon only hoped that it wasn't too heavy a toll on him. He had a feeling that wit and speed were going to be of utmost importance by the time he found his other half.

If he found him.

The man in black smiled reassuringly and stepped forward, offering his hand.

Obi-Wan instinctively recoiled. "Who--" he uttered, frustrated with his own weakness and inability to cope with the persistent pain of the collar.

"You can just call me Bane," the man said conversationally. "I am here to help you."

Watching him carefully, Obi-Wan displayed his doubt plainly and tilted his chin up. "Oh?" he said, his voice strained.

Bane smiled, his green eyes flashing. He bent in front of Obi-Wan, bracing his hands on his knees. "Yes," he said softly, his voice warm. "You see, I've heard of you. You're quite famous. Leaving the Order with your master, who has staunchly agreed to continue to train you against all odds and in spite of your memory loss... it's really romantic." He studied Obi-Wan's face, his gaze soft and contemplative.

Obi-Wan only stared back, thoroughly confused but unwilling to show it. Who was this person that could have known of them? That he knew so much?

Bane straightened and smiled down. "Ah yes. Even you have relearned enough of the Jedi way to maintain the poker face. But I'm going to teach you a better way."

Realizing suddenly who this man was, Obi-Wan pulled in a slow breath. "Sith. You're Sith."

The man smiled brilliantly. "So sharp, little padawan. No worries. I'm not here to try to turn you." He bent close again and his smile grew wider even as his eyes burned with a cold, deep desire, mapping every curve and angle of Obi-Wan's face.

"Well that's not entirely true," Bane half-whispered. "But by the time I've shown you everything you need to be shown, you'll come willingly."

Obi-Wan shuddered at the certainty in the voice, but shook his head firmly. "No."

The malicious smile never wavered. "We'll see." He traced a finger down Obi-Wan's cheek. In spite of the collar, the former padawan felt a chilled trail where the fingertip had been. Tensing, he tilted his face away from Bane's hand.

Cold anger seeped into the green eyes then. "Very well." Bane straightened again, smiling through his anger, and then his expression brightened as he seemed to remember something. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small hypo.

"There's an old story," he said conversationally, swiftly pinning Obi-Wan to the wall behind the cot by his throat, "and it goes, 'once upon a time, a pretty little thing was gifted with a magic wishing fruit.' It was a pallie, I think," he added thoughtfully, and tightened his grip on Obi-Wan's neck as he felt the former Jedi tense against him. "'But what the pretty thing didn't know was that it wasn't a magic wishing pallie at all, it was a poisoned one.'"

He used his thumb to tilt Obi-Wan's face away, pushing firmly on the lightly stubbled jaw, admiring the lines of muscle as he pressed the hypo to the side of the smooth neck, injecting its contents.

"It's not a pallie," Bane said almost apologetically, "but it does have a certain poetic resonance to it, however simple. You can consider me your handsome prince. Give me my 'kiss,' my way in, and you'll have the antidote. If you don't...." He shrugged.

Obi-Wan's blood began to burn with a new pain, a hot, ragged ache. Smiling, Bane continued to hold Obi-Wan pinned against the wall as he tossed the hypo aside and deactivated the collar, throwing it aside as well.

This time, there was no relief. The pain did not abate; it only changed. Obi-Wan began to shiver uncontrollably in spite of the unbearable heat in his body, eaten from the inside by the acidic burn of the poison. Bane smiled, sensing the pulsing agony.

"You'll find you don't have much strength left to send out your little homing calls any longer." Examining his nails critically, the Sith Lord smiled that reptilian smile. "Not that it matters. You only have about two days. By the time he gets here and finds you either dead or turned, he'll be easy enough to kill-- or turn. Till then, we'll just work with you, hm?"

Obi-Wan gasped as a fresh wave of heat washed through him with the increase in his heart rate. Sweat flowed from every pore, chilling his skin even as fire raced through his veins. He tried to think, tried to reason a way through this; there had to be a way.

Bane looked at him almost tenderly. "Don't worry. The pain on this side of the Force is much easier to bear. And if you choose the other way, well that would be a pity."

The former Jedi shuddered.

Qui-Gon knew his horse couldn't take much more, so he decided it would be best to bed down for the night. He despaired that it was taking so long to reach Obi-Wan; how far could they have possibly gone?

