Master Apprentice
Archive
Carnal
|
|
|||
Title: Carnal
Author: Tem-ve H'syan tem-ve@gmx.de
Pairing: Q/O
Rating: NC-17 for disturbing imagery (and sex)
Summary: Qui-Gon struggles to cope with the constant temptation that is his apprentice. And no, we're not talking about sex for once... well, not just about sex anyway. This goes to some pretty dark places, but since it's by me, I doubt it'll be dark enough to actually scar anyone.
Warnings: I have placed the warnings at the end of the third post, as they constitute a spoiler. Click here to read them.
Notes: This one originally saw the light of day in the 2005 ConStrict zine put together and published by Sian. Eternal thanks go to Gloriana for egging me on with this one, providing sound beta advice and taking my punctuation for a ride. Also, to Franzi for relentlessly mocking me for writing something as, uh, outré as this fic. Everyone else, enjoy!
I. Qui-Gon
"Morning, Master Jinn!"
She (he?) has breezed past before I have even gathered myself enough to turn around, leaving me staring at a broad back and a head covered in shimmering reddish scales. I would have been at a loss as to what to say to her (or to him?) anyway - a name is definitely not forthcoming from the recesses of my memory.
Although the small tidal wave of eagerly babbling youngsters in her (or his) wake is more than enough to nudge my thoughts in the right direction. A Padawan learner on crèche duty, probably. Possibly an age-mate of Obi-Wan's, which would at least explain why she (he, it?) knew my name. I shake my head, trying to focus. Single-mindedness will be my downfall one of these days. I slow my steps, trying not to step on any toes as the herd of small bodies wriggles past me in the narrow corridor. Maybe I should just have stood aside, but it appears to be rather too late for that now.
Best to let them pass, smile indulgently at their wide-eyed faces as they instinctively look up to examine who is blocking their path, then look down again in deference or in surprise. I imagine they have probably never met something this tall and hairy that wasn't a Wookiee, though they're doing a good job at hiding any curiosity.
The great Master Jinn is not yet a concept to them, and I can't say I blame them for it. At all. For the great Master Jinn is on his way to the meditation tanks, and already quite absent-minded, it seems.
Mercifully, I remain unaccosted the rest of the way, and receive little more than a cursory nod from Te Tat, the technician in charge of the tanks, as he signs me into his schedule. He knows to make room for me at short notice.
Beside him, a young humanoid apprentice is doing his best to conceal his curiosity as he watches Te Tat hack my name into the database. The lad's eyebrows rise minutely as he reads my name, and I am tempted to amusement, counting the second and a half it takes him to give in to the urge to stare.
Yes, the Master Jinn.
Risen from Knight Contrary to Master... Master whatever Windu deigns to call me in his less charitable moods. The Master who flouted tradition and chipped away at prejudice, and who is now his apprentice's gentle lover. Yes, Obi-Wan kissed me this morning as he left for his project assignment. You do not want to know which part of me he kissed, young Jedi.
I must have smiled at that thought - by no means a rare occurrence at the thought of Obi-Wan in the morning - and the cheeky lad looks down at his hands, the warmth of a blush just barely there under his dark skin. Good. Willing him to hold on to that thought, I take the code card from Te Tat's paw as casually as I possibly can.
I have come here to be alone.
I shiver slightly as I wait for the ioniser to complete its cycle, purifying the meditation tank for my use. The lighting in the small chamber is less than adequate, bathing the room in an artificial bluish glow that makes my brown robe and trousers appear grey. The tank itself is a dull greyish purple, probably red in its natural state. Not that it matters - the darkness inside one of these meditation pods is the most perfect darkness available on the planet. It is also the quietest, most secluded darkness there is. The pod is about ten feet long, and it is not the largest in Temple - actually, this one was conceived for humanoids of roughly my size. What makes up most of its bulk is the heavy shielding around it, affording the user complete seclusion, complete blankness of mind, a welcome pause in the chatter and flow of Force that surrounds us in our daily lives.
I come here more regularly than should be expected of the rock of serenity I appear to be. Te Tat assumes it is to 'recharge my batteries', as he smilingly put it after welcoming me back for the third time in just over a month. And why should they suspect anything out of the ordinary - it is not inconceivable for a man so attuned to the hum and chatter of the Living Force to crave the complete numbness and seclusion of the tanks.
Especially not if he has recently acquired a doubtless demanding young lover.
I do my best to banish the thought of my demanding young lover from my mind as I watch the tank's lid slowly opening. Not yet, not yet. Not where anyone can see it, and certainly not where I can see it, see my hands as they grasp the edge of the thickly shielded pod, see my incongruously long legs sinking into the blood-warm embrace waiting for me inside.
Chemically it is water, a weak saline solution actually. To the novice's skin, it feels like a clinging embrace: the liquid has been thickened to allow for easy flotation even when one's muscles are perfectly relaxed. There is not even the faintest chance of any distracting noises from this liquid. No sloshing, no dripping, just the featureless warm embrace that numbs the skin to all touch after a short while, giving the user a sense of weightlessness.
It is a pain to get out of your hair, but it is utterly worth it for the feeling of complete and utter seclusion from the world and its needs.
The lid of the tank slides down and the sliver of blue-lit room narrows to a thin line, then winks out completely. There is ample space inside the pod for a body the size of mine; there is ample space for a warm pool of thick salty water and a dome of air that will last well beyond the half standard hour that this pod is designed for. There is no light beyond the phantoms my eyes entertain themselves with for a few brief moments before shutting down. There is no scent but that of the clean salty water. There is no sound but that of the blood running through my veins, slowly as yet. There is nothing here but warm darkness, silence, and what is inside my head.
