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Tales of Two

by Pumpkin and Lilith Sedai, (apumpkin@slashcity.org and lilith_sedai@hotmail.com)

Archive: master_apprentice and our homepages only

Category: sweeping saga

Rating: varies from G to NC-17

Warnings: Pairings include Q/f and Q/other as well as Q/O. Extreme AU.

Spoilers: no

Summary: A haughty prince finds that self-sufficiency is overrated.

Feedback: would make us both extremely happy.

Authors' Notes: This story is intended to be fun both for its readers and for its writers, in the tradition of old fashioned serials. If you're looking for Great Art...these are not the droids you're looking for. Move along!

Lilith: Writing with Pumpkin is a pleasure. I'd thought I'd never write more TPM, but this serial has revived my interest and made writing in the fandom fun again. This format is experimental; we don't plan to end every piece with a cliffhanger or try to ratchet up angst to unbearable levels. Instead, we're following an unfolding drama and developing relationship through two sets of eyes-- both Qui-Gon's and Obi-Wan's, and Pumpkin's and my own. :) We hope you'll enjoy it!

Pumpkin: What she said :) We hope you have as much fun reading as we have writing.

PART 1

Qui-Gon Jinn glared at his companion contemptuously. With typically erratic precognitive accuracy, his father had predicted this tableau. However, he suspected Yoda had envisioned it the other way 'round. He kicked open the gilt-patterned doors, not giving the heralds time to announce his presence, and flung his unwilling companion before him with a judicious twist to his ear and the application of a boot on the seat of the man's trousers.

His latest bodyguard sprawled before the throne in ignominious defeat, his dark cheeks stained even darker with humiliation. Qui-Gon strode forward, one booted foot coming to rest contemptuously on either side of the beaten man's body. "Perhaps this will convince you that I am in no need of 'protection,' honored father." He touched his finger sarcastically to the golden circlet on his brow, then wheeled in a swirl of cloak and strode away, leaving the throne room abuzz behind him.

"Qui-Gon!"

Only one voice could stop him in his tracks and Qui-Gon froze as his father's wizened tone rang out above the others. Fists clenched, he closed his eyes a moment, contemplating how good it would feel to just continue out the door, to make his stand for independence with that single act of defiance.

The moment faded, disappearing beneath the weight of the silence that now hung behind him and he knew he would obey the command implicit in his father's call. Turning, he strode back into the room, his boots ringing loudly on the marbled floor. His lips twisted as he watched Mace, his former bodyguard scramble out of the way, though he schooled his features into some semblance of calm as he stood once more in front of his father's throne.

"Sire?" He shook his head, freeing his long hair from his collar, aware as always of the admiring glances from his father's courtiers. His hair had begun to silver early, giving him an aristocratic appearance heightened by chiseled features and a twice-broken nose that gave him something of the appearance of a bird of prey.

His father's brows lowered, his mouth pursing with disapproval. Time had made inroads into the King's appearance, drawing deep wrinkled lines in his face and, in a death-knell to any attractiveness he'd ever possessed, age had caused white tufts of hair to grow in his ears. But not even that was enough to undermine the authority he held in his kingdom.

"Disappointing this is, but not unexpected." The King stabbed his scepter toward the chagrined heap of bodyguard at his feet. "I have already arranged his replacement." He pointed his staff toward his chamberlain. "Take him away. Tend his wounds and give him clean raiment. He is to be paid, with a bonus for enduring my son's foolishness, and given a horse and provisions so that he may go where he will."

Qui-Gon stiffened at the mention of another bodyguard and his fists clenched once more at his father's words. "Respectfully, Sire, they would not have to endure my foolishness if you would not insist on forcing bodyguards upon me. I am more than capable of taking care of myself. Have I not proven that to you again and again?" Qui-Gon hated the note of yearning that crept into his tone; fifty years of trying to please his father and fifty years of failing-- at some point he was going to give up trying.

"I will not bury a son."

"But father, surely I have more than proved these bodyguards you keep assigning me are not adequate for the task."

"Indeed. Which is why I have sent a messenger to the temple in the northern mountains." A hush fell over the court; eyes darted back and forth across painted fans. The temple was spoken of frequently, but in whispers; it was said that the men there did not live like other men. They believed differently, acted differently, and chose to follow strange spiritual paths.

Some even murmured that the monks cultivated sorcery and trafficked with dark powers. Qui-Gon impatiently dismissed those rumors; doubtless the most danger any of the monks had ever confronted was stabbing himself with an over-sharpened quill.

"With all due respect, my father, what use have I for a monk when a fighting man is inadequate in my defense?" He cast a glance at the departing bodyguard; if nothing else, Knight Windu had been a fair swordsman.

"You must discover that for yourself, my son." With a sudden mad cackle, indicative of what Qui-Gon sometimes feared was a senile humor, his time-shrunken father rose, stabbing the scepter that doubled as his walking staff in the direction of his chest.