As he was unsaddling the horse, he felt the bond sputter to life and braced himself for another scream, but none came. Puzzled, he stretched along the bond as far as he could reach: still out of range. Close enough to feel, but not close enough to speak. He could not fathom how Obi-Wan was able to reach him this way; perhaps there was some kind of recoil effect to the Force inhibitor.

He tried to work out possible connections to the amnesia, but by the time he'd choked down a portion of dried meat and some water out of rote, he'd come to two conclusions: some things in dealing with the Force had no explanation, and frankly, he didn't care about anything but finding Obi-Wan.

Qui-Gon knew that sleep would be useless, so he settled to his knees, adjusting his poncho under them and dropping into a trance. Over and over, he felt along the bond, trying to reach Obi-Wan. Each time, he felt himself growing closer but knew that it was never close enough.

And somehow, the distance was growing.

"Do you know," Bane began, relaxing into the small wooden chair as though it were a great leather one, "that your master refused you when you were thirteen?"

Obi-Wan nodded, struggling not to breathe hard. Every motion hurt; every breath was like fire in his lungs. He dared not show this to the Sith, who was regarding him dispassionately.

"He told me all of that," Obi-Wan countered defiantly.

"Hmm." Bane leaned forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees. "Well there may yet be a lot that he didn't tell you, little padawan. I've known Qui-Gon for some time; I've lived in the Temple. He's quite a legend, so it's a matter of course that we all follow his doings. I, perhaps, followed them... a little more closely than the others did. Did he tell you about Xanatos?"

At the Jedi's tight nod, Bane went on, "Did he tell you that you are nothing more than the last notch on his belt? That he only took you as a lover because he wanted to ensure that you made it to knighthood? And not for noble purposes, mind. He knew if he didn't knight you after Yoda forced him to take you on, you'd be another failure of his, another worthless Force-user probably gone to the Dark Side--" he snorted-- "whom he would later have to kill. Qui-Gon is old and tired, little padawan. Why do you think he wanted to quit the order when he found out you were asking to be reassigned? Better to forfeit than fail." Bane ignored the small gasp Obi-Wan let out and smiled. "Oh, it's entirely possible he had this planned all along; he needed a glorious exit, because half-and-half is a bad way to go down, hmm? Two points Light, one point Dark is a much better score, don't you think?"

"You're lying," Obi-Wan breathed painfully. "Qui-Gon loves me."

Bane seemed not to notice Obi-Wan's wince, realizing he'd said too much.

"Let me remind you, then, little Jedi, since your memory is yet imperfect. Let me tell you how rocks as naming day presents are a great laugh in the Order. Better you should have received nothing than been given the universal equivalent of a blond joke."

Obi-Wan shook his head, even as he recalled his own reaction to the rocks when he'd found them after his fall, wondering what they had meant and if he'd really enjoyed receiving them. He clung, as Bane talked, to the memory of Qui-Gon sitting in front of him, working on his padawan braid, lovingly recounting the stories behind each of the rocks. He clung to the warmth in that voice, but gradually that warmth slipped away. He could not hear Qui-Gon now; the vicious pain that consumed his sanity as it burned up his body and soul was all he knew, and above the agony, he could only hear Bane.

"They were rocks, you dolt!" Bane laughed. "Why not a plant, for the Living Force? Why not a pet, since he was always so fond of pathetic projects? Oh--" he stopped and tilted his head, mock sympathy on his face at Obi-Wan's dawning hurt. "Dear, you don't suppose all this means you were it, do you? His ultimate pathetic life-form. His last pet project before he retired to do something relaxing and easy, like archiving. Why else would he keep a smartass of a padawan who challenged his opinions and did stupid things like fall off training equipment? He just needed a good fuck now and then, and someone to skew the records back in his favor."

Bane rose suddenly, standing quickly enough to push the chair back, scraping its feet against the floor. Obi-Wan hissed in a breath at the noise, then gritted his teeth at the burning ache in his lungs. The Sith Lord advanced on the cot quickly, his livid green eyes bright.

Obi-Wan knew they were all lies; they had to be. If he could only think... but even the inconsistencies in Bane's words escaped him as he began to speak again, sweetly and slowly.

"You knew about Xanatos, then, didn't you. Did you realize? They were lovers."

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth and shrugged. He didn't remember that, but it didn't mean Qui-Gon hadn't mentioned it before. "It's in the past; it doesn't matter."