The world and its needs have no place here.
This is the only place I dare fill with my own darkest needs.
He is licking his fingers unselfconsciously, frowning briefly at a rough sensation, then efficiently smoothing out the slight unevenness of a fingernail with his teeth, talking all the while. He has heard a rumour, has come home specifically to share it with me, and I fear both his and my lunch will have gone cold by the time he's set his adorable mouth to eating again.
I pick at my food unseeingly, watching him intently, knowing in the back of my mind that even if he noticed, he would put it down to carelessness or his Master's well-known inability to cook. The meat on my plate is decidedly underdone, and has cooled to a rather unpalatable lukewarm. If it weren't for the warm weariness in my bones from having floated motionlessly in the meditation tank just this morning, that combination would be dangerous. As it is, I feel on safe enough ground to pop another bite in my mouth, seemingly uncaring of the complete lack of seasoning, focussed on my Padawan's lips.
"Master, any intervention in this matter would have to be planned on the scale of an interplanetary war! We're talking weeks of preparation, never mind official contact in order to at least make an effort at avoiding an outbreak of violence... that they could even think of sneaking a team of Jedi in just like that, that is, that is disgraceful!" He gestures at the room in general with his fork.
"They have had this dispute for months, and made no headway whatsoever, and now this secret little commando operation is supposed to clear it all up?
Straight from the Chancellor's desk, with no legitimisation whatsoever? I don't think so."
Ah, my Padawan, there may be many things between this planet and the next that you do not see yet. True, the blockade is a disgrace to the organisation instigating it, especially as there is little profit to be expected from an ambling world like Naboo, and even less from a blockade-choked Naboo several months down the line. And yet, the rumour has found my ear also, and my desk, and met with less resistance.
"It is not illegitimate action, Padawan. Illegitimate action would involve warfare. Assassination. But tell me, how would you go about ascertaining the validity of the Naboo's claims if not by sending ambassadors?"
Obi-Wan frowns. "It's not ambassadors they would send."
He stabs at a piece of reluctant vegetable. It leaps in surprise.
"This mission would be more akin to... espionage. Fighting the supposedly illegal blockade by means of certainly illegal infiltration is not going to do us a lot of good in resolving the situation. We're being watched by the public, Master." He chases the vegetable around his plate, the frown line between his brows deepening. "Whose ambassadors would that make the Jedi? The Chancellor's? Creeping in like a pack of spies?"
"If that is what it takes to sniff out the schemes behind the Federation's public face, then it is certainly to be considered, Padawan. And they would not travel like thieves or assassins - they would announce themselves as ambassadors early enough."
"When they're within reach of the Neimoidian viceroy, most likely," Obi-Wan snorts. "I don't like this sneaky policy. It reeks of... dishonesty."
"Not dishonesty, Obi-Wan. Diplomacy. And if the only way to get the Federation to allow a Jedi presence is to bring one to them, then so be it. Let them deal with real persons, not holotransmissions from the Senate. These Neimoidians are cowards, Padawan. I imagine we would not have to do much more than talk once we are there."
Obi-Wan lowers his fork slowly. "We, Master?"
Consider it an object lesson in diplomacy, Padawan.
"We are scheduled to leave planet in four days. Time enough to read up, discuss, and let the rumour remain a rumour. I trust you can keep yourself occupied until then?"
Obi-Wan has become good at hiding his surprise, and it's only the minute narrowing of his eyes that tells me he hasn't seen this one coming at all. To be perfectly fair, I hadn't either: the missive from the Council's Senate liaison reached me just as I had returned from the tanks, and I replied by audio feed since my hair was still rather sticky. There will be discussions with Council members over the next few days, and time spent in libraries feeding vital data into our heads. Four days also means I could probably fit in another session in the tank if needs be.
Obi-Wan pokes my hand with his fork, looking at me quizzically.
I blink.
"I said," he repeats slowly, "I might need your cooperation for the keeping-myself-occupied bit. In particular, I was thinking of the nighttimes. Are you not eating tha-"
His cheeky remark dies in his throat as I grab him by the wrist and pull him bodily across the table, across the fugitive vegetables and the undercooked meat, staining his tunics and drinking in the sight of him sliding elegantly across the table. As elegantly as only a Jedi can, given the circumstances.
Slowly, his body finds its home in my arms, there to be held for delicious soft moments. His free arm is already seeking purchase on my shoulder, his mouth already meeting mine as I murmur, "I am, I am."
The decadence of lying abed in the middle of the day, stomach well-fed and limbs heavy with sleep, would be second only to the sheer impudence of lying sprawled across the dining table in the middle of the day, amid the remains of what had started out as lunch a scant hour ago.
Obi-Wan is curled up on his side, tunics and leggings in disarray, a wad of miscellaneous cloth held around his waist by his belt. His lashes flutter in a half-asleep doze, his features slack with satiation. His legs lie heavily across mine where I have managed to catch myself before sliding to the floor as I neared my climax. I am slumped on the chair I had been sitting in, a warm leaden feeling in my stomach, my gaze raking over the feast that is my Padawan. So easy to give in, even in moments of purity like this one.
So softly have we made love, so quietly and gently, me sliding in and out of his warm body with exquisite slowness, my gaze resting on the minute evidence of my Obi-Wan's pleasure: a tensing muscle here, a flutter of closed eyelids there, fingers embracing the tablecloth, stroking whatever soft surface he can find.
