Rating: NC-17 for violence and other rather disturbing stuff
Archive: My homepage, M_A and The Nesting Place only; all
others ask first please.
Disclaimer: Lucas owns 'em. I use 'em. Lots.
Summary: Nope, you'll have to read it if you wanna
know...<g>
Authors' Notes: I almost didn't post this, because it is so
totally different from my usual stuff and it isn't as polished
as I'd like...but I was persuaded, so here it is anyway. I'm
really not sure what place of weirdness this came from.
Feedback: Yes please.
He had always known he would grow used to the pain. It began as
a single bright thread, one which dulled with the waning of
each day, and grew into a tapestry of interlocked aches and
sharp agonies, each more detailed and intricate than the last.
He stopped trying to pick them apart, stopped dealing with each
individually, and the pain simply became a part of him.
The sun came screaming over the horizon every morning, soon to
be lost in the sudden violent daytime storms of the planet, the
swirling masses of angry black and yellow clouds which
extinguished all light. In the beginning, he stood at his
window when the storms passed and darkness cloaked that alien
world, watching the night sky, connecting each star with a
mission, each mission with a memory. Soon enough, they realized
he had found that small comfort, and they took away his sight,
blinding him with small electronic implants.
In permanent darkness, time ceased to have meaning; days passed
in the blink of an eye, and moments were infinite. He drifted;
his thoughts were scattered, no longer focused, no longer bound
to the edges of his fraying discipline. Images fired across the
surface of consciousness, scratching quietly ever closer to
madness, and his mind called forth one name, incessant,
insistent, mournful.
//Qui-Gon//
Qui-Gon Jinn stopped chewing and listened, feeling an echo
enveloping his heart. He was never sure if it was his mind
playing tricks on him, or something more true. At one point he
had believed he would know Obi-Wan's persistent call at any
distance, feel his presence, be able to find him through the
Force. It took him more than a year to admit to himself, and to
the Council, that it was not so. He believed Obi-Wan was
alive...but the mind-touch which had bound them as Master and
Padawan had finally faded, become something pale and
compromised, and whispered away to nothingness.
Sighing, he returned to the meager meal he was devouring,
seemingly oblivious to the laughter and conversation of the
tavern's patrons. It had been many hours since his last meal,
and the weather was unaccountably horrible. Lightning cracked
the sky open, making way for thunder to break through, and
driving rain outside made the small fire near his table
irresistible.
An older woman, face gray with fatigue and work, set a cup down
on the table next to his hand. "Twenty credits for the meal,
sir," she requested pleasantly.
Qui-Gon didn't bother to look up from his plate. Between bites
of bread, he gestured toward her impatiently and said, "You've
been paid. Now thank me and move away."
Her face fell into a slightly dazed expression as the
suggestion gripped her mind, killing all independent thought.
"Thank you, sir," she said softly, pausing uncertainly for a
moment before walking away without another word.
If he tried to remember the exact moment he had abandoned all
his chivalrous notions about using the Force, he found the
recollections hazy. Cold and hunger had stripped away most of
his moral objections; the raw need to find his Padawan had
mercifully freed him from his strict adherence to his training.
It was not as hard as he'd imagined it might be, to step away
from the guilt of manipulating others. It was convenient, and
necessary...and very, very easy. The nagging doubts which once
accompanied every broken tenet of the Jedi Code were now
nothing more than details, relegated to some part of his
conscience which was tightly sealed...lest he feel compelled to
follow the Code once again.
Several Jedi Masters tried in vain to persuade him to return to
Coruscant, to give up the search for Obi-Wan. Yoda had not
minced words telling him of the Council's displeasure,
reminding him of his responsibilities, threatening him,
scolding him, pleading with him when all else failed. Qui-Gon
would not be moved. The small Force-driven voice which resided
inside his determination would not be ignored. His instincts
chattered at him constantly, keeping him on task. He was never
sure at what point the Council had stopped calling, trying to
rein him in; he threw the comlink away when he left the
negotiations on Miterra, and never looked back.