Bane smiled indulgently, dropping in front of Obi-Wan in a relaxed, catlike crouch. "So forgiving. I can see why he keeps you around. Could it be that it has never crossed your mind? You're being so used. Qui didn't know how to make those old memories go away, so you're... the receptacle of them, if you like. Really. You believed that a master that much older than you wanted you?" He paused and shook his head, dropping his voice, trailing a hand from Obi-Wan's neck to his torso, and then tucking it between his legs, stroking. Obi-Wan bit his lip as he struggled to keep from reacting to the almost unbearable blend of pain and terrible, unwilling pleasure.

"Dumb and pretty. It doesn't get much better than that, especially when you can fantasize about the one you really miss while you're screwing the one you're with."

Obi-Wan looked away. /No. No./ He shook his head and was rewarded with another bolt of liquid agony. He had to struggle to keep from crying out.

"Hurts, does it?" Bane asked softly. "It's all right, I know that though Jedi don't show pride, or even have much of it, they are damned if they give any reaction. So I'll let you have your stony silence, little padawan." He reached a hand up and cupped Obi-Wan's cheek delicately, marking the suffering in the blue-gray eyes.

"And that hurts, too, hm?" he asked softly, almost whispering. "Say it now, and I can take the hurt away. Align yourself with me. You can be my first padawan, my first and only, and I'll give you the training he never could... among other things."

Obi-Wan wasn't sure he could tolerate two days of this searing bite through his blood. The pain pulled at him desperately, and he knew that he would not stand against it long. It fogged his thinking and made it hard to reason against the lies, for they had to be lies. But Bane's certainty filled him with doubt; his ease reminded Obi-Wan only of his own struggle for air. Desperate to buy Qui-Gon more time to find him, but unknowing how to go about it, Obi-Wan remained silent.

The hand that was petting Obi-Wan's cheek drew back abruptly and slapped, hard. Obi-Wan bit his lip and shouted through his teeth as the simple cuff rocketed through his overtaxed nerves. Bane rose, a disgusted snarl on his face.

"Deal with the night, then, little padawan. We'll see how you feel tomorrow." And he turned on his heel and left, locking the door behind him.

Obi-Wan slumped to the cot, biting back a frustrated moan. Two days had already passed in almost unbearable pain, and yet two more waited for him, if Bane was even telling the truth.

But no-- if he lent any credibility to Bane's words, then he was lost. Those things he had said about Qui-Gon could never be true. Obi-Wan was dealing with a Sith Lord. He could not afford the luxury of the least bit of trust.

This fiery burn was different; it did not want to let him succumb to unconsciousness. He pressed himself back onto the thin mattress, stretching out as best he could, struggling to find his center. Bane had been right: Obi-Wan could neither center nor call Qui-Gon. His concentration was shattered.

He pulled in a shuddering breath, whimpering as it stabbed through his lungs. Suddenly he knew what to do to buy himself some relief, though what the cost might be later, he could not say.

Pulling in a deep breath, a hard one, he paused a moment as the inferno roared through his blood. He gathered every scrap of his fear and suffering, knowing Qui-Gon would not hear it, knowing he might not be able to come even if he had heard, knowing that all of this might be for nothing. And he screamed.

And damn his own fright, Bane's mocking followed him into a pain-induced oblivion: /Would he come? Would he?/

As the scream drifted across the fields and died on the wind, Bane listened and smiled, looking up at the tower. Sidious had wanted this done differently, less poetically, more roughly. He hadn't cared, at first, if Obi-Wan turned or died, but Bane had posed to him how much more useless Qui-Gon would be if a second padawan turned to the Dark Side, not only rendering Obi-Wan useless to the Order but Qui-Gon as well. Sidious had then demanded far cruder torture, far coarser punishment.

But the Sith apprentice had looked into Obi-Wan's eyes and known that this little Jedi could be seduced. And together, they would follow the millennia-old tradition of the Sith and take down the man who thought himself Emperor. Bane knew, too, that his little padawan would one day overcome him, but therein would lie his immortality.

/He will always remember me as the one who held him. The one who took him away from love and Light, forever.

/If it were any less of a challenge, it wouldn't be so much fun./

Qui-Gon rode the next morning before sunrise, unwilling to wait any longer. Urging the horse in the direction of the dawn, he half-heartedly tugged at a piece of jerky with his teeth, patting the mare's neck when she nickered at him. He knew he had to be careful with her; if he broke her, he and Obi-Wan would be stranded with whatever happened-- and he still did not know what forces were at work here. Obviously, ones smart enough to know that Jedi, even former Jedi, were not to be underestimated. Somehow he knew that the kidnappers would be aware that he was on his way, and so caution was of utmost importance.