For several long strokes, I distracted myself with the sight of his hand absently caressing the meat on my plate, long since gone cold. And still I remained gentle, perhaps more so than he would have liked. This, this was how it was supposed to be, soft and loving and exquisitely tasty, my Obi-Wan almost perfectly silent save for the small gasps and grunts of pleasure he cannot rein in. Never in the world would I ask him to. They are what keeps me anchored in him, in the quiet sensuality of a civilised dinner table where my beloved Padawan, my willing meal is dozing lightly, utterly unaware of the stains on his tunics, the splash of sauce glistening on his upper arm, and the deeply stained mind of his Master.
Red.
Not that it looks red in the ambient light of the chamber, much less in the perfect darkness of the meditation tank. It rests in my hand, submerged in the thick clear liquid my body is floating in, a dead weight, a small anchor of insubstantial lifeless stone.
It rests in my memory, deep red embedded in unassuming mute rock. Beautiful to the naked eye, to the innocent observer, the garnet glistens in thick irregular crystals where the rock was broken from its motherlode, like drops of freshly-spilled blood beading from live flesh.
An image I do not usually allow myself outside this chamber, for fear of what damage it may do - damage to the only other image I allow myself inside this chamber.
He used to be faceless, a blank-faced youth, and we had come to arrangements, the blurred boy and myself. I dictated his appearances and disappearances, often managing to make him go away for years at a stretch, and he would... let me live out my fantasy, albeit only in the seclusion of faraway planets or heavily shielded rooms. Those comfortable days are long gone, though.
He has a face now, and it is a face I could no more deny than I could stop breathing. A face that has commanded me into hiding more and more often, to purge the compelling thoughts, wishes, images from my mind lest they taint the face of the one I see.
He has Obi-Wan's face. It is my beloved apprentice I see, and the words make me flush to the roots of my hair just to think them, it is my beloved apprentice I see, eyelash-close, his mouth open in a gasp of shock that turns into a moan of lust before I have even tasted enough to calm my own ragged breathing. My mouth... the mouth that counsels and teaches him... my mouth is wreathed in his warm blood, my teeth red with his essence, sunk in his warm resilient flesh, tearing him open and devouring him. Filling myself with him, burying my face in him, the embrace that is his body, opened in a gaping wound, an embrace of hungry flesh. Food for my greedy soul, the taste so indescribably satisfying that I would eat him whole if I could, if only I could accommodate all that wondrous flesh inside my own.
I see myself in those moments, wild-eyed, blood-smeared, and I see him, fainting into my kiss as I eat him up.
My fingers are still clenched tightly around the rock when I reach our quarters, feeling dirty. Dirty from the goo in my hair and on my skin as much as from the thoughts that grow beneath that hair, under that skin. How ironic that the laundry droid must have picked this particular absence of mine to deliver the freshly washed whites.
Still, that means Obi-Wan is not in either.
Absently, I take the stack of clean clothes inside and drop it on the low table, the rock next to it. It is the only thing I dare take with me from the tanks, if anything a constant reminder of that control I am exerting over myself.
I suspect there is a touch of Force-sensitivity in the grey rock around the garnet - it certainly does its job well, acting as the anchor I need. To need in itself is a feeling that rankles with me, much more so to need something so obviously wrong. Maybe it was foolish of me, but in all honesty I had hoped the urge would lessen with the fulfilment of my wish to be one with Obi-Wan, one in flesh and love.
How sad this sounds, Jinn.
I frown at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. It is always this way -each purging leaves me disgusted with myself for not being able to purge it from my mind entirely, to simply ignore it in the face of the joys of the flesh that I have and which are already more than a man of my age can reasonably expect.
It is useless. I am dirtied, and the least I can hope for is to control it and not besmear my lover. I step into the shower stall, turning the water up to maximum pressure. I let it sluice the thick goo from my hair, let it batter my skin into insensibility. That is often the only way - to allow myself to let the fantasy govern me so far as to allow me to climax would be a vulnerability I cannot afford. Simply put, I do not trust my shields that far. Obi-Wan might walk in - he is altogether too well-attuned to my feelings and fantasies, a circumstance which should really make me happy. Well, it does. Just not now, not while I am trying to get my raging nerves and desires back under control, the worst of the urge placated in my mind by the half-hour in the tanks, alone with the images.
Force forbid I lose control in there - thoughts leave no residue, but physical release would, and well, tender as I am now, I would almost certainly not stand up too well to an arched eyebrow and an impertinent question from a Te Tat who clearly has no idea what he would hear from me.
No, talking is out of the question. I have little desire to have a Soul Healer probe my childhood for whatever flaw they decide has made me into the dirty old man I feel like. No, dear Healers, I am in no danger of slaughtering my Padawan and using his tender meat for sustenance. Really, I am quite in control of my actions; and what I am thinking in the privacy of my own mind, so private that I will not even let my lover see it, is nobody's business but my own. I am no danger to him, rest assured. I must not be, seeing as we are on precarious ground already, lovers while still Master and apprentice, under the watchful eyes of those who would see us as proof of their reading of the Code, whether it be in favour or against such relationships.
But never mind them. If Obi-Wan heard even the faintest flicker of this, he would most likely run immediately. And if he did not, he would be made to go, or I would be made to go. It may well be myself insisting on that, should it ever come to so grave an end. An end which I will do everything in my power to avoid.