Miterra...the place where all the trouble started. It was easy
to focus on that dreadful day in hindsight and believe he
should have sensed danger, but that would have been pointless
self-torture. They were warned about the dangers of the slavers
who worked in the area, trolling for young humanoids of all
species, carrying them off and selling them to the highest
bidders. The stories were explicit - rapes, experimentation,
servitude in mines and distant hellholes - but of course, a
Jedi had nothing to be worried about. With the power of the
Senate behind them, and the Force at their disposal, nothing
could touch them.
Or so they were foolish and prideful enough to believe.
Qui-Gon winced every time he remembered his overconfidence
where their invulnerability was concerned. With Obi-Wan at his
side, lending strength and support to every word or gesture in
battle or in bed, he had felt young again, carefree - too
carefree. The freedom of his heart was the undoing of them
both.
Belly full, Qui-Gon finished shoved his plate away, gathering
his cloak about him and casting a wary look at the torrential
rain outside the window. Time to get moving...but first, a few
questions. He scanned the room, his gaze skimming across every
face, taking their measure, intruding into their feelings
without concern for their privacy. One man caught his
attention, a greedy, crafty little man with wary eyes.
Qui-Gon exerted a strong pull on the little man's mind and
yanked him out of his seat, guiding him over to the table where
Qui-Gon had finished gathering his belongings. The man stared,
slack-jawed and confused, and Qui-Gon smiled gently at him.
"Tell me, friend, where are the brothels on this world?"
"Brothels?" The little man's forehead furrowed as he tried to
evade the answer to the question through sheer force of long
habit.
Qui-Gon's eyes narrowed and he closed his mind around the other
man's thoughts like a fist, squeezing painfully. "Where are
they?" All pleasantries were pushed aside. The Jedi Master's
voice was hard and cold, devoid of pity, dripping with
calculated fury.
"You...can...find them...anywhere...," the little man said
haltingly, stopping once to gasp for air. "This world...is full
of...slavers, tra...ding...their wares."
"And what if I have particular needs? Can I satisfy them here?"
"There are special places near Gamarah. I've heard others
talking of them. What are you looking for?" the little man
asked tonelessly.
"What's available?" Qui-Gon pressed impatiently.
"There are places...you can buy pleasure boys...or
girls...places you can use them..." The little man's voice
dropped to hushed tones, barely audible. "Hurt them, if you
wish. Or you can purchase slaves for use elsewhere, offworld."
Qui-Gon's disgust welled over into his control, and he relaxed
his clutch of the other man's thoughts before he became tempted
to put him out of his misery. On a hundred worlds such as this,
he'd broken through the doors of slave dens, finding citizens
of the Republic subjected to unspeakable things, things he'd
heard of but had hoped never to see. In every tormented face,
he saw Obi-Wan, aqua eyes staring back at him, filled with
immense suffering, pleading with him to find him, to free
him...
Shaking his head to clear it, Qui-Gon pushed back his chair and
rose, moving across the room with long strides. He threw open
the door and moved out into the storm, aware that with every
second wasted, the faint hope he might find his Padawan was
diminished.
He was familiar with the hand pressing into the middle of his
back, holding him in place while blows rained down across his
body. With every stinging blow came a deep thrust, and a harsh
grunt of pleasure. Once again, they had beaten him into
submission, as was the custom; they would doubtless have been
disappointed if he had simply succumbed. It was all he had left
of his dignity, and he took some small pleasure in the fact
that he still had some ability to wound, even after this long
captivity.
His mind wandered away from the brutal, almost routine assault
on his body, and took him back to the day the negotiations
began on Miterra. Qui-Gon left him with the taste of a kiss on
his lips, and a promise of more in the evening hours, after the
talks were finished. Obi-Wan had been happy, so happy he let
down his guard, thinking nothing of it when an afternoon meal
was delivered to his quarters. He'd dropped the research and
the endless notes he'd been preparing, and dove into the food
with pleasure. Those few bites of food had been the last bit of
enjoyment to enter his life. All he'd experienced since that
afternoon was misery.
He'd awakened alone in the cargo hold of a small ship, bound
hand and foot and extremely groggy. He reached immediately for
the Force and realized almost instantly that a dampening field
was preventing him from touching the abilities which usually
came so naturally. All that was left to him was cunning and his
youthful strength, and neither had been much use to him.