The land was mostly flat, any hills too small to pose a problem. The entire planet was mostly savannas, dry with yellow grass and suitable only for ranching. He knew that the kidnappers had some kind of Force-dampening device; perhaps

/I should have been more careful. I should never have exploited my knowledge of the Living Force for commerce./

He berated himself for several parsecs, picking his way through the brightening morning, ignoring the roads and cutting across the easy terrain. As the day warmed, he knew he would have to find water for the mare and let her rest; perhaps he would walk a ways. But he would not stop. Obi-Wan was out there, somewhere, at the end of the training bond. Somewhere just beyond reach.

He only hoped that was a figurative statement, and not a literal one.

The self-induced unconsciousness only lasted an hour or so. By the morning, Obi-Wan was writhing and burning, struggling to keep quiet, but his desire not to let his pain show was rapidly being overwhelmed by the pain itself. Pride and staunchness could only hold out so long. His sweat-soaked clothing clung to him and rasped against his skin. It felt as though he were being etched inside out, scraped raw. Every cell screamed.

By the time Bane showed up with his smile and his offer, Obi-Wan was hard-pressed enough to think, let alone speak. He could feel his body dying. Bane had said two days, but he was Sith. Truth was not a virtue.

/Get the antidote,/ Obi-Wan's mind cried as he began to sob in his pain, unable to withstand it anymore. /Get it, get it, let him think you'll turn, Qui will come, Master will come, just stop the pain--/

"Yes," he gasped to Bane's unspoken question. "Please."

Bane smiled. "Smart little padawan." And he withdrew another hypo, holding it out a good three meters away from Obi-Wan, gasping and tortured on the cot.

Obi-Wan waited, staring breathlessly until he realized Bane had no intention of giving him the antidote. "No-- please." He offered his neck, tears streaming down his face, clawing down the neck of the tunic. "Please!" he begged.

Bane remained where he was, looking at the former Jedi thoughtfully.

"That was too easy," he said quietly. "I'm very disappointed in you. Here I had thought I'd found a Jedi with enough backbone to be my apprentice, but you're no better than the rest of them." He gave Obi-Wan a long look of disgust. "If you're that worthless as a Jedi, you're worthless to me. No one who turns so quickly would stay true." He tucked the hypo away and left the tower.

Obi-Wan was distantly aware through his wrenching sobs that his neck burned where he'd scratched it, only slightly more insistently than the rest of him burned. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He was dying, and he knew it.

Qui-Gon felt something nagging at his consciousness as he watered the horse in a stream. It was midday, and he'd been testing the bond relentlessly, trying to find a direction. With the sun directly overhead, it was too risky to continue on blindly; he might lose his way and with it, valuable time.

The nagging persisted. As he accorded it his attention, he realized it was coming from the bond. He latched on to it, sinking to his knees and dropping into a trance immediately, feeling for his apprentice.

But his apprentice wasn't there. Obi-Wan's presence was still too far off to reach, and even as Qui-Gon braced for another sonic shriek, he knew one was not forthcoming. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Jumping to his feet, he calmed his startled horse and leapt into the saddle, urging her into a gallop in the direction he'd been traveling, sending her strength. He didn't know what was happening, but he knew he was short of time. Very short indeed.

"...vision... perfect..."

The voice echoed and hummed, fading in and out.

"Try to... me, little..."

Obi-Wan moaned as he slowly registered that he was in the Force collar again, its sharp, constant ache suffusing him.

"...Sorry," the soft, low, cultured voice murmured, and Obi-Wan realized his brow was being stroked lovingly.

"Qui--" he breathed, and fell silent, wincing as the ache lanced through his head.

"Sorry, little padawan. No Qui here."

The padawan opened his eyes and was greeted with a sweet, soft smile.

"I'm so very sorry for leaving you to the poison," Bane said softly, and it grated on Obi-Wan's raw, sensitive hearing. "You must understand my position. I cannot allow myself to be deceived." He stroked the back of one hand tenderly over Obi-Wan's damp forehead and sighed. "Unfortunately, the poison wasn't going to last two days in you. I have administered the antidote, but have no fear, my little Jedi. We aren't finished, not by far." Bane's cool hand left Obi-Wan's face and danced lightly over his chest, petting, and then downward, insinuating itself between his legs. Obi-Wan knew his body would not respond, and felt a moment's triumph-- until his body did respond, even through the searing pain.