The arousal has subsided somewhat, replaced by the rough tingle of skin scrubbed raw in an effort to remove the last clinging traces of the tank liquid. Sticky like memories, that stuff, although slightly less obtrusive. Obi-Wan would expect me to be sticky after a session in the tank, of course. And yet, it would be better if he was not even reminded of the fact.
The rock may want disposing of too - I have been using it for so long I fear it has become somewhat synonymous with those... thoughts, altogether too fraught an object. Not that I believe it could tell any secrets, but... when clean, I feel happier without any reminders, thank you very much. These are the weeks I avoid meat, avoid red wine even, avoid taking advantage of my tender, sweet Obi-Wan in ways anything less than gentle.
These are the weeks I am pure. They have been few and far between recently.
Of course, when I emerge from the bathroom wet and half-naked, the first thing I see is that the pile of laundry is all but gone. The reason for this is giving me a cheerful grin as he walks past, ready to pick up the last of the whites and shove them into the closet. I snort inwardly at the expression. Anything is a touchy subject at times like these. Purity, Jinn.
I inch towards the rock, furiously thinking of an explanation as to why I, dripping and dressed only in a towel, need to dispose of a piece of rock urgently. He takes that decision from my hands as he breezes back into the room, catches me gazing at the rock where it sits on the tabletop, and slinks up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and nuzzling into my tangled wet hair.
"A present, Master?"
I can feel the grin against the back of my neck, and it makes me shiver. He leaves my skin cold where his embrace used to be as he steps forward to pick up the rock. I catch myself scrutinising his face for any reaction, any sign of shock at what the rock might tell him. I see nothing but a glitter of surprised pleasure in his eyes at the glistening garnets hidden in the grey rock.
"It's beautiful," he murmurs, holding it up, trying to catch some light on the near-black crystals. He makes an awed little noise when the deep bloody red flares to life for a moment before going dull again. He looks at it, then looks at it some more. Too long. As if he was listening to it. No, listening to me.
"Where did you find it, Master? Or did you?"
An opening, and I leap blindly. "Actually, I did - only a minute before you. Which is why it was sitting with the laundry. I imagine someone must have left it outside our door while we were both away." Someone, anyone. Not me anyway.
Obi-Wan, my bright Obi-Wan, completes the thought even before I have finished constructing it.
"A secret admirer? How exciting!" He grins at me, eyes sparkling. "Which of us do you think it's for?"
"Is that a rhetorical question, Padawan?" The ground is safer now, now that the trace of guile is gone from his face once more, a trace that may have only existed in my imagination anyway, but to dwell on it would be futile.
He snorts. "You know perfectly well there are quite a few humanoids of either sex out there who wouldn't say no to a night with the great Qui-Gon Jinn," he declares, the sparkle in his eyes making it very clear that he knows I would most certainly say no to a night with anyone but him.
I shake my head, overcome with awe at the lightness and purity of my beloved's soul. "But you must admit, Obi-Wan," I reply, "that the ranks of those dreaming of a night with the semi-legendary Obi-Wan Kenobi are far more numerous. Statistical evidence, Padawan, points to you as the target of the mystery admirer."
"Ah well," he sighs in mock resignation. "It's a hard life being desired, but I feel my Jedi training and my Master's patient teaching have equipped me well for it. Haven't they?"
A witty reply dies halfway to my lips as he takes my hand and places it on his groin, where a warm hardness leaves no doubt as to what my bright young lover desires. And by all that is Light, I shall do my best to give it to him.
He is asleep again, my bright young lover, or as near to asleep as makes no difference. I wish I had his talent for that - just falling asleep, giving himself over completely to the warm heaviness of satiation, knowing full well that he is safe, held, watched over, loved.
I admire his trust.
In moments like this, he almost makes me want to weep. So beautiful as he lies here with me, half underneath me, sprawled wantonly on the bed, eyes closed, lips parted only the tiniest bit, his breath deep and even like a baby's. Such perfect innocence, and I cannot decide for long moments whether the white smears of his own semen on his creamy skin make him look even more so.
It is in moments like this that I want to embrace him, hold him close and never let him out of my sight again. To protect him, protect him from ones like me.
He does not know of course, he is totally oblivious to the age-old urge he is awakening in me. Force, how innocently he teased me only moments ago about that secret admirer he is convinced he now has, trying to bring out a jealous streak in me, trying to have his Masterly lover possess him utterly. Oh my Obi-Wan, you do not know what you are asking for. Trust me, you will not want to know. My growls, albeit half-hearted, seem to have appeased you for now, although they left me in quite a bit more turmoil than I should feel after such a recent purging.
I will not endanger you, my Obi-Wan. For your own sake as well as mine, I shall be as gentle as a man of my physical size can be, and I shall do my Masterly best to make you forget you ever wanted anything else.
I shall do my Masterly best to protect you from myself.
II. Obi-Wan
It was clumsiness really, not exactly befitting a Senior Padawan about to go off on a major mission, and it's only fit that I bear the marks of it for a while now. Then again, we had been sparring all-out, our blades at full power, restrained only by our control over our own actions.
And Qui-Gon's long arms and legs usually leave aerials as the only option for me to get away from his well-aimed lunges. He is fast too, and really I have nothing to blame him for - he went after me like an enemy would, minus the killing blow. Which, as it turned out, was unnecessary anyway as I had underestimated the distance to the wall behind me and crashed to the floor in a rather undignified heap, with barely enough time to twist my own lightsabre out of the way to avoid injuring myself.