"As you command." Qui-Gon felt his spine stiffen as he bent his knee in proper courtesy to the old King's departure. He waited until his father was gone before following the old man out, head held high, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed him.

He strode down the hall, letting his feet choose their own path as anger coursed through him. He wasn't an evil man, but at times like this he wished that if his father wouldn't die, the least he could do was step down and let his son assume the position he had been groomed for all of his life.

Their line was long-lived, but surely his father was pushing the limits and doing it out of spite, he'd warrant.

A half-smile lit his face as he realized his feet had carried him to the kitchen. Shmi would be there, her simple gray gown dusted with flour and powdered sugar, cheeks red from the heat of the stoves. Perhaps a quick grope in the pantry followed by a treat or two would sweeten his disposition.

His smile faded as he strode through the door. Shmi wasn't alone. The interloper wasn't someone he recognized, probably a new stable boy by the looks of him. He wore a rough brown homespun cloak and travel-stained leather boots, narrow to the point of delicacy at the ankles, giving him the look of a high-strung filly. His hair was rough-cut, much shorter than the local fashion, and his hands were dirty around the loaf he held. Worse than that, he wasn't bowing. Qui-Gon's grin returned, wide across his face this time. He would teach this boy some manners.

He stepped into the kitchen, moving with effortless silence, deftly flipping his cloak back over his shoulder to free his sword-arm. Shmi's eyes widened with dismay but he frowned at her and she kept silent; the boy continued to tear pieces from the loaf and eat them.

Qui-Gon drew his blade and addressed the flat of the blade sharply to the lad's shoulders. "Kneel in respect to a noble, boy!" But before the smack could land, the lad spun, faster than the eye could follow, and steel rang on steel as his blow was parried. He blinked, then wondered why he was sitting on the floor; a sudden glint of light drew his eyes to the end of his nose, where the point of a blade hovered. He felt a hollow, dull pain in his middle, and his lungs were empty. The boy settled himself back on both feet, regarding him with clear eyes and a perfectly calm face.

Anger surged in him even as he gasped for breath in the most humiliating fashion; the sword withdrew slightly, giving him enough leeway to glance around for his blade, which lay on the tiles well out of reach. "How dare you!" he managed between gasps. "Have you any idea who I am?"

The boy quirked his head to one side and contemplated him evenly with cool, sea-green eyes. "The Prince, I'd wager."

Qui-Gon warily watched the young man. "I'll have your head for this insult!"

The lad's mouth quirked upward in unmistakable amusement, the sting of which worsened as he realized Shmi was smiling behind her worn palm. Realizing that he still sat flat on his backside with the tail of his cloak smoldering in the ashes set about the baking pans on the kitchen hearth, he rose hastily and brushed himself off with angry slaps. "What is your name and how are you in service to this house?" he snapped, peremptory and eager to save face.

The lad's smile widened, reaching his eyes. "Obi-Wan Kenobi. I have the honor to be bodyguard to his grace, the Prince Regent."

PART 2

Having picked himself up from the floor and extinguished his cloak, there was no dignified way retrieve his sword. He did the best he could, however, moving with sharp, affronted gestures that only seemed to amuse Shmi and his new bodyguard all the more. "You will not be for long," he promised the boy coldly, returning his blade to its sheath.

"I think you are mistaken." The mellow voice lilted with a faint, exotic accent.

"Any fool can take a superior fighter once, unaware." Qui-Gon's voice froze like a pond in midwinter. "I will not be caught unaware again." The lad shrugged and retrieved his bread, which he'd somehow managed to deposit neatly on the table. Unconcerned, he took another bite. "It isn't my job to catch you unaware. It's to prevent others from doing so."

"We'll see how long that remains your job. We shall duel in the morning and once I have bested you, you may go back to where you came from."

Obi-Wan frowned, a crease appearing between his eyebrows, making him appear older. Perhaps he wasn't quite the boy Qui-Gon has assumed him to be; he was still, however, a good deal younger than Qui-Gon himself. The Prince felt his confidence return to its usual level -they would fight the next morning and he would best the lad and send him on his way. "I have no intention of dueling with you," said Obi-Wan, interrupting Qui-Gon's train of thought.

"You have to," replied Qui-Gon haughtily. The lad was grinning again and holding out his hands, palms up as he shook his head. "If you expect to stay on as my bodyguard you will have to prove your prowess by dueling with me," Qui-Gon insisted.

"I thought the intent of the duel was to send me away?"

"It is."

"Very circular logic, your highness," said Obi-Wan, finishing his bread. "It seems that you are intent on dueling me. Very well, but I have to warn you that I am the best swordsman the Order has."

Qui-Gon shrugged, beginning to feel that he was gaining the upper hand at last. "You have been the biggest fish in a very small pond," he informed his new bodyguard in a condescending tone. "I, however, have been trained by the finest swordsmen in this kingdom, and defeated them all."

Kenobi thought for a moment, then nodded. "I will concede that possibility, for my brothers do not acknowledge ourselves as subjects of your father's rule."

