Master Apprentice
Archive
Stoicheia 7: Gold
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The room didn't look much like a hospital. All right, it was bare, the walls whitewashed and empty save for a small blue sideboard along one wall. But it was also bare of any equipment, anything to inspire faith in the quality, or at least the existence, of the local medical faculty.
The room was empty save for himself and the thin young local boy who had taken him in here, ushering him along with gestures, smiles and words in a Standard that grew bolder and more fluent with each sentence, but quieter and more hushed the closer the lad had got to this room. At least Qui-Gon assumed it was a boy -- it was hard to tell from the sharply-cut tenderness of the features and the leanness of the body under the enveloping wraparound garment he (she?) wore.
They had deposited Obi-Wan's limp body in a shallow niche in the centre of the floor, directly underneath a long rectangular skylight bathing him in slightly askew orange sunlight that warmed his skin but failed to restore any of the quickening life without which his Padawan was barely recognisable.
And this room didn't look much like a hospital. In fact, if Qui-Gon had had any idea of where they were and whether invoking their status as travelling Jedi diplomats would do them any good, he would have shouldered Obi-Wan once again and slogged off to wherever it was that he would get help, and urgently. Waiting here wasn't a good thing, but it was the only thing he could be sure of right now, and he tried hard to derive some sort of reassurance from the young one's small hand on his upper arm as he alerted the Master to the presence of a third person in the bare room.
Just as the room didn't look much like a hospital, this person didn't look much like a healer. For a start, he wasn't wearing much, an ornate red loincloth riding uneasily on his narrow hips, half-overshadowed by a sizeable paunch. He hadn't spared Qui-Gon a single glance before squatting down to bend over Obi-Wan's marble-still body and beginning to remove the laminations with skilled hands that sported fear-inducing nails, long and curling in on themselves on the left hand, stained a deep yellow on the right. His hair was receding but long and white, matted into strands of equal length that snaked over his wrinkled tanned back as he peeled the second skin off his patient.
"He's a _tevarath_," the young one at Qui-Gon's side murmured, "that is, one of the caste of wisdom-keepers. Healers, they are too. Be happy that he is here, as male wisdom-healers are very very rare..."
He must have picked up on Qui-Gon's puzzled look as he continued, "You are both men, not? Think so... best for a man to heal a man, here. And Iqbi is the only man _tevarath_ in this land. If his learner doesn't return soon, one of the Twenty Chambers will be vacant, and that was never good for Mahden Haad, you know?"
"Twenty Chambers?" Qui-Gon strained to concentrate on the earnest young boy's (was he?) words, watching tensely as the old man with the scary fingernails tortuously slowly exposed Obi-Wan's skin to the sunlight. It was white, far too white for its own good...
"Not real chambers, more like... grid? Is that the word? Like, four by five... women and twainlings and childlings and men, and the five castes, like _tevarath_, they teach and heal, and _kunthi_, they fight and kill animals -- hunt, right, and _esnaw_, they build and make things," he was counting on his fingers now, eagerly, "and _ulthi_, they play the music and paint, and _immeth_, they... they do the rest, like clean and carry and things. Keep things going..."
"And you are...?" Qui-Gon politely enquired, not sure whether it was wise at this point to show his complete ignorance of the local social system.
"Shin-hillah, of the Tenth Chamber... that is, twainling _esnaw_. Learning to build houses right, and beautiful, you know?"
"An architect."
"Archi-tect." The unfamiliar word rolled off the young one's tongue. "That's what you call it? Architect."
Qui-Gon nodded, pained at the sight of Obi-Wan's feet as they slipped out of the soft grey second skin. The soles were inflamed into a dry chilly pink, looking like he had walked through acid fire, and still the ancient _tevarath_ was wordlessly fussing over the unconscious Padawan without appearing to do anything. Taking a deep breath, Qui-Gon gathered what little composure he had left, and swallowed his tears. "As far as I can understand, that is what you are, yes. An honourable profession..."