As it is, I managed to point the business end well away from me, leaving the hilt to make a lasting impression on my face. A bruise on my cheek and a small patch of dried blood from where the energy controller split my upper lip - none of this will be with me for more than a few days. I touch my fingertips to the small wound. It barely hurts any more, and will be but a memory shortly, if that. Nothing a Jedi should not be used to.
Which is why Qui-Gon's reaction to it surprised me a little. Not only that he broke off the bout immediately - that is to be expected really, especially as my next gesture would be to surrender anyway, not wanting to actually injure myself further. No, it was not that. It was a look of true shock on his face, as if he could not bear to see me hurt. I have tried to remember previous injuries of mine, but haven't really come to any conclusions. They were all when I was much younger and necessarily clumsier. When I wasn't his lover yet.
Really, it is sweet to see such concern in his eyes at the sight of a small drop of blood, but at the same time we are supposed to be warriors, aren't we? Just judging from the look on his face I could have been severely injured, and I actually caught myself touching my mouth, feeling for anything amiss, and coming up with nothing but a slightly bloodied fingertip. I smiled at him then, reassuring him that I was all right. He said nothing.
Just a little cut, I said to him, kiss it better? His answering smile was slow and hesitant, as if he was afraid someone could see us, alone as we were in the small salle. It was only when our lips met that he seemed to awaken from whatever state of guilty shock he'd been in. Oh, but what an awakening. If this is what comes of shocking my Master, I must do so more often - the kiss was sweet, greedy and endless, his mouth devouring mine, the tip of his tongue caressing the small wound again and again, his teeth worrying at my lips, the bristles of his beard scraping my skin pink in his frenzy to kiss me thoroughly. At some point, I found myself gasping for breath and getting more of him instead, a mouthful of delicious greedy Qui-Gon intent on tasting every last bit of my mouth, whether it is in need of healing or not.
It felt sublime, and I could do without breathing for a few more moments, couldn't I?
I smile shakily at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The memory of that kiss alone has made me half-hard again. When Qui-Gon returns from wherever he had to run to after our little sparring session, I shall try to get him to continue where we left off, this time without the tinge of guilt at being discovered in a public place.
Really, this love is nothing to be ashamed of, Master. And neither is being passionate about it, not given your Masterly control of yourself in all things. In fact, I'm all but grateful to that little accident for affording me what's probably the most amazing kiss I've yet experienced.
I loved it, Master. I'll show you how much.
III. Qui-Gon
Well, I said I would need the tanks once more before we depart, and it seems I was right.
Just this tiny garnet of blood on his perfect lips, and I fall apart, nearly break open under the pressure. I am sorely disappointed in myself, that much is certain. Yet I will not forgo the luxury of purging myself of the unclean imaginings one last time - the mere thought of what could happen were he to be injured while I was in a less than pure state of mind does not bear thinking about. I am here to protect him, not to harm him!
My smallest consolation is that he is quite oblivious of all this - his enjoyment at the savagery of my kiss was quite palpable, and I would be a fool to claim I had not felt the same giddy pleasure. But while in his mind such a kiss merely leads to further displays of physical affection and, eventually, orgasm, my mind cannot plead such innocence.
It is myself I have to protect him from, the perverse greedy shadow of myself that commands me to think about him in a state of bleeding twitching ecstasy, going under in the joy of being devoured.
Splish.
Control, Jinn. It will not do to stain the waters of the tank with the evidence of your dirty pleasures. Strange how it is - the white beads of semen on Obi-Wan's skin only serve to heighten his innocent beauty, whereas mine are but intent on clouding the waters of a secluded tank.
I dreamed of him last night, dreamed so vividly that I jerked myself awake to be sure that it had been a dream, to be sure that he was in fact still lying beside me in his creamy, curled-up innocence, breathing steadily and smiling in his sleep.
I dreamed of him standing naked, his eyes glazed and his mouth ringed with blood from my insistent kisses, stretching his arms out to me, beckoning me to come and feed, blood running down his thighs from I knew not where, glistening red ribbons on his creamy flesh, and his hands and forearms spattered with the red jewels that are his lifeblood. He was smiling, knowing he was giving himself over to certain death. Dead, and smiling, and so irresistibly attractive... I had to wake myself by force to retain my sanity in the face of such an image.
Even now, thinking back to it, I fear for the success of our upcoming mission. True, this is a civilised world we are going to, to act as the Senate's pressure group in a highly questionable trade blockade, but I doubt they provide heavily shielded meditation rooms for mentally unstable Jedi Masters.
And yet, fear is probably the only thing that could even get me into such a state as to endanger the mission. That is something I need to remind myself of, time and time again: fear I have learnt to deal with, to put in its place, to release. It is this new threat that needs remedies worthy of a Jedi Master now, needs putting in its place. This person I need to protect my Obi-Wan from needs putting in his place, away from me, away from the fear that I will not allow to govern me.
He had best be left on Coruscant.
"Are you ready, Obi-Wan? The ship will dock at the Senate's terminal in just under an hour..."
"Coming, coming - let me just set an away message on the comm unit..." The rest of the sentence trails off in a surprised whistle. I sigh in relief. Late, but it has worked.
Obi-Wan peeks round the doorframe to make sure I wasn't getting too impatient (or absent) yet. "Listen to this, Master: 'Sweet one, I hear you will be offworld soon. Rest assured I will admire you from afar while you are, and in person once more when you are back. I am devotedly yours.'"