Obi-Wan swallowed and closed his eyes again, then groaned raggedly when the hand disappeared. His cheek was slapped repeatedly.

"None of that," Bane said cheerfully. "We have a lot of work to do." He stood and pulled Obi-Wan into a sitting position, holding him when the former padawan would have slumped over.

"Come on then, little Jedi, help me out here." Bane slung one of Obi-Wan's arms over his shoulder and hauled him up, chuckling a little at the pained grunt and harsh breathing coming from the dry mouth. He straightened and carried the Jedi to the wall bodily rather than lifting him with the Force, knowing Obi-Wan was in agony wherever his body met Bane's.

"You'll-- want to-- wake-- up!" Bane shouted suddenly, driving forward and slamming Obi-Wan into the wall. Obi-Wan screamed as his head cracked back against the stone, and he saw bright flashes in his vision before he lost consciousness.

"Master," he whispered. "There's so much pain."

"I know, love," the dear voice whispered back. "We'll soon have you drowning in bacta."

Obi-Wan smiled. "But I don't want to be drowning in it, Master, I only want some to--"

Qui-Gon loomed over Obi-Wan, darkness in his eyes. "Drowning, Padawan." His hands pushed Obi-Wan down, pinning him under as cold rushed over him.

So cold, and no air.

He woke, sputtering, to ice water in his face.

"Wake up," Bane snarled, and threw a metal bowl to one side, smiling as Obi-Wan winced and groaned at the clattering, jangling noise.

Obi-Wan dared not move enough to shake the rivulets of water from his face; it ran down his scalp and into his tunic, onto his shoulders and between them down his spine. It was very cold on his overtaxed body. He realized slowly that he was upright, his head sagging, the muscles in his shoulders taut.

Bane had clamped him to the wall, wrists and ankles, legs far apart but feet on the floor. Not hanging, but depending on the clamps to stay upright.

Striding forward, red hair loose and flying behind him, Bane muttered, "You will not pass out again." He gripped Obi-Wan's face cruelly, fingertips and thumb biting into the pale cheeks, snapping Obi-Wan's head up against the wall. Obi-Wan made a pained face and opened his eyes, but was too exhausted to scream. His mouth opened wide, but little more than a moan escaped it.

"I consider myself a bit of a specialist," Bane bit out, "in the use of drugs and poisons. We can do this my way, or we can do it my way. You turn or you die, but if you die, it will be slowly and badly. It won't be any blissful release, believe me, little padawan, you will stop believing that there was ever a time when your... whole... body didn't hurt. Go ahead. Be brave. Spit on me or some such noble action; give me a reason to inject you with something fun. I have a cabinet full of things much worse than what you've already tasted."

Obi-Wan stared at him dully, knowing even through the raw, blazing ache in his body that it would be useless to be defiant at this point. It would likely cost him more time, and he couldn't afford that. Not while Qui-Gon might yet find him.

If he was coming. Even at the start of this when the bond had been opened, he hadn't heard from Qui-Gon.

Bane leaned his forehead against Obi-Wan's, a tender gesture so confusing that Obi-Wan couldn't even think to turn aside. The Sith stroked his cheek softly, then passed his hands casually over Obi-Wan's body, leaning forward until he was pressed against the Jedi, chest to groin. He leaned his face to one side, nuzzling Obi-Wan's cheek, murmuring, "Jinn doesn't love you. You thought you were letting out such a secret, but you were wrong. Poor little Jedi, you believed that, and I am sorry. Your memories are so faulty that you allowed him in, you let him seduce you with that power and that protective aura, such a big, strong Master, hm?" He punctuated his words with small thrusts of his hips. "Poor Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan felt doubt insinuate itself alongside the pain, and he dared not speak to refute. The truth was that even if he could argue coherently at this stage, he couldn't remember enough to argue with. And no matter what Bane said about a lingering death, the former Jedi knew that the Sith would give Qui-Gon no time to find them. But if Bane lied about that, then he lied about Qui-Gon-- or--

Turning his head away, Obi-Wan sighed. A word rose in his throat, but he caught himself before he begged. He would not be defiant, but neither would he humiliate himself.

Bane felt the resignation pouring from the Jedi's very soul. "Good," he smiled. "There is hope for you yet."

Then, he keyed the Force collar.