Qui-Gon bristled; the allegiance of the temple had always been claimed by his father, but it was true they paid no tribute to the throne. He laid his palm on his sword. "Perhaps there is no need to wait till morning."

Kenobi finished his bread and gave a polite nod to Shmi. "Thank you for the meal, my lady." He picked up a set of mud-stained saddlebags.

"You're welcome, sir." She gave Qui-Gon an impatient look; she was one of the few in the castle who he allowed to get away with such scandalous liberties.

"Where shall we duel? I assume you wish to take this pointless contest to a proper arena." He smiled casually, a disarmingly friendly expression. Qui-Gon did not return it, watching the way his limbs flowed easily through every motion. It was likely that the boy was a deadly swordsman, in spite of his monkish background.

"The main courtyard should be fine. And of course there will be an audience. I wouldn't want you to cry foul when I win."

"I won't kill you," Obi-Wan told him with serious eyes as he removed his cloak and draped it over his arm.

"It never even crossed my mind that you could," sneered Qui-Gon. "But I can see where your worries lie and I assure you that I will not kill you either. I haven't killed a bodyguard yet, merely wounded their dignity and sent them on their way, tails firmly between their legs." Qui-Gon held his arm out toward the door, watching Obi-Wan as he walked ahead.

Shmi made a noise behind him and Qui-Gon looked back to see her shaking her head. He grinned and gave her a mock salute before following Kenobi out the door. The view was lovely indeed and he wished the boy had been here on other business; instead of sending him on his way, Qui-Gon could have been wooing him for his bed.

The lad seemed to know the way to the main courtyard. He strode forward with calm purpose, a cocky sway to his hips that spoke of absolute confidence... and possibly knowledge of Qui-Gon's stare.

When they entered the area, Qui-Gon was surprised to find a scattering of nobles and others assembled there, as though waiting. With a surge of anger, he realized his father was there as well, ensconced in the high seat at one end of the area. "You are predictable, my son, but we had not anticipated your arrival so soon." The ancient man seated himself, crossly waving away his chamberlain's offer of assistance.

"My departure will be equally precipitous," Qui-Gon assured him tartly, shouldering out of his cloak and tossing it aside; its burned hem spoiled the impression he was making with the assembled ladies.

Kenobi strode across the courtyard, pausing only to make a gracious leg before the King. He tossed aside his cloak and began peeling out of his layered tunics, shedding the encumbering garments. Qui-Gon watched beneath lowered lids, preparing himself similarly. The last layer of his opponent's shirts fell away and revealed a whippet-slim torso with compact, wiry muscles of a sort that he knew would be rock-hard. Softly pink nipples only served as a tempting distraction from his hard, masculine build. A long slim braid trailed down from behind one ear to sway, brushing across his right nipple in a tantalizing arc.

Qui-Gon knew from experience that the young monk was blindingly fast, and had prepared his strategy accordingly. He would make the lad come to him. It would take a long time for him to tire; there was not a spare ounce of fat on him. He would be like a stone buffeted by the wind; the lad could lash at him all he wished, to no avail. Qui-Gon's superior strength and reach would eventually prove his bodyguard's undoing.

He stood stonily, watching the lad limber himself, bending to tuck all three joints of his fingers under the toes of his boots. No wonder his hands were dirty. Qui-Gon grounded his sword, watching for a time, growing increasingly impatient as the admiration usually reserved for him was lavished upon the boy as he stretched and displayed his lean, graceful body.

No, he would not feel remorse over making this a bitter lesson in the advantage of age, skill, and treachery over youth and overconfidence.

"Will you fight, or are you planning a gymnastic exhibition?" he inquired at length, impatient.

The lad merely straightened, smiling that enigmatic, infuriating half-smile at him. "If you insist, we will duel."

Qui-Gon readied his sword and waited for the first attack, but it did not come. They faced off, both poised, the boy bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, as though he could not quench the boundless energy inside him.

"Attack," Qui-Gon goaded him.

"To make the first attack is wasteful and unwise." The lad lectured him as though he were a foolish pupil, never moving, and Qui-Gon gave in to his anger, stalking forward and slapping at the blade that waited to meet his. "One should always use a first attack as an opportunity to estimate the opponent." Kenobi danced aside, turning the hammer-blow of Qui-Gon's blade away neatly with a flick of his wrist, managing to avoid the jarring impact Qui-Gon had intended to deliver to his sword-arm. "In making it, you also waste the energy of an uncalculated blow."

Qui-Gon rounded to face him rapidly, not letting the lad dance behind his back. Perhaps the rumors of sorcery were correct; no one could move so swiftly! "A rapier may dance more quickly than a broadsword," Qui-Gon responded, "But it also snaps the faster when caught in an opponent's quillions." He met the dancing flash of Kenobi's sword, a satisfying chime of metal, and turned it aside.