"Oh, all... professions are honourable, sir stranger. As all men and all twainlings and all childlings and women are. The world would not be complete without all of them, all the twenty different kinds -- "
"Um... mean and women I am familiar with, obviously, but... pray, what is a twainling, and a childling?"
The sharp-featured face broke into a smile. "You're looking at one, sir stranger. A twainling is one that is, or consorts with, more than one sex. A childling has none. You know, like a woman lies with a man, so a twainling lies with both, or another twainling, and a childling lies with no one. Some are born as they are, some choose to be, just like some are born to a family of singers and choose to be makers when they mature. I was born a twainling, though, have always been. Just like he," the slender hand pointed at Obi-Wan's nude motionless body, "just like he was born a man by the looks of it - "
A loud harrumph from the aged healer cut the chattering youth short, and a stream of gruff words had the young twainling listening intently. "He... he wants to know what the man has stood on before falling white..."
To Qui-Gon's surprise, the old healer didn't seem to waste any time waiting for an answer as he padded across the empty room to the little blue sideboard. "Just ground really... we were near the little black lake north of here, and he took a swim in the water, on a small beach..." Qui-Gon watched old Iqbi rummage in the cupboard as the young twainling translated his words, and was even more amazed to see the wrinkled old man produce a well-used but modern-looking analysis droid from its depths. He heaved it on top of the cupboard, activated it with a strategically placed fist to the top, then dropped something from the tip of one of his long nails into the sample slot, muttering all the while.
"He says... he says it was likely poison to him, and that the black lake does not have its own sand. He says it must be drawn out of him before it weighs his river... his flow down..."
The old man was nodding slowly at the analysis droid's readouts as they appeared on a small green screen, apparently satisfied. Qui-Gon exploded.
"Well, do something then! This stuff is still clinging to his feet, and he's dying, my Padawan is wasting away, Force damn it! Aren't you going to at least wash his feet, man??"
Qui-Gon found himself stopped short by the amazingly strong arm of the stocky old _tevarath_, staring into sharply glimmering brown eyes as the old voice continued calmly, and Shin-hillah struggled hard to keep up with the translation. "He.... says water was the beginning of this illness, water will not be the end. And that... you should wash your boots though, it won't kill them. They don't live with the _em_ in them... he," pointing timidly at Obi-Wan laying stretched out on the floor, "he needs the other deity of the liquids... the other end. What doesn't mix... oil. To wash it out of him, you know...?" A gruff gesture from the healer cut the faltering youth short, and he dragged Qui-Gon with him to the analyser, visibly uneasy at having to resort to such uncivilised methods of explanation.
Pointing at the readouts, the old man mouthed, "a-sa-neek. Asaneek ho-xait.", the launched into another stream of soft-spoken language that the youth had a hard time catching up with. "He... he says this asaneek has soaked into his skin with the water, and must be drawn out with something stronger, something that will bind it to itself. The oil draws out the ho-xait part, and for the asaneek we put metal on his skin, to make it into..." he imitated the old man's voice, "asanait."
The old man had begun to retrieve various objects from the sideboard, placing them next to Obi-Wan's supine form, talking all the while. "His flow is heavied by the asaneek, you know, the em, the..." the young twainling was clearly looking for a Standard word from something so universal that his hands were involuntarily trying to grasp it. "Energy?" Qui-Gon ventured, biting his lip, watching the old man bring a battered metal box and set it down next to the pitcher of oil, next to his fading Padawan.
"Energy. His energy em that goes in through the face, the eyes and ears and mouth and... nose, and comes out through skin, in a clear flow, especially," Shin-hillah blushed a little translating the calm old man's words, "especially through the man organs. Sir stranger, Iqbi asks if he may shave your son's man organs so that the stained _em_ may pass into the metal-oil easier..."