"A poet?" I try my best to make my voice sound light, hoping that the style does not match mine too closely. Securing an anonymous comm code had been hard enough for the technophobe that I can be, and it had been well past midnight by the time I had got around to finally typing the message.
"Sounds like it. Or a poetess. Well, looks like all will be revealed when we're back from Naboo." He grins. "So, no more rocks for my collection."
I snort, furiously telling myself that this is not an allusion on his part. He knows I give him rocks, as a number of other Jedi would. But he cannot know that the garnet rock is mine also.
It stays behind, along with its giver. What comes with me, and with me only, is a scrap of deep red silk tied around my chest, as a constant constricting reminder that I am to remain in control. If Obi-Wan sees it, I will doubtless blame it on a rash on one of my nipples, and he will doubtless want to spend the rest of the evening gleefully attempting to find out which one it is.
I hope the mission will not even let it come to this.
For the longest time, it did not, and we were well busy saving our lives from what turned out to be an attack army poised and ready to swarm over an inconsequential little planet of artisans, traders and volunteers. Intimacy is scarce aboard a damaged ship, in a forest camp or in the echoing halls of hastily-evacuated palaces in the capital city.
Which is where we are camped out at the moment, taking turns at keeping watch, scanning the surroundings for any signs of the mechanical threat that rattles through the streets even at night, knowing no sleep, knowing no physical needs. We humans need sleep at least, and water to drink and wash ourselves with. Once the steel footfalls have echoed away between the blaster-scarred walls, I shall forage for some water, I think.
In many ways, this makeshift pallet on the bare stone floors of a building that has been stripped of its furniture to make barricades is the most comfortable I have had in a long time. True, the forest floor near the Gungan meeting place was softer, and the weather milder than it is now. But somehow this place feels safer, purer.
He found the scrap of fabric, and nothing terrible happened.
I noticed him playing with it, running it through his fingers, contemplating its silken texture. I gave him no clue that it was mine, and so he gracefully assumed it was his, since it had been placed quite clearly with our meagre belongings. Maybe one of the handmaidens left it here, I suggested, arching my brow ever so faintly to suggest I considered her far more than a handmaiden. Obi-Wan just shook his head.
"Not likely," he said. "There would be half a dozen of these around, what with their matching uniforms. And I refuse to think they would go for anything less than regal accoutrements." That wink. He had got my hint. Also, he was rubbing the silk between his fingers, making the torn-off hem wiggle in his hand.
"One of Captain Panaka's volunteers?" I joked half-heartedly, wishing for anyone's name but mine.
"Not silk, surely... thought it would go really well with the garnet. Look," his face brightened visibly, amused at his own discovery, "it's the same colour." He held the ragged piece of silk up to the light. "My mystery admirer must be exceedingly well-informed."
I shook my head, hoping to project sufficient disbelief. "I do not believe they would go to such lengths as to send tokens of affection to a war zone, Obi-Wan."
"True," he replied, then broke into a grin. "Just teasing, anyway. I can't possibly convince you to make good use of this random gift, can I?"
He wound the silk around his wrists, mimicking bonds.
I must have blanched visibly, for he unwrapped the blood-red fabric from his hands with lightning speed. "Probably not," he continued lightly, "wouldn't want me tied up in the middle of a war, would we?" He balled the silk up and thrust it into his pack. "But remind me to remind you about it once we're off this planet, will you?"
I will, I replied, and left it at that. As did Obi-Wan. It took me a whole night of almost no sleep to get over that, to work through my inappropriate fear at seeing him playing with that scrap of silk as if it could tell him all that I would never tell him. I have no reason to fear, not given all that Obi-Wan is and does. He sees only me, not this spectre of an admirer. He wants only me, and I am awed and humbled every time I remember that grin of his, wrists wrapped in deep red silk. Such an antidote to that other image, such an anchor, my Obi-Wan.
I watch him in sleep, turned away from me, wrapped in his robe against the chill of Naboo's cloudless nights, a small rock of innocence and strength. What a Jedi he will make. How blessed I am to have him.
The palace is silent save for his breathing. This may be as good a time as any to find water.
IV. Obi-Wan
I am not sleeping - how could I? Maybe he is, but I have my back turned to him.
The thoughts rushing through my mind are enough to keep anyone awake, and even after hours of lying still and looking to all the world like the innocent little Padawan fast asleep, I can't decide whether to laugh or to cry. Maybe both. My stubborn Master.
I couldn't even say when the suspicion hardened into a theory, and when that became truth. It all happened pretty quickly, that much I'm sure of. And could there be a puzzle that fits together more perfectly, opaque though the pieces are? Put them together in pitch darkness and they still fit, Master.
True, the rock could have come from anyone, and Force knows I didn't suspect anything at the time. You're not the only one to give away pretty rocks as tokens of affection - if anything, you have started quite the trend among Jedi with your unusual choice of naming-day gifts for me.
And it is true what you said about admirers - there have been a few over the years, and some of them sneaky or romantic enough to write notes rather than approach me directly. Something about that rock radiated shyness, need, shame even, and even that matched the phantom signature of an admirer unwilling to confess his or her desire in words.
On its own, the rock would have meant nothing, nothing but a pretty piece of garnet embedded in rugged grey stone. But it attracted other items like it, and like it or not, Master, they point to you.
You brought that piece of silk with you. Your face was carefully blank when I mentioned the colour - the colour that matched the garnet exactly. You made no move then, so I let it pass.