The memory of the first day was the clearest, and still raw
within him like a festering wound, one which was rubbed open
constantly by cruelty. He'd fought them, had inflicted pain. He
even suspected he may have killed one of them. The look in
their eyes had driven him to the near edge of panic, as his
fear surged through him, looking for release, urging him toward
survival. Without the Force to assist him, or a weapon to
defend himself, he was no match for so many of them. In the
aftermath, he wondered bitterly if the price they'd paid to be
the first was worth it - if he'd struggled enough to keep them
entertained.
Sharp pain brought him back into the present, as hands closed
on his hips and yanked him backward. Hipbones bumped against
him as his captor pistoned into him. He tasted blood, thought
idly about what he might do to the man if his hands were
unshackled, if his opportunity arose. He'd killed that
particular phantom so many times that it was becoming difficult
to find new scenarios to visualize.
A new plan entered his head then, one that was becoming more
persistent. The pain was no longer an issue; he had absorbed
it, allowed it access to every part of himself. Now there was
nothing to fear.
He would make them kill him, and then he would be free.
Wind howled around the corners of Qui-Gon's cloak, which
offered little protection against the elements. He trudged
through the central street of Gamarah, looking at the
nondescript shops, searching for one in particular. Finally he
found it, nestled in a corner, almost invisible between two
larger buildings. He pulled the edges of his hood closer to his
face and opened the door. Steam rose from his wet clothing as
Qui-Gon stepped inside, blocking the doorway with his large
frame.
"May I help you?" came a soft voice from his left elbow.
Qui-Gon turned his head in time to see a small, blue humanoid
half his size push the door closed behind them, then march back
into the center of the room, wearing an expression of friendly
nonchalance.
"Perhaps. I'm looking for a specialty item. One of the other
shops in town sent me here."
"What would this item be?"
"A young man. Strong. Spirited. Someone who's
not...complacent." Qui-Gon paused to let the request sink in,
biting back revulsion at having to ask for Obi-Wan as though he
were a piece of meat bought and sold at a street vendor's
stall.
"Physical characteristics?" The blue creature was taking notes.
"Slender. Red or blond hair. Muscular."
"And if the merchandise has already been handled, sir?" The
creature looked at Qui-Gon expectantly.
Qui-Gon stared at the slave trader. Of course Obi-Wan had
been...handled. After so many such conversations, he had
thought he was prepared for this. Bile rose in his throat, and
an angry haze began to descend across his eyes. He raised a
hand to his face and pressed his fingers into his eyes. "It
doesn't matter," he said tensely. "But I'll want to inspect
him...prior to purchase. I'm selective."
"Of course you are," the vendor said smoothly, in his best
reassuring tone. "I believe I have just the thing, sir." The
creature handed him a datapad key. "I'll arrange to have him
ready for you after dark, when the storms have died down." Five
small eyes looked Qui-Gon over as the blue thing added, "It's
really very dangerous out there."
"After dark," Qui-Gon said, clutching the small key. It
contained an address and entry code. His heart began to race,
and he painstakingly squashed the hope surging through him.
After all, he'd been in this position too many times to
count...and Obi-Wan remained beyond his grasp. He could not
afford to believe that this night would be any different.
"Well, my boy, it seems there's been a request for someone
dangerous like you. So you'll see some action tonight." The
voice was enough to induce shivers in Obi-Wan, but he
controlled his loathing, even as this man, the one who was
responsible for it all, ran his hands over Obi-Wan's body. The
fingers locked briefly around his cock, tightening painfully,
before moving on to his ass. A wet tongue entered his ear,
followed by whispered words. "Too bad I don't have time to warm
you up first." Obi-Wan felt the hands leave his body. "Clean
him up and have him ready by nightfall."
Other hands grabbed him, none too gently, and began bathing
him, scrubbing roughly to remove all traces of blood and other
remnants. Obi-Wan allowed the preparations; he was far away,
mind's eye focused on his memory of Qui-Gon's face. He traced
every nuance of the beloved features. He would need to summon a
strength he did not possess this night. Force willing, he would
succeed.
The bitterness of unfulfilled expectation crept up on Qui-Gon
as he waited near the location he'd been given by the slave
vendor. He went through this every time - the preparation, the
waiting, the inevitable disappointment. He'd saved many young
men...but not the young man whose touch he craved in dreams as
much as in every waking moment, whose absence was like a gaping
hole. He would keep after this quest until he was sure Obi-Wan
was dead...and he would never believe it to be true.