"First it must be caught." Kenobi waded in, the blade seeming to shatter into a rainbow prism as it flashed and swung, whining through the air about Qui-Gon's body. He lunged after it, managing to turn the darting attacks before they landed by relying on sheer instinct. Their eyes locked and Qui-Gon used his considerable skill to read Kenobi's intentions in his eyes, anticipating the blows before they were launched. It was too late to respond once they had begun; Kenobi moved like greased silk.

The ringing sounded like a chorus of bells as they circled, Qui-Gon forced to move to evade some of the lunges, trying to stay out of the circumference of darting steel lest he misjudge a step and be caught.

A titter caught his attention; he flushed as the blade darted through his guard and slapped his shoulder, leaving a needle-thin line of blood where its razor-sharp edge peeled a wafer of skin away. Giving the offender a sharp glare cost him a second slap; he slammed the blade away furiously and changed his tactics, charging forward and hoping to bury the slender boy under an avalanche of strength.

Kenobi bore up well under the parade of savage hits, though they should have shivered his coltish frame to the ankles. His muscles were even harder than they looked; Qui-Gon could tell he was pressing the boy from the way that his mouth firmed into a line, but he met each attack solidly.

He struck with all his weight, forcing the lad to his knees, but Kenobi twisted his wrist and somehow Qui-Gon's sword was flying, clattering across the tiles. Kenobi rose and stepped back, courteous. "Do you care to continue?" Qui-Gon merely glared, stalking over to retrieve his sword and resuming guard position. Such a thing hadn't happened since he was nineteen.

"Your anger blunts your skill," Kenobi observed, and this time he waded in to continue the battle, driving Qui-Gon backward. He never seemed to be beneath the savage lunges directed at him; they came close to cleaving him, but he squirmed away like an eel, and soon Qui-Gon found himself in a sweat, realizing that the tempting near-hits had drawn him out of his wise plan to conserve energy.

Kenobi was glistening with sweat too, but his chest rose and fell lightly, and he still bounced on his feet as Qui-Gon backed away to take a moment of breath. There was a single trickle of blood down Kenobi's neck from where Qui-Gon had nicked the lobe of his ear; he took that as a savage consolation. "If you are so wise," he had to stop for air, "Then tell me. How would you defeat yourself?"

Kenobi smiled. "I do not seek defeats. I seek allies."

"That does not answer my question." Qui-Gon raised his blade again, guarding against the possibility of advance.

"Strength is no match for wit," Kenobi remarked through that infuriating smile, and brought his blade up once again. Qui-Gon responded, then realized Kenobi had baited the attack, and it had come as he expected. Of course he could counter it easily. He feinted left and snapped a kick at Kenobi's right ankle; the monk scrambled and rolled backward, but the kick connected.

"Better," Kenobi commented with approval. "But not good enough."

Qui-Gon lunged at him again, this time trying all of the dirtiest tricks he knew-- and found them countered as quickly as they were launched. He even scuffed a handful of sand at the younger man's eyes, but they were closed in anticipation, and Kenobi slid through the opening like a snake to pin him without ever opening them, blade at his throat.

"How?" Qui-Gon growled, his breath coming hard and his throat feeling like gravel.

"You hinder yourself with pride. It makes you transparent, even to a blind man." Kenobi let him up and opened his eyes, clear blue-green in his dirty face. "We will fight now," the monk announced almost pleasantly, and advanced.

There were no words to describe his speed; his sword flickered in a blur about Qui-Gon, driving him in circles, slipping in and out of his guard to slap at ribs, thighs, neck. Qui-Gon swore, leaving himself open deliberately just for a chance at Kenobi's throat, and found himself on tiptoe, the point of a blade denting the crotch of his trousers. "Anger again." Kenobi shook his head. "You would do better against a different opponent, I think. Your animosity has blunted your skill."

It was true, Qui-Gon realized. He'd held his own at first, while he could still be objective enough to anticipate the lad, but now he was being led by the nose. He pulled back for a moment and Kenobi let him compose himself, waiting. Qui-Gon realized the picture he must make, thin bloody rivulets criss-crossing his body, hair matted with sweat. He tried to calm himself, breathing deeply, awaiting renewed attack.

Kenobi nodded with approval, then waded in with a backhanded slash and kick; Qui-Gon dodged the blade and caught the kick, flipping him in a complete somersault and following. This time his blade smacked Kenobi's ribs; the boy took the blow and scissored his legs, taking his ankles out from under him.

"Well done!" Kenobi praised, and Qui-Gon blinked at the extended hand; Kenobi had already bounced up, leaving his sword, and was standing before him, offering the handclasp symbolic of truce.

He weighed the possibility of further humiliation against the unlikely possibility of scoring a lucky blow, then grasped the hand grudgingly, his mouth turned down sourly at the corners. "Well-fought." His voice was flat, with no friendliness, but Kenobi smiled as though it had been truly gracious, and gave him a bow-- his first sign of respect.

Helping him up, Kenobi then turned to the King. "I am satisfied," he spoke with a properly deferential tone. "I accept the position."

Qui-Gon growled low in the back of his throat, but didn't say anything, facing his father with a stiff back.