Qui-Gon nodded. "Tell him yes, of course he may, though Obi-Wan is not my son. Well, in some way maybe he is, to me, but... he is more to me. Much more..." The trembling in Qui-Gon's voice had caused the healer to look up, one eyebrow cocked, warm cracked voice forming a single short phrase. The boy repeated, "This man's your lover?". Again, Qui-Gon nodded, the word bringing home all the horror he'd been trying to keep in check through all this, the fear of losing the one man who was dearer to him than his life. His lover, who lay motionless under the old man's hands, Force aura barely perceptible in the bare room. His lover.
"I'm sorry, madam. I hadn't realised..." the youth was visibly embarrassed and Qui-Gon almost found the humour to be amused at the misunderstanding. If only Obi-Wan were here to laugh with him... it took some effort to place a reassuring hand on the young one's shoulder as he watched the old healer set to work with his gnarled hands and a J-shaped blade, his fingers surprisingly faster than his words, leaving Obi-Wan's balls smooth as baby skin, and the spot where the little patch of thick brown curls had been was now bare and white, just as white as the rest of Obi-Wan's skin, smooth and cool as marble.
Oh, if only he could kiss, touch, warm... taste this incredible smooth beauty, claw his Obi-Wan back to life... if only it didn't feel so wrong to be aroused by the sight as he always was at the sight of his beloved Padawan's creamy skin... so wrong, but never as wrong as this wonderful luminous young man fading from life. So wrong. Flexing his hands in helpless impatience, Qui-Gon watched as the _tevarath_ poured the thick cloudy oil all over Obi-Wan's pale form in one long sweep, watched as it oozed down his sides in glistening pale green rivulets, watched as the old man's tanned gnarled hands began rubbing it in, smooth movements reminding him once again of the firm softness of Obi-Wan's skin, skin he longed to touch... Force, let this not be the last time...
The old man spoke, softly, and the red-robed twainling translated. "He says you can help him if you like. He needs to make more body warmth before the metal goes on."
Within a second, Qui-Gon was kneeling on the floor, dipping his hands in the uneven pool of green oil that his Padawan lay in, rubbing it vigorously into the young man's smooth hips, sliding down the perfect thighs and slicking down the tiny hairs on Obi-Wan's shins, massaging the soft firm calves. Body warmth. Qui-Gon rubbed his callused palms over his lover's marble-pale skin, trying to reach beyond the iced-silk exterior, trying to reach the pulsing writhing warmth he knew was trapped inside. The heat, and the fluid movement, and the liquid laugh, the heat that was in his Padawan's Force signature as it was in his beautiful warm body day and night, oozing life, radiating lust. The heat that he had felt exploding deep into his own body only a few nights ago, floating, wrapped around this glorious flame of a man... he channelled all the heat he felt at the mere memory into his hands, willing Obi-Wan's skin to warm up, willing his body to accept the caresses and the oil, the sticky glistening oil that clung to him like a cloudy oozy second skin.
It couldn't possibly work on its own though -- if the toxin (arsenic? Was that what the man had tried to say? Arsenic oxide?) had been hydrophilic going in, it would not suddenly be lipophilic going out. He could see the use of the oil in binding the oxidising agent, but the arsenic, if such it was... well, there was only the thin hope of the mysterious metal.
A bone-chilling high-pitched whine jerked Qui-Gon out of what he hadn't realised had been a light trance. The healer had moved away from Obi-Wan and was manipulating the contents of the battered metal box, finally producing a small inhaler-like device containing a fine opaque powder that still shivered and shimmered from the ultrasonic blasts it had received. Extremely large surfaces, then... with a determined air, the old man took one end of the device into his mouth and blew a fine cloud of shimmering metal dust on to Obi-Wan's sticky groin. Only when it settled into a fine layer in the oil could Qui-Gon determine its colour.
It was gold.