To be fair, I would not have probed so deeply had I not had that faintest inkling of suspicion, that thin thread of matching colours that led from the rock to the silk scrap to... other things. It was only when I, for want of a better word, listened to the faint Force aura the rock kept close to its dark red heart that I sensed you.
The silk, once the red thread had begun to unravel, was much easier to trace. It smelled of you, of course. You must have worn it close to your skin, a symbol of something... other. That Other only came to me now, and it is why I'm not sleeping.
It doesn't just match the garnet. It matches the bead of drying blood on my split lip.
Your frenzied kissing, Master, and the tinge of shame which you took and ran with only minutes later, doubtless to the meditation gardens to calm yourself. Your absolute control over yourself at all times. Your avoidance of red meat at times, and your unholy hunger for extremely red meat at others. You ate it even when it was nearly cold - funny how I remember that now. Blood-warm, of course.
Is this your dream, Master? To kiss me bloody, to possess me? The little incident in the training rooms points that way. Hells, everything in your demeanour points that way, Master, in meticulous avoidance of it. It's so like you to sublimate, to dissociate enough to make that wish of yours a separate person.
Is it to test me, Master? Qui-Gon? Are you afraid to ask, afraid I would run? Afraid a drop of blood would lead you to the Dark?
Master. We are both grown men, Jedi at that. We know each other well enough to be sure that passion is not something to be excised from human life altogether. I cannot for the life of me imagine you losing control so far as to be a danger, to me of all people. But I am willing to imagine you losing control so far as to ravish me. Let loose the beast inside that long-limbed body of yours, Qui-Gon. Kiss me bloody, and see where it takes you.
Oh Force. Look what you are doing to me, Master. Lying still is torment, with these images rushing through my mind. Despite the evening chill, I am sweaty, heat-flushed, and hard as the floor beneath me. Blood-warm meat? What a strange idea, but strangely compelling when mixed with the image of you, unleashed, passionate as you were when you kissed me in the salle. I knew you so little, and yet I know you too well. I know talking won't help -you'd clam up completely, and a Jinn-sized clam is not a luxury one can afford to lug around. Your control, though, is slipping, slipping in the middle of a war zone.
Meditation comes hard to you here. Rationally speaking, this calls for more direct measures. Which makes it sound as if I'm sacrificing myself here. No, Master, I'm not really.
My limbs itch to move, to make the first move. For if you won't, I will, Master.
At long last. He's gone, whether to retrieve water or to relieve himself is of no consequence. Maybe he's gone to find himself another mysterious dark red object he can pass off as belonging to his shadowy other self. If not, I'll see to it that he comes back to find the dark red object of his dreams.
I sit up silently, strip off my belt and sash. My tunics fall open, slip down my shoulders as I fumble for the tiny blade that I keep in the bottom of my emergency kit. A knife barely longer than the tip of my lightsabre's blade is wide. Sometimes, delicate work is called for. Such as now.
One breath, and I have divested myself of my tunics. Another, and I have arranged myself in a meditative pose, my robe beneath me like a pool of shadow. Another, and I have raised the small blade to where it will leave the least damage one can do to a functioning human body.
A deep, deep breath, and I have made the cut.
V. Qui-Gon
The canteen on my hip filled, my thirst (for water at least) slaked, I am somewhat startled to see my Obi-Wan awake, or at the very least upright. The dim light that could be the moons or the first rays of the morning sun illuminates him, perfectly still, as if carved out of the marble that surrounds him in its splendid echoing emptiness.
As I come closer, I see that it is not the white of his tunics but the white of his skin that shines so softly in the half-light. He must be in deep meditation to not feel the cold. What woke him? Have I really been gone so long? I probe his aura for signs of distress, but receive nothing but a muddled thrumming force, too warm to be meditation, too urgent.
I speed my steps until I am close, looming over him. He... he is half-naked and obviously aroused, seated in a lotus position at my feet. It is when he raises his head to look me in the eye that my world falls apart.
His eyes are heavy and moist as he raises them to gaze at me, mutely, without accusation or fear in them, and his hand... his hand, with bloodstained fingertips, holds out the offering of an earlobe, small, an incongruous lost piece of flesh held out to me by my lover's own hand.
He looks up at me, expectant, a liquid smile quivering on his features, a ribbon of blood trailing down the side of his neck, the part of him I long to kiss most, to bite, to devour. I feel it welling up in me, the hunger, the trembling, the thick urge and desire to tear him limb from limb and feed on his warm flesh - the hunger is choking me, choking me until I can barely breathe, let alone utter anything but a primal noise.
I bury my face in my hands and run, blindly, run.
VI. Obi-Wan
It is day, has been for almost an hour, and still I have found no trace of him. The streets are deserted save for the occasional droid patrol, and I know my Master too well to expect him to leave obvious signs of his presence in the danger zone we're in.
I have found water, patched up the cut with a little bacta. The cut-off earlobe sits in my belt pouch next to the knife, somehow no longer a part of my body, and yet not quite dead enough to dispose of yet. Rearranging body parts, Kenobi?
Rearranging my thoughts is proving harder, and I can't say I've even made a start yet. Have I read him so wrongly? I haven't, have I? Why else would I have provoked this violent reaction, surely the least violent he was capable of under the circumstances? I feel more than a little frustrated, knowing I should not, knowing I can't force decisions on my own.
It was his choice to run. It is his choice to continue running, and it is my choice to track him down and face him, come what may.
"Jedi Kenobi!"
