Archive: Yes to StarWarsfic, M_A, or anyone else who might want
it.
Notes: I don't use betas. :( Any mistakes are solely my fault
and the fault of my *#^&@ spellcheck. ** is used for
emphasis, // for thought. Any weird characters should be hunted
down and killed.
Spoilers: No.
Summary: Qui-Gon explains *his* nightly ritual.
{This is saraid's fault; she asked me for Qui-Gon's point of
view of the story "Blue", and I didn't think saying "I have
*no* idea" would be a good enough answer. :)}
"Red"
by MonaR.
monaram@yahoo.com
It became quickly apparent that the beatings were not enough.
My Master had taken me to see an ascetic when I was a youth,
perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old. He was a blind hermit
who lived alone on a desert planet for years, seeking
enlightenment and a higher spirituality through sacrifice and
deprivation. When I saw the scars on his back and asked about
them, I was appalled when I found out that they were
self-inflicted. It was the most barbaric thing that I had seen
that far in my young life, and I touched the raised welts -
both fresh and tough, older scars - with reverent fascination.
My Master explained to me that while we trusted in the Force to
make all things knowable clear, there were others for whom the
way was not so simple. This holy man had found that the way
towards the light was to beat himself morning and night to
dispel some of the darkness inside of him. It drove away his
cravings, need, and desire for anything but the spiritual
knowledge which he sought, but only for a few hours; it was a
ritual that had to be repeated, day after day. I am sure that
he ended his life with the whip of his own making still in his
hand.
I never forgot him.
**********
I knew within an hour of meeting him that allowing him in my
life would be the worst decision I'd ever make.
I said no.
He was fiercely intelligent, strong, agile, passionate,
intuitive, and I could *see* the kind of Knight that he would
make; even at that tender age, it was readily apparent to me
that he would be extraordinary. I knew that he would make any
Master proud to have him as an Apprentice.
I said no again.
Master Yoda maneuvered us together, pressing gently at my
vulnerable places - and there were many, where he was concerned
- and the hand of fate tempted me, again and again.
I held fast to my reserve.
I watched this boy risk his life, not only for me, but to
sacrifice himself for people he did not know, and still I
resisted.
I was immovable.
He was beautiful. I could see in his boyish awkwardness the man
that he would become: the litheness of his body, the clear pale
sheen of his skin, the changeable beauty of his eyes.
I was afraid.
I could not resist forever.
**********
At first I meditated for relief, and held myself aloof from
him. He was a little afraid both of me and of being away from
the comfort of the Temple, a little frustrated at what I did
not tell him, and puzzled at the reason I would not let him
close to me. I taught him what I thought that he needed to
know, instructed him in the ways of the Jedi, and gave him no
indication of my growing desire for him. I never allowed myself
to become entirely comfortable around him, but became instead
convinced that our relationship could stay the way that it
must.
We went on for years like this, and then it happened.
I could not hide my anger the first time I smelled sex on his
body, and, because I had shown him no love in the past, my
distance had made him insecure, and he thought I was angry with
*him*. Although the words came easily to my lips, I said
nothing that night to dispel this belief in him, needing in
some way to share my own pain with the one person in the world
who could have relieved it. I knew that no meditation could
relieve my own sense of self-loathing. His now-ravished body
was driving me slowly insane.
I would lay in bed at night and imagine him upon me, imagine
his hands as they travelled the length and breadth of me,
pushing past temptation and insanity. I *felt* the way that his
lips would devour me whole, and bring me shaking and sobbing to
the edge of climax, and then over, and I would awaken sweating
and covered with my own seed, like a much younger man. If only
I could have pretended that much I might have had him, but it
was not to be. I awoke and faced myself in the mirror, time
after time, faced an old, lined face and an older body, and
hair that was streaked with more silver every day. Beside him,
I felt hideous and depraved. I knew that there would be no
relief for me; were I to take a hundred other lovers, none of
them could ever touch his beauty.
It was not to be.
**********
I remember braiding the thin leather cord over and over, until
it was tight enough and thick enough to use. I had to try
several times before I got it just right; it had to be supple,
to move easily in my hands, and yet tough, to withstand the
punishment meted out. I remember the ecstasy the first time I
used it on myself: the hot, searing kiss of pain that flared
over my back and shoulders, distracting me in the way that no
meditation could. My erection flagged under the assault of my
own hand, and still I was relentless, whipping myself over and
over again, until I could raise my hand no longer.
I was exhausted and aching by the time I finished, and had to
sleep on my stomach, waking myself whenever I moved the
littlest bit. Even so, my tunic was stuck to the dried blood on
my back when I awoke the next morning. But I convinced myself
that finally I was in control.
And then I saw him. He came into my room for breakfast that
morning - young and fresh and alive. I ached, everywhere - my
arm, my back, my groin, my heart. I felt the tears come into my
eyes and had to turn away from him quickly, to calm myself. The
hour's meditation that I performed served only to calm my mind
enough to withstand his company for the day; that night and all
the nights yet to come were something different.
I allowed myself a set number of touches every day - keeping my
hands on his shoulder, his arm, chanting the number silently to
myself - and lived for the evenings, when we would separate,
and I would be free to beat my body once again into a numb
submission. What I hadn't anticipated, and should have, was
that eventually my body would come to equate this pain I
inflicted upon it with the pleasure I was trying to erase. The
first time I came without touching myself, the braided leather
strap still in my hands as the front of my thin trousers
stained with my own seed, I wept myself dry. It was my lowest
ebb, and the first time I seriously considered taking my own
life.
I did not have the resolve to do it; I could not conceive of
having another take over his training. My weakness - my failure
- was complete.
**********
I know now that I should have gone into his room that night and
taken him, whether willingly or by force. I'm sure that he
would have been willing; he probably would have confused my
overtures with the love that he was so desperate for. I should
have impaled myself on his body and torn him apart with my bare
hands. I should have handed him my weapon and bade him to tear
out my heart with it - he would have done so, I know, for I am
his Master, and my word is his law.
Those are all the things that I *should* have done. Instead,
when he came to me, pleading and frightened, smelling of sweat
and sex and fear, I ordered him away. I heard him beat against
my door that entire night, begging my forgiveness. It wasn't
until the third time that he vowed to do anything that I asked
- *anything* - that I broke down, and allowed him into my rooms
again. I extracted his promise as I dried his tears, and smiled
as the horror of the situation I described came clear to him.
It did not take me long to convince him of what he needed to do
to please me. I knew that my pleasure was then, and always
would be, his command.
I have sent him out, night after night; sent him to the dregs
of the city, to find the men who will pleasure him in my stead,
the men with the bright blue eyes - always blue, to remind him
of who his Master is - those privileged men who may touch his
body and come. I wonder when it will be that he will allow
himself to be taken by these strangers, one after the other;
perhaps I shall order him to do it. I would like to see him
being fucked by them. These blow-jobs are not enough for either
of us, anymore. They aren't enough for us to pretend.
Now, when the sharp cuts streak across my back, I take myself
in one hand, and I groan out my pleasure for the one I know to
be listening, every night. I wake every morning, the sheets
streaked with bright red and crusted white, refreshed, alive.
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