Obi-Wan's eyes widened as he gasped in air, slouching forward against the bonds and crying out. The relief was almost too great, too much after the pain. It crashed through him violently, almost as unbearable as the acid burn of the poison had been, more unbearable than the collar. He breathed shallowly, half-expecting that lancing, shattered torment to invade his lungs again. It did not come. There was no pain.

Shaking his head to clear it, he stared at the Sith Lord.

"Nice, isn't it?" Bane smiled, and kissed Obi-Wan's forehead. "So nice," he added, half to himself, and brushed his fingertips over Obi-Wan's mouth, then leaned forward to tuck a kiss into the hollow of neck and shoulder. One hand slid around Obi-Wan's waist until it met the wall. The embrace was almost protective, and the Jedi found himself wanting to lean into it before he caught himself.

Bane lingered there a moment, relishing his small victory, then stepped back almost regretfully. "Time enough for that later. You're very pretty, but you'll be prettier without any of those old lies clinging to you, don't you think? So let's talk about those."

For hours, Bane wove a tapestry of twisted facts as he denounced the Order. He spoke of how they wrenched small children out of their families, crying. The Council touted their methods by insisting they saved these children from lives of disdain and banishment in worlds that didn't understand the Force.

"But none of that's material now," Bane reassured him, pacing casually as he talked. "What we're here for is you. You, little Jedi, are more important than you realize. You can help me. We can bring down the man who fancies himself the future Emperor of the galaxy, together. But what's more pressing than that is Jinn, who has done things to you that you-- quite thankfully, I'm sure!-- don't remember, but which are very crucial to all of this. You see, there is a good deal you still don't know about him."

He looked at Obi-Wan steadily, stopping his slow treading across the floor. He pressed his hand to Obi-Wan's forehead, brushing his thumb over the line that had pressed itself between the pained brows.

"Why don't I just show you?" He closed his eyes, and Obi-Wan gasped and shuddered as he received memories of Qui-Gon doing unspeakable things to him. There were numerous images of his master raping him in Council-sanctioned rites of passage, casually handing him over to dignitaries (as a means) to settle disputes, staring at him with careless disregard as he shivered in robes too large for him. In several memories, a man spoke on his behalf, fought strenuously in fact, before the Council and Qui-Gon and even the Senate, trying to bring an end to the barbaric use of padawans in the Order.

Realization dawned horribly as Obi-Wan stared into the eyes of his protector.

"That is why," Bane whispered, "you were dropped off that training tier. You struggled too much. You were too strong. And they wiped your memory because they just wanted you gone. It wouldn't do to have you out in the galaxy talking about all of this, would it?"

Bane dropped his hand and smiled gently, though it never reached his eyes. "Be glad you lost all of that, little Jedi. You're lucky. Why do you think anger is not allowed? You would train it all on your masters, the lot of you."

Tears coursed down Obi-Wan's cheeks as he began to shake. He sobbed miserably as his sweetest memories of Qui-Gon here on V'littan struggled against the nightmarish images of repeated rape. He weakly fought the clamps at his wrists as Qui-Gon's beloved and now sometimes hated face rose in his mind, alternately loving and stony. It was too much. He tipped his head back to cry out his anguish, but he could find no voice.

Pursing his lips, Bane regarded him thoughtfully. "I supposed that's enough for now. Time to talk, I think, but then you don't need the collar off for that." He took it up, and this time when he reapplied it, Obi-Wan did scream.

Qui-Gon's head snapped up from his study of the ground as he sat atop the trotting mare.

The bond had gone dead again and he reached out, half-afraid to feel Obi-Wan's presence drifting within the Force at large. It was not. Obi-Wan was still alive, but still under what felt like Force restraints, or yet again, it seemed. That pervasive white noise was all he could hear outside his own thoughts.

To the Jedi Master it now seemed that his moments with and without access to the bond were running together. He felt as though the hours were sliding by more quickly as he lost time. It was growing dusk again. He cursed himself for never having bought a speeder. He should be there by now. He should already have his padawan secured--

Qui-Gon broke off the useless train of thought and centered as best he could, urging the horse into a gallop. Much though he sympathized with her tiredness, it was time. He had to push hard. Obi-Wan was not dead, but he might-- might be--

His throat tightened and he closed his eyes, refusing to finish the thought. It wasn't something he was willing to consider.

All that night and the following day, Bane manipulated Obi-Wan's pain, balancing the lies, the collar, and the relief on a scale so knowledgeable, so complete, that he stepped back occasionally to admire his handiwork.

