Sin and Penance

by Lilith Sedai

Sin and Penance
by Lilith Sedai

Archive: Master/Apprentice (not transferrable)

Categories: Pre-slash, angst, Qui/Obi, POV

Rating: PG

Warnings: Medieval morality practices.

Spoilers: At this late date, if you get spoiled for canon, it's your own fault. ;-)

Summary: Qui-Gon must mortify his flesh in order to strengthen his spiritual commitment to the Jedi Code.

Feedback: If the spirit moves you.

Intellectual property disclaimer: Disney owns all. Let us bow down before the Mouse.

Acknowledgments: To Fuz, who puts up with all this insanity, and to many years of tedious education in medieval literature and culture, which I only seem to use for trivialities like this one.

NOTES: This story was inspired by the fragments of a mildly disturbing dream I had one morning; I woke with half of it in my mind, and had to write it down. Near the end of the story, I've borrowed a trope from the early days of M_A. I don't remember who first said it; I'm sorry for failing to give credit, but I know it's an idea that's been repeated in several stories.

The Jedi are pretty ascetic, and Qui-Gon's oath of celibacy is canon. The self-disciplinary practice Qui-Gon uses in this story is in keeping with those used for thousands of years by monastics who had difficulty maintaining their celibacy. Such practices can apparently serve as effective meditational and focal aids. (Not that I'm endorsing the use of similar tactics in real life.)

It took me time to realize what was different about my apprentice. Perhaps an unforgivable amount of time, given the nature of the change. I spent a day of unease, watching him from the corner of my eye-- which did not help. And yet I spent that day stealing glances in my desire to seem aloof and uninterested, in my effort to seem in control of a situation that I have now realized was beyond me from the first.

I finally identified the difference when we sparred that afternoon. It gave me the right-- the obligation-- to look at him directly. I spied the scrap of leather at the base of his throat in the middle of parrying an attack, which I nearly fumbled in my surprise. Recovering, I drove him back and to the floor, and I held the tip of my saber to the spot on his throat where the collar emerged from beneath his tunics.

He yielded, and I extended my hand, raising him to his feet. We gave up the floor to a waiting team and went to the meditation mats to discuss the match. As we spoke, we danced about the obvious: my distraction, his near victory, and the way he submitted thereafter, allowing me to drive him to his knees.

We went into the dressing room together. He removed his clothing, bared himself to the skin, preparing to go into the shower spray before I stopped him.

"What is that?"

His fingers rose to the band of leather-- simple, understated, merely an unadorned strip of tanned hide and a buckle that rested at his nape. He shrugged. "A reminder of my... humility."

He went into the shower and left me sitting on the bench. I ran my hand along my thigh slowly, considering his response. It was not unknown among the Jedi, to do such a thing. To take a mark, to bear a physical reminder of a pledge-- it provided a focus, an aid to purpose. As he said, it was a reminder.

It troubled me.

I remained where I was, pondering the meaning of this thing as I waited for him to emerge before I stripped and went in, which I often did-- much more often, recently. He had chosen as his reminder a collar-- a mark of submission, or of slavery. To the Force, to the Jedi... to me. To all of these things, or none? I could not be sure.

He came out shortly, the leather dark and wet. I could smell the musk of it against his wet skin. He held his head high, his body straight. The collar seemed a part of him, neither a thing of shame nor of sensuality. It merely was.

I slapped my hands against my thighs, with false enthusiasm. "To remember one has cause for humility is wise," I told him. "But to make such a humiliation visible-- is it not, perhaps, an excuse for pride?"

He simply smiled. "To hide humiliation from others is to negate its power. Such a mark, hidden, might become a cause for pride." His eyes held me then, a moment too long, and I felt myself color under his regard. "Humility is not complete until it is known by others. ...If the collar does not harm my training, then it is not yours to question."

I carefully laid my hands on my legs and leaned forward, taking care that I showed only serenity in the face of his impertinence.

"I will be the judge of its influence on your training."

He smiled then, secretive, and turned away, dressing. We both knew I would not require him to remove or to explain it.

I understood too late that he already knew too much of my own secret, more than I wanted.

I watched him go, rubbing my leg absently with my palm. He was beautiful, the more so for the band about his neck, the mark of his humility. The mark of my ownership of him, my padawan, whether or not I chose to exercise it.

Only when he departed did I undress, revealing the angry stripes that marked my thigh. I touched them, shivering at the sting of my fingers against the raw flesh. I freshened them whenever they faded, to remind me of my failing, to seek their pain and use it to bolster my fading strength.

I thought then of his bare body, and I struck the stripes with my palm, the sharp burn of the pain making the vision fade. I closed my eyes and meditated on the sensation. I let it fill me, scratching the weals with my nails when the memory of his flesh proved reluctant to banish.

My penance could no longer be a source of secret pride, now that he knew of it.

I understood that mere physical pain would be no guard against him, should he choose to use the power of his knowledge.

And yet, I thought that he might not. The collar was a message, after all: submission, acquiescence. Even if by wearing it he mastered me, exposing his knowledge of my shame, deepening it thereby, destroying both my arrogance and my secrecy with a single elegant act.

It is said, 'when the padawan teaches the master, the bond is true.' Never has this been more relevant to me.

I went into the shower quietly, and when I rejoined him in our quarters, neither of us spoke of the matter. But the collar still remains about his neck, and I no longer hide the whip. It lies on my desk, always ready to serve its purpose.

It does not gather dust.

He has revealed his knowledge and his answer. These things lie between us, no longer a source of secrecy or of pride. Now, there is only the shame we share: our admission of the base physical desires that even a Jedi cannot excise.

I do not let him see how often and how fiercely I have to renew my penance, how much he torments me, how deeply I desire what I must not take.

He does not speak of his longing for me to claim what I own, or of the shame he feels when judging eyes touch the collar he wears and guess its meaning.

We take strength in these things, when otherwise, we might fail.

It is the way of the Jedi; just thus, we go on.