"So," said Yoda, turning to him, "no more fights? You'll accept this bodyguard and let him concentrate on protecting you instead of fighting you?"

He tipped his father a begrudging half bow with his head. "He bested me; he should be able to best anyone who tries to kill me. Or die trying," he finished under his breath, for Kenobi's ears only. The boy grinned at him, but said nothing.

"If it pleases my lord," said Qui-Gon with another half bow before turning and striding from the courtyard.

PART 3

Kenobi's boots rang out on the stone as he trotted up to take his place at the prince's side. "Our clothing?" asked the boy as he followed Qui-Gon through the maze of corridors.

"The servants will retrieve them," Qui-Gon told him shortly. "You needed a change anyway."

"Which would be in my saddle bags-- which are with my clothes."

"And no doubt all you've got in there are more of those dreadfully dull tunics. If you are to be my bodyguard, you must dress the part."

He looked at his companion, admiring anew the trim muscles and smooth skin, noting with rue the single trickle of blood on the lad's chest. His own body sported a host of scratches and cuts, delivered by the lad's rapier and his stumbles. "Perhaps black silk."

"My own clothes are fine for me."

"If you are to be my constant companion, I'll not have you looking like a rag-tag stable boy," insisted Qui-Gon coldly. "Bad enough you've got that ridiculous haircut."

"This is the traditional tonsure of my order." Serene, he seemed not to mind Qui-Gon's scowl. "I will keep it."

At least he hadn't said outright that he would refuse new clothes.

"Most persons have no idea that your order practices martial pursuits," Qui-Gon commented. "It is believed that you are dedicated to the preservation of texts and knowledge."

"It is difficult to protect such things without the ability to fight," Kenobi pointed out. "Many scholars in our ancestors' past have been put to the sword, their manuscripts and monasteries burned. We prefer to protect ours at need."

"I suspect more than one attacking force has been taken off-guard," Qui-Gon commented wryly, and Obi-Wan laughed, his head tilting back, lips parting unexpectedly widely in his delight, showing perfect white teeth and a tantalizing flicker of pink tongue. His ill-shaven beard caught the light.

"I suppose you are correct, at that." His eyes flashed merriment at Qui-Gon. -pull for a servant.

Kenobi re-materialized as silently as he'd gone, frowning when he saw his command had not been obeyed. "We will have to come to an agreement on some basic rules," he spoke tartly. "When I tell you to wait, you wait. You do not enter a room without permission."

"These are my apartments," Qui-Gon protested.

"That makes them all the more dangerous, for you're expected here."

Qui-Gon sighed loudly and flopped into a chair. He'd been through this time and again. "Very well," he agreed with exaggerated patience. "I suppose that you will also insist on supervising me when I piss. Would you like the job of taking down my trousers as well?"

"I believe you're competent to handle that," Obi-Wan commented dryly, examining the furniture and bookshelves carefully.

Kenobi's obvious indifference to the innuendo stung Qui-Gon, and he remained silent until maids arrived, bearing steaming ewers of water and soft white towels. Deliberately ignoring his new bodyguard, Qui-Gon flirted with the girls as he directed them to set the ewers and towels on the long table by the bed.

"Would my lord be needing anything else?" Asked the younger of the two, a definite gleam in her eye. Qui-Gon grinned at her as he made a show of sitting on the edge of the bed.

"That'll be all," said Kenobi, already moving to the table and fussing with the water.

Qui-Gon glared at the boy, but Kenobi seemed oblivious. Swatting the girl on the rump the Prince nodded her away and turned his attention back to the boy. "You're right. We do need to come to an agreement regarding some basic rules."

The lad nodded. "I enter all rooms before you and give the OK before you enter. I taste all food and drink before you. I will be your shadow until your father releases me from service. Do not fear for your secrets; my discretion can be trusted." He wet a towel in the steaming water and wrung it out. "Now, my prince, I will see to your wounds. I regret that it was necessary to inflict them, but you forced my hand." He reached and took the prince's wrist.

"That's not what I meant!" Qui-Gon glowered and snatched his arm away. "You will not take my privacy. And you do not command my servants!"

"Very well," Kenobi agreed. "But in all things relevant to your well-being, I command you. Now give me your arm." He caught it again in an iron grip and began to bathe the small wounds from his blade.

Qui-Gon could feel himself beginning to pout and he stiffened his spine, curling his lips into the semblance of a snarl. Though Kenobi's hands were warm against his skin, the towel abraded and Qui-Gon was soon bristling again as the small cuts stung under the boy's less than tender care.

"Ow!" he exclaimed indignantly as the long slice on his upper chest was treated.

"Sorry," Kenobi said softly before running two fingers gently along the cut. Qui-Gon started; the pain disappeared like magic as Kenobi's touch moved over his skin. Looking down, he could clearly see that the skin had closed around the cut, granted it hadn't been a severe wound, but surely it was healed at least a day's worth and certainly the pain was entirely gone.

"What did you do?"