By the night, Obi-Wan feared the collar so completely that he'd begun to beg. By the morning, he feared the memories, the stories, more than the collar, more even than he feared another injection.

By the afternoon, he feared relief.

All that night and the following day, Qui-Gon rode. He supplemented the poor, tired mare as much as he could, but she was nearly broken, and he knew it.

The flashes of connection came and went with rapidity, and Qui-Gon began to mark the hours by them. There was regularity to them now, a steadiness.

Who in the Sith had his padawan?

But then he saw, in the distance, a tower. A strange brick one; a grain storage facility perhaps.

Then he heard a rasping, broken scream.

"Sweet Force," he breathed, and prodded the horse into a sprint, no longer hearing her ragged breathing or feeling the frothy sweat beneath his legs.

"Come on," Bane coaxed sweetly, kissing Obi-Wan's fluttering eyelids, relishing the way the russet head lolled on the exhausted neck, adoring how tortured the breathing was. "Come on, Padawan, you're so close."

Obi-Wan's brow furrowed. "Please-- don't take the collar... Please."

"I won't, if you'll just let me in. Let me in past the collar, you know you can. You're strong enough. Let me have my doorway. My kiss. Come on."

Obi-Wan lifted his head then with great effort, knowing there never had been any Qui-Gon Jinn, not the way he'd been brainwashed to believe. There never had been any Order, either. There was only the pain that Bane gave him, and it was all he knew. It was the only truth left. He tipped his face up, and Bane kissed him softly, sweetly, his tongue sweeping gently over Obi-Wan's, so delicately that the former Jedi began to cry. Something slipped loose in Obi-Wan's mind.

Bane reached in then, wrenching something, disconnecting it. The padawan shrieked into the kiss, the pain so great that his vision went as black as the rest of him had gone. Abruptly, he felt a new connection happen, and he knew-- he knew.

"Thank you," he breathed against Bane's mouth.

Bane smiled. "Mine, then. Aren't you." It wasn't a question.

Obi-Wan smiled back.

The Sith's green eyes iced over. "Good. We'll let in the rest of it now."

Before Obi-Wan could protest, he had keyed the collar open and tossed it aside. Obi-Wan had no voice left; his mouth opened soundlessly and a dry croak escaped him as the utter lack of pain pounded into him.

"Please..."

Bane grinned. "First-- your life back."

The Sith prodded at the raw place in his mind, picking until he found it-- there.

He unlocked a flood, a deluge of memories suddenly snapping into place, a lifetime in an instant, of a childhood in the crèche, of happy years with Qui-Gon, superimposed over Bane's painted reality. There had been no abuse; there had been no hurt, none that the Jedi had deliberately caused, nothing like what Bane had thrust upon him the past two days-- had it only been two days?

No, it had been a lifetime of pain. Two lifetimes. The one he'd lived in this tower, and the one Bane presented to him now, laughing.

"For nothing, little padawan." The smile faded to ice. "You became mine for nothing. Poor Padawan, it's almost too much to bear, isn't it? But you are mine, nevertheless. You can be angry later, I promise. Till then, I think I hear your former master coming--"

Bane snapped the collar back on, not even bothering with the locking mechanism; Obi-Wan, by now, needed it too much. He slumped against the wrist clamps, the ragged hurt so sweet and so wrong, and he was here for no reason. He knew he was staring blankly into space, his mouth wide open, but he didn't care. He had believed all the lies, and now Qui-Gon was coming.

Oh, Sith help him. Qui-Gon was coming.

Qui-Gon checked the door at the base of the tower, surprised to find that it swung open easily. He took the steps three at a time, and by the time he reached the top and opened that door, too, Bane was ready.

"He's already mine," Bane said casually, sweeping a stray hair from his forehead. "Just within the hour, in fact." He stepped aside and flourished a hand in Obi-Wan's direction.

Qui-Gon showed no emotion as he stared at his padawan, oh Force, his beloved padawan, dirty and fairly hanging from the wall, defeated, though he seemed not to have any marks on him, save a series of scratches down the side of his neck. Qui-Gon could feel nothing through the bond, if indeed the bond was still there-- and there was the Force collar. Obi-Wan would not, or could not, raise his head. Qui-Gon could not spare a thought about how terrible the pain must be.

He turned his gaze back to the man who had to be Sith-- yes, he was unclasping a very long lightsaber hilt from his belt.