Qui-Gon watched mesmerised as the old man turned Obi-Wan's body into a sculpture of living gold. Barely living gold, he reminded himself... but gold, gold would not work, would it? Too precious, too high up the electrochemical chain to react with the arsenic, if such it was... the panicked look on his face didn't impress the old healer at all as he shooed Qui-Gon away from Obi-Wan's legs to finish his task of puffing gold dust all over the young man's lower body. Panting slightly from the exertion, Iqbi grumbled something that the young twainling translated as "that's all it's good for, gold. Too soft for serious use, and too much of it around... but it kills itself, gold does. Eats up all the poison when dusted finely enough. Fine body, this one. Doesn't deserve gold really, deserves to shine with the nobler, fairer ones..."
Suddenly aware that he was still being translated, the healer jerked his head up and glared at the youth, the spoke very slowly and measuredly to Qui-Gon; in hushed tones, Shin-hillah translated.
"He says he will cover his whole skin, except for the empty skin in his face...", Qui-Gon watched as skilled gnarled fingers sprayed a light dusting of gold on Obi-Wan's ears and eyelids, the glimmering powder rendering his face even paler by contrast, "he says this will make breathing hard for your lovedman when he wakes up. Can you... can you breathe for him, you know, into his mouth?"
Wordlessly, Qui-Gon leaned down, hands buried in the dull coppery hair, eyes full of the gold shimmer of Obi-Wan's closed lids, throat too full of anxious tears to speak, and captured those half-parted blue lips with his own, forcing warm breath into the slack mouth and drawing it out again, in and out, in and out while the healer continued to puff gold clouds all over Obi-Wan, over his hands that seemed so small as they lay limply by his sides, over his round smooth shoulders, over his tiny nipples, barely a different colour to the rest of his skin, and now uniformly gold, a sculpture of soft metal, living on borrowed breath as Qui-Gon sent all the warmth and pressure he had into the still body, dizzy with the effort of making the young man's chest rise and fall through the kiss.
It did, though, rose and fell with Qui-Gon's laboured breaths, again and again, for what seemed like hours to the Master... the oil was drying, or oxidising, he did not know, did not want to know, but the smooth sheen of gold had begun to crack, myriads of tiny lines spreading over the young man's skin where it moved, minutely with the in and out of breaths, the thud of his pulse... Qui-Gon's eyes flew open and his hand was at Obi-Wan's throat faster than he could think. His pulse. Thud thud thud... slow but steady, and loud in Qui-Gon's ears as he realised just how deeply he'd allowed himself to sink into his Padawan's weak body. The small gasp of amazed surprise separated their lips for a moment, and Qui-Gon saw they were colouring, no longer the pale bluish shade of the comatose, but the soft thin pink that he so loved.
Overwhelmed, Qui-Gon buried his face in Obi-Wan's, devouring those pale pink lips, bathing the beloved face in tears that were now finally breaking through, beading on the gold-dusted eyelids like pearls as he took possession of that mouth, sobbing into the silent depth, biting the soft slack lips until they bled, tasting the sharp hot iron of living blood... //Obi-Wan, my Obi-Wan... be here, stay here. Stay with me, do you hear? Do you feel me, Obi-Wan? Beloved...//
"mmmh...."
Trembling lips moved under his, and the sight stopped Qui-Gon's heart, tearing a great lump of rock out of his chest and letting it tumble down with the tears that rolled down the Master's cheeks. Here was his Obi-Wan, eyes sliding open slowly, silvery against the gold on his lids, and clear against the cloudy oil, lips swollen and blood-smeared and glorious, so glorious, and opening ever so slowly into a smile.
"Ma-aster...?" The voice cracked, but warm and most distinctly alive as Obi-Wan attempted to raise his heavy head and saw himself naked and covered in sticky glistening gold, watched over by a pair of crying but overwhelmingly happy blue eyes... and a smugly satisfied old man dressed in nothing but a gaudy loincloth and his own ratty hair, pointing a long blunt curved blade at Qui-Gon, handle first. He said something, and another, smaller voice translated from the other end of the room, "You should clean him, madam stranger, as he is yours..."
The blush on Qui-Gon's tear-stained face made the red-robed youth grin involuntarily.
The blush on Obi-Wan's still pale face shone more beautifully than all the gold on his body.
--- The End ---