Kenobi shrugged, looking uncomfortable for the first time since Qui-Gon had known him. "It's a simple technique, really. I..." he hesitated. "I made that part of your body work harder. Accelerated blood flow. When you do it right, it cleanses dead tissue and builds new at a relatively quick rate."

"You monks are sorcerors. You used sorcery to beat me." Qui-Gon heard the bizarre mixture of relief and disappointment in his own voice, and he shifted uncomfortably.

"No, though I very nearly had to." Kenobi's eyes were a sober blue-green, his face absolutely earnest. "I'm faster than you, and you were angry. If you were my age, you could probably equal my speed."

"Never use your sorcerous tricks on me without telling me," Qui-Gon commanded, and he realized it was the first actual rule he'd made, though he'd intended to make many more.

"Yes, your highness." Kenobi's head bent forward and he cleansed another cut. Qui-Gon submitted with better grace this time, a plan for subtle and pleasant vengeance forming in his mind.

PART 4

Qui-Gon's rooms were bright and warmly decorated. The walls were covered with blue and gold tapestries, the carpets a deep burgundy. The heavy furniture suited his tall frame and was both functional and comfortable. In his sleeping chamber, the bed was the centerpiece. Heavy curtains hung from the high bedposts; turned back at the moment, they could be pulled around the bed to ensure the utmost privacy. There was more than enough room for the Prince and several others, though as often as not, he slept alone. Not that he was going to tell Kenobi that.

Sitting comfortably against a mountain of cushions, legs crossed genteelly at the ankles, he folded his arms across his chest and watched with some amusement as two young serving wenches tended to his new bodyguard's needs.

The boy had suffered only a single scratch at his hands, but he was quite in need of a bath and a proper shave. A haircut wouldn't have gone amiss either, but he suspected that Kenobi's tolerance was being pushed to its limits already.

Perhaps he could convince the boy to lose that ridiculous braid trailing from behind one ear if he started to use it as a leash.

Qui-Gon shifted as the thought stirred his body, the last thing he wanted was for Kenobi to realise he intrigued Qui-Gon in that particular arena.

Kenobi was sitting primly on the edge of the divan that sat on the other side of the low table, obviously ill at ease under the attention of the two girls who were sponging him down. A soft-voiced argument had been taking place for several minutes. Growing impatient, Qui-Gon finally put an end to it. "For the love of Corusc, just take your breeches off, boy. You haven't got anything they haven't seen before."

Kenobi, flustered for the first time since Qui-Gon had met him, flashed the prince an affronted glare. "They haven't seen mine!"

"The way you take on, you'd think nobody had."

"And your indifference leads me to think that far too many have seen your own!" The young monk rallied, and Qui-Gon could not tell if the flush rising on his cheeks was embarrassment or anger.

Qui-Gon shrugged eloquently, untroubled by the comment. "You are stalling." He looked forward with pleasure to Kenobi's surrender; the monk's refusing to be out of the same room with him was a sword that cut two ways.

Kenobi frowned, then composed himself with a visible effort and reached for the lacings. He rounded his back modestly on Qui-Gon and the servants, but that only served to highlight the swell of his hips as he bent and pushed the cloth to the floor.

Lovely. Steel-hard muscle in clearly-defined dips and spare curves, simply begging for the palm of a strong man's hand. Qui-Gon licked his lips with satisfaction and one of the serving maids tittered, catching his expression out of the corner of her eye. He blanked his face smoothly as Kenobi straightened, jerking nervously. The lad covered his genitals with his hands and gave her a wide-eyed, startled look.

There were other battlefields than the palace courtyard, and other weapons than steel. Qui-Gon sat back lazily, schooling his expression to boredom. Kenobi quickly seated himself in the washtub and the maids mixed kettles of boiling water in half-buckets of cool, pouring the hot bathwater in onto his body, their small palms rubbing dirt and sweat from his slender torso.

Kenobi sat, quietly enduring their ministrations, eyes on the carpet, but when one of the girls reached for a pair of scissors, he held up his hands, protesting.

"I said I wouldn't cut my hair. My lord," he faced Qui-Gon for the first time since disrobing, "it is the way of my order."

"It's ugly," Qui-Gon told him bluntly.

"It teaches humility and safeguards against vanity."

"And what of the... tail?"

To Qui-Gon's surprise, Kenobi's face grew red again and he looked away, clearly more embarrassed at the question than he had been when he'd been told to remove his breeches. "There are some things about which you will have to remain curious."

Qui-Gon inclined his head, letting the matter drop, though he vowed silently to discover the answer.

The girls scrubbed the young man thoroughly, though he insisted on cleaning some portions himself, much to his prince's amusement. When at last he stood and was rinsed, clear steaming water sluicing down the trim, clean lines of his body, Qui-Gon took the towel from the girl who held it and dried the boy himself, curtly dismissing the maids.

"Now I will shave you. I assume you will permit this, at least?"

Obi-Wan hesitated, then nodded.