Already he felt the dampening field which was being generated
from somewhere near the large residence. His ability to use the
Force was impaired, even at a distance. These slavers were
taking no chances. He watched the traffic come and go from the
front door, forcing himself to wait until the first stars
twinkled on the horizon.
Qui-Gon closed his eyes against a sudden feeling of anxious
confusion. The stars...there was something he should know about
the stars... With a frown, he slowed his quickened breathing,
replacing the strange sensation with steely control. He left
the shadows he'd been using to conceal himself and dropped into
step with another patron, who jerked his head up with surprise
but made no attempt at conversation with the forbidding, taller
man.
He stepped inside the brothel and felt an immediate press
against his senses, as though part of his brain were switched
off. The dampening field was heavy, clinging like a sodden
blanket to the intuitive part of him which usually reached
unthinking to the Force to assist him. The effect was rather
like having his hands tied to his thighs - he felt crippled. It
was unpleasant, and dangerous.
"Which one of you is here for the boy?" A tall man stepped out
of the hallway, grinning at the two newcomers.
"I am." Qui-Gon watched the man's expression change from
friendly speculation to leering avarice.
"He's a handful, but I've no doubt you can handle him. I've had
a turn or two at him myself, and I can promise you won't be
disappointed." The man turned and gestured. "Follow me."
They rounded a corner in the hallway, and the tall man stopped
abruptly. "What in all the hells..." There were crashing
noises, followed by shouts and cries of pain, and a screaming
which sounded almost inhuman. The noise sent a sickening chill
through Qui-Gon. He knew that scream. He was running then,
lightsaber in hand, crashing through the door which was between
them.
Obi-Wan was on top of a man twice his size, and his fingers
were locked into position around the thick throat, knuckles
white. His grip was loosening slowly, as a second man slowly
choked the life out of him. His Padawan's face was pulled back,
a grimace of determination on his face, and he was not fighting
the deadly embrace. Qui-Gon stepped over the unconscious man at
the door and wrested Obi-Wan free of his attacker, pulling him
upright and throwing him aside before running the attacker
through unceremoniously with the blade of the saber.
Something slammed into him from behind, and he realized that
Obi-Wan was on his back, clawing at him like a wild thing,
attacking without thought. He pried the arm off of his neck and
threw Obi-Wan to the ground with great difficulty, kneeling
quickly beside him. Already, Obi-Wan was pushing off the floor,
coming for him again, reaching blindly, guiding himself by
touch and sound. There was no time for calm reasoning. With one
massive blow, Qui-Gon knocked his apprentice unconscious and
stood fluidly, wheeling around to face the tall man who stood
in the doorway, stunned.
The lightsaber clattered to the floor. Qui-Gon's fingers met on
either side of the tall man's neck, and he pressed them
together. It was a simple thing, really. The life was
extinguished within seconds. Still, Qui-Gon squeezed, crushing
the throat, taking delicious pleasure in mangling the body,
curling his fingers until he heard tissue snapping, vertebrae
popping. He released the body when his hands had done all the
damage they could do.
Finally, he could spare a glance for Obi-Wan, and the first
look broke his heart. The younger Jedi was covered with
bruises. Where the flesh was unmarked by fresh wounds, scars
were still visible, twisting across the pale skin. Obi-Wan
stirred, and Qui-Gon pulled him into his arms, holding down the
hands which reached for him with hostility. "Obi-Wan," he said
softly, his voice breaking. The arms fell still at the sound of
the voice, and the body began to tremble underneath his
infinitely gentle touch. After so long, to have the other half
of his soul in his arms...Qui-Gon touched the wounded face,
traced the swollen hands, spoke the name just to hear it on his
lips. "Obi-Wan."
"Master." The word was only a sigh, just a soft breath,
followed by a hitching gasp, before Obi-Wan let himself seek
the darkness for the first time in safety. His head lolled
sideways, hitting Qui-Gon's chest wearily. His Master lifted
him, and Obi-Wan gave himself over to the silence which
enfolded him in the absence of his despair.
End
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