"Let's dance, then," Bane breathed, his face a mask of cold disdain. He triggered the hilt, holding it vertically; emerald blades extended from both ends. "Or can't you?"

Qui-Gon stilled his expression as the nameless Sith smirked at him. Slowly, slowly, he raised his hands.

Bane tilted his head. "Oh come on, then. They truly do teach you nothing. Damned pacifists." He flourished the lightstaff, spinning it, and advanced quickly, that enraging smirk still firmly in place.

With a flick of the Force, Qui-Gon unclipped the strap inside his robe against his upper arm. He dropped his hand and the lightsaber he'd been constructing painstakingly for weeks slid into his palm, activating even as it descended.

He was calm, unutterably so. The Force sang through him as he risked everything, both himself and his padawan, and threw the shining yellow 'saber at the startled Sith. It impaled Bane effortlessly, smoothly through the chest, and then impaled the floor as the Sith staggered back, dropped to his knees, and fell, inexpressible shock painted over his face.

Qui-Gon darted forward, unsheathing the new 'saber from the Sith's body and deactivating it. He felt a surge of triumph that bordered on enraged righteousness, but he released it: it was dangerous, and there was no time for it now. He rushed to his padawan.

"Oh Force, Obi--" He looked at the clamps, but could not find how to unclasp them, or more correctly did not have the patience to do so. He wrenched them from the wall with the Force, breaking them open.

Obi-Wan sagged into him, stunned beyond comprehension. Qui-Gon had come. He had come. His mind was fogged with lies and the brand-new memories of his old life-- his whole life. He could not grasp it.

Bane lay dead on the floor, the fabric over the hole in his heart smoking faintly. Qui-Gon stepped into Obi-Wan's slumping weight and lowered him partially to the floor, worry etched in every line in his face. He tilted his padawan more closely to him to better see the back of the collar, and, finding the latch, pulled it off.

Obi-Wan would have screamed had he any voice left. He frantically shook his head against Qui-Gon's shoulder, broken, senseless whispers pouring from his lips.

Gathering him up fully and straightening, Qui-Gon murmured, "Oh, my Obi-Wan-- what has he done to you?" He hugged the young man to him, knowing the damage was great, possibly irreparable. He pulled back, seeing the blank darkness lurking in his old padawan's eyes and feeling it in Obi-Wan's aura, and even as he tried to probe delicately though the bond, he choked back a sob: the bond was gone.

Obi-Wan struggled to speak. "He-- there was poison. I was dying. He saved me." He paused and drew a shuddering breath. "I stopped believing." He looked at Qui-Gon, his blue-gray eyes weak and uncomprehending.

"Which one are you?" he asked, his voice broken and dry.

Qui-Gon hugged his broken apprentice to him. "Obi-Wan. I'm here. Your master. The Sith is destroyed."

Qui-Gon cradled the light body close to his, appalled at the weight Obi-Wan had lost and the weakness in the hands clutching his robes. More than that, he felt the darkness rolling from his padawan, felt the shattering absence of everything that had been the man he knew. Qui-Gon knew even without the bond that his padawan was lamenting the loss of the monster that had seduced him to the Dark Side.

Fighting back his own tears as his padawan cried in his arms noiselessly, Qui-Gon stepped over the dead Sith and toward the doorway.

"Mace," Qui-Gon said into the communicator on board the only transport he'd been able to find. "Vouch for me, we're on our way home. I need seven thousand dactari for the transport on arrival and a he--" Qui-Gon cleared his throat. "A healer immediately to meet us at the docking bay. The Sith--"

Mace's intake of breath and a torrent of disbelief and shock was stalled as Qui-Gon broke in, "Don't. It's true. He's completely broken, Mace. My Obi-Wan--"

He allowed himself to cry quietly, trying not to recall the way Obi-Wan had looked when he'd entered the tower, the way he looked now, ragged and pale and unconscious in a locked set of quarters, shielded by Qui-Gon's own energy.

Obi-Wan stirred behind him.

"I'm going now, Mace. I am doing what I can, and I am relying on you for the rest. I will put you through to the pilot for our ETA." He wiped his eyes and sniffed, turning away from the communicator as he redirected the call.

He moved to the cot silently, crouching down near his padawan's head. He stroked the furrowed brow, projecting warmth and calm, murmuring, "You're safe, Obi-Wan. We're going home."

A tear slipped from Obi-Wan's closed eyes.

TBC again.