Qui-Gon left him to rub himself dry and wrap the towel around his slim body. He occupied the time by selecting a long straight razor and strap. He did not shave himself, of course, but he thought it would be a pretty game to see if the lad trusted his hand, or if he flinched away from the blade. Smiling slightly, the prince built the lather with the stubby brush, then painted his bodyguard's cheeks.

"I trust that you are not a novice." Almost fully calm, the lad displayed just the barest flicker of worry. Qui-Gon merely raised a brow and moved in, drawing the bright steel along the lad's jaw. He shaved carefully, dipping lightly into the cleft point of Kenobi's chin.

It was bizarrely soothing, tending to another person; the realization surprised him. He did not rush the job, enjoying the close look at the young man's features. His skin was slightly roughened, a lingering testimony of past adolescence, and he had a single dark freckle on his right cheek. His brows were low, framing one of the straightest noses Qui-Gon had ever seen. He surveyed it with a little envy; it took a fine fighter indeed to sport a pristine and unbroken nose.

It was a face that could look boyish or menacing, innocent or cruel, a perfect and open book to shifting moods. At the moment it looked worried, the eyes a clear gray. He shook his head. How did they do that?

"My lord?" the soft tones broke his reverie and he finished the work quickly, pulling the straight edge up the vulnerable neck.

"There," said Qui-Gon, throwing the razor onto the table and tugging the bell-pull once more. "With the right clothing, you might just fit in."

"I would be more comfortable in the clothes I brought," began Kenobi, but Qui-Gon waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. He threw himself back on his bed, lounging lazily as the servants arrived and quickly cleaned the room.

"We'll have something made for you, of course. In the meantime, I'm sure Adi can take in some of my castoffs." He turned to one of the wenches. "Sira, fetch Adi and tell her to bring the black silk I wore a few seasons back."

Kenobi fidgeted in his towel as they waited, his nipples stiffening to tight little peaks in response to the chill. Qui-Gon tried not to look at them too obviously, but it was difficult. He was a proud man, and he'd rarely been denied anything he wanted, either by himself or by any other. Of course, the more he saw of this young man, the more he wanted. Subtlety and patience were not his strongest suits, but Kenobi had already proved that it would be necessary to hone both attributes.

Sira returned quickly from the adjacent wardrobe, bearing not one but three outfits that Qui-Gon had worn as a younger man. Adi followed on her heels, bearing her sewing kit, with a needle between her lips.

The first suit of clothes was black silk, as ordered; Qui-Gon put it in Obi-Wan's hands immediately. "Dress," he ordered, examining the other clothing with a critical eye. One was an olive green that had always been too tight for him through the shoulders and in the hips; it should serve well. The other was pure white, a rather impractical color, but he thought it would complement the lad's coloring well, making the blue-green of his eyes stand out-- and the reddish hue of his hair, revealed in the slant of a sunbeam as the short-cropped fuzz dried.

Obi-Wan dressed in the black silks; the sober color made him look pale and studious; Qui-Gon decided its effect was lessened by the incongruous clerical hairstyle. Adi clucked and fussed over him, pinning and measuring, then she skinned him and set to work, her needle flying.

Satisfied that all was well in hand, Qui-Gon rose from the bed as though to check the view from his window, covering a subtle retreat toward the door. He had a prior appointment to keep, and Kenobi was distracted. Giving Sira a wink, he made his escape just as his new bodyguard's head disappeared beneath the drape of the olive tunic.

PART 5

The silk felt strange against his skin. Luxurious and soft, it caressed him as it slid over his head and along his chest. Obi-Wan impatiently pushed his hands through the overlong sleeves, obediently holding his hands out to the girl, so that Sira could roll them up. "I really would be more comfortable in my own clothes," he said, turning to the prince... who was no longer standing next to him, or sitting on the bed. The quiet click of the closing door in the sitting room beyond the sleeping chamber gave away the Prince's position.

He jerked, startled, and Adi jabbed him accidentally with a needle. "Hold still!" she admonished crossly.

"The prince has gone. I've got to--"

"If you don't want to go naked, you'll wait till I finish taking in these tucks," she returned, her voice implacable. Chafing at the delay, he let Sira continue to measure and fuss with the other outfits. Maybe he should go naked; it was possible his act might cause enough scandal to prevent Prince Qui-Gon from evading him again... but then again, considering the man's lack of shame, it probably wouldn't.

At last she finished sewing, and Obi-Wan had to admit that she worked fast, almost as quickly as he could swing his sword. He elbowed into the black silk, impatiently letting them fasten buckles and buttons and gussets and light alone knew what else until he was more or less presentable. Qui-Gon's old boots were too loose on his feet, but his own brown ones did not match the fine black silk, so he wore them, leaving the annoyed women chattering in his wake and he stalked out and tried to decide which way Qui-Gon might have gone.

He stopped in the hallway outside the door leading to the Prince's quarters, hands on his hips as he glared one way and then the other. He felt panic rise in his throat, bitter like bile, and his stomach tightened with nerves he'd managed to keep tamped down in the heat of his unusual first meeting with the Prince returning. He smoothed his hand along the thin rope of his braid.