I startle at the sound of a human voice. Apparently I am not the only one searching through the labyrinth of deserted and barricaded buildings. It is Panaka, running up to me, breathless but inexplicably happy to see me.
"Thank the Gods you are well," he pants. "We need you immediately, Gods know for how long the west wing will remain unguarded. We have the grapnels and blasters, the Master Jedi sent me looking for you - come quickly!"
I have my lightsabre in my grip before I can even think to thank him, thank him for finding Qui-Gon when in all probability Qui-Gon found him. And the war that has been threatening to break out all over the city has found both of us.
May the Force be with us.
VII. Qui-Gon
Running, running is all we are doing, forward, toward, not from. He has rejoined me silently, without a word of reproach, the old familiar distance between us as he falls into step beside me and we run, facing down a new enemy, one that neither of us had counted on.
He is by my side, I can sense him with me, but little more. And indeed, what a waste of energy it would be to probe his feelings, seek for any curiosity, fear or joy when there are two red blades clearly intent on curtailing both our lives. He is here, that is all I can work with for the moment. He is my other blade, sorely needed. Calm blue, when all I see is red.
The red snarl of the creature - fights like a demon, are his eyes red too? His teeth, red with the fresh blood of slain enemies, or with a foreshadowing of ours? Or is it just the glint of his red blade, the echo of the red light trickling down the walls from where the energy fields traverse the walkways with such force that no conducting material could withstand them?
All I see is red.
I am surrounded by it, trapped it seems. Red in front, red behind, close behind. Red walls. Obi-Wan behind red, close behind too, close enough at least.
Alive, his gaze fixed on me, determined. My Obi-Wan, I am at a loss for what to say. I cannot speak here, nothing you would hear, nothing I could afford to think right now, surrounded by red, with more red waiting on the other side, striking sparks off the floor with its fierce blade.
I sink to my knees, close my eyes. All I see through closed eyelids is red, darker now, a warm red of blood, nothing could be closer to me than this. My blood, not yours, not the glistening red ribbon running down your neck, beckoning me. This is me, drowned in red, filled with it to bursting. Filled with blood red as I had always dreamed, and it feels so, so heavy, so hard to bear. Obi-Wan -
The red haze has disappeared, the twin blades blazing fire against my green one, a pale light in the red-shaded hall. Alone, I am too slow, too clumsy, too one to conquer the red that descends. Obi-Wan, where are you -
When the fierce red blade finds its home in my chest, I have no breath left to scream with. The red that is within me bursts open, filling the hole, filling me, filling the room with what I am too small and too weak to contain.
Red.
VIII. Obi-Wan
He bleeds on my hand, warm red seeping through his tunics and clinging to the hand that so recently sliced through his murderer without a thought. It is trembling now, that hand of mine is trembling as it clings to red-stained fabric as if it could hold all the life inside him, all the life that is seeping away onto the cold metal floor.
A smear of blood from my fingertip and the tears from my sightless eyes are all that touch his face now, his features gone slack already as I hear his breath fluttering and fleeing. Master, Qui-Gon -
I feel the answering twitch under my hand, my fingers digging into his flesh as if I could tear the life from his heart and stuff it into mine, mine that is breaking under the strain of so much silence.
He has no breath left to speak with, no more words of love to say to follow the words of promise he made me say. He is fading, seeping away through my fingertips. Master, Qui-Gon, beloved, I scream to him from unseeing eyes holding on to the paling gaze of his, Master, stay with me, for one more breath, stay with me where you belong...
Will you have me, an echo in my head whispers, aftersound of words spoken without breath, without voice. The blue in his eyes is fading, leaving no colour but the spreading pool of red that covers his body, my hands, my soul, his lips where his desperate breaths brought up nothing but spattered red, more red.
I will, I whisper, unsure whether he can hear me, I will. I gather him in my arms, all that heavy bloodstained flesh, as close as I can, and press my mouth to his to say it again and again. I will, I will, I will, his blood and my tears becoming my blood and his tears, and for a moment I wish he had eaten me so that we could be one flesh and one blood and one tear, for I truly do not know how I can live on when the one breath we share has ended.
It feels so strangely peaceful to release, to let go, to feel him all here with me and know that he will not be any more the moment this kiss, this last breath, ends. I see myself through his eyes, my lips smeared with his pain, his life, his blood, and I see the light in his eyes fade slowly to grey.
If it was I who saw my way out of that room, I don't know how I did it. I still feel as if I cannot truly see any more, cannot commit anything past my retinas and allow it into my mind, my mind that is one raw open wound, torn open and left to bleed slowly and peacefully underneath unblemished skin.
I am whole as I stand beside the pyre, standing tall among my fellow Jedi, a hero to honour a fallen hero, not a hair out of place, not a bruise upon my body from the battle. Nobody notices the small wound concealed by the deep hood of my robe that so mercifully hides the tears threatening to fall.
I am whole still, wholly alone, when they have long gone, the fire faded to crimson embers, my Master's beloved face long reduced to ashes. It is then that I reach into my belt pouch to offer to the dying flames what I had offered to him when he still lived.
It is not for me to throw myself onto the flames, Master. I made a promise. But as I throw the tiny piece of my own flesh onto the pyre, I close my eyes to see the red that you saw.
Let the flames that consumed my all-consuming Master join his and my flesh in the same ashes.
I have no need of this flesh any more, Master, Qui-Gon, lover. Have it.
I'm sure you will recognise me without it when the time comes.
--- The End ---
WARNINGS: Cannibalism is alluded to and thought about at length, but not actually performed.