What the Prince, and indeed his father, didn't know, was that this task was Obi-Wan's final trial. Success would guarantee his place among the order. He'd have to ensure that no-one learned that; if the Prince were to discover it he'd become completely impossible. As though he weren't already!

Indignantly he slapped at the unfamiliar tight sleeves of the garment he wore, wishing for his cloak and cowl. He would have to take hold of himself straight away; just because this was his first mission on his own was no reason to fall apart.

He closed his eyes and centered himself, letting the surrounding environment wash into his senses. There, down the hall-- he thought he heard Prince Qui-Gon's voice. Drawing himself to his full height and pulling serenity around himself in the place of his missing cloak, he glided down the hall in search of the Prince.

He paused at a casement window, hearing a child's laughter, and gazed out. There stood Qui-Gon, tossing a blond-haired child into the air and catching him, producing the happy squeals that had drawn Obi-Wan's attention. Obi-Wan leaned against the casement, watching in amazement as the Prince's face was transformed by a wide smile. The arrogant set of the Prince's features disappeared beneath his natural and sincere smile and it made Obi-Wan wonder what other qualities the superior attitude hid.

The game continued for some minutes, Qui-Gon seeming tireless as he continued to play with the boy in the inner courtyard. Sun shone down on the two of them, turning the blond hair of the boy to burnished gold and catching the silver of the Prince's hair-- a crown far finer than his circlet.

"Are you behaving well for your mother, Anakin?" Qui-Gon took the boy's hand and led him across to a wooden bench under a flowering tree.

The child pouted a little, but nodded. "I've done everything she asked. Will you take me to the stables?"

"That's what I promised." The Prince smiled down at the lad again, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a tender expression. "And we should always do as we promise."

"Yes, sir." The lad made his response solemnly, then brightened. "And I learned my lessons as well. This means you'll take me riding?"

"Of course." Qui-Gon scooped him up, laughing, and deposited him on his own shoulders. "Easy with the spurs," he warned.

"Yippee!"

Obi-Wan left the casement and hurried down a staircase into the courtyard just in time to catch Qui-Gon and the lad galloping through the far gate. He felt his fists clench and anger surge through him as the two figures on horseback disappeared rapidly from sight. Being within the castle without his bodyguard was bad enough, but the Prince was truly tempting fate to leave the safety of the walls without him.

Obi-Wan took a deep, calming breath, shaking his hands, feeling the anger flowing out of him through his fingers. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, sparing a moment to enjoy the sun on his face, the warm rays a familiar caress. Qui-Gon was gone -without him. There was nothing he could do to change that now, but in the future he intended to stick to the Prince as if he truly were the man's shadow.

Qui-Gon had teased him, asking if Obi-Wan intended to hold the Prince's sex when he pissed -if that's what it was going to take to keep the Prince from running off, then that's what he would do.

Sparing a prayer for Qui-Gon's safe return, Obi-Wan made his way to the stables, intent on finding Qui-Gon's horse's stall and waiting there until the man returned. Surprisingly, Shmi stood there, her lined face torn between pleasure and more pensive emotions, braiding a bit of harness between her fingers.

Obi-Wan bowed to her and she smiled. "I was pleased to see you pass the testing this morning," she dropped the bit of leather and wiped her hands on her skirt. "You were tested faster and performed better than any other bodyguard the Prince has had."

"Yes, well." Obi-Wan paused uncomfortably. "He managed to elude me rather swiftly nonetheless."

"You will watch him the more closely next time, then," she suggested. "He is... a rogue. He knows how to get what he wants, when he wants it." Color touched her cheeks, and Obi-Wan frowned a little, then realization dawned.

"Oh! You mean..."

"Yes. The lad is my son, and his." She still blushed, but her shoulders lifted with pride.

Obi-Wan nodded, understanding the Prince's uncharacteristic tenderness at last, and realizing why he'd let the kitchen mistress speak to him saucily. "He looks to be a fine boy."

"Yes... but at times I worry about his fate." Her lips compressed into a frown of worry. "It isn't easy, being a king. Or even a prince." Her dark eyes studied him shrewdly.

Obi-Wan nodded respectfully. "I well believe that it is not."

"He is a good man."

"I am beginning to see that there is more to him than the spoiled exterior he displays."

"It's a mask, just like the one you wear."

Obi-Wan looked at her in surprise. "Me? I am nothing like the Prince," he protested.

"Oh, I think you're both a lot more alike than either of you would admit. But I was referring to the fact that you also hide behind a mask, albeit yours is more seemly," she said with a smile.

Obi-Wan wanted to protest her claim, but kept quiet. He could hear a little voice in his head reminding him not to dismiss the judgments of others before he had examined them for what truths they did hold; the little voice sounded suspiciously like Pater Mundi and Obi-Wan fought a brief bout of homesickness. This was his home now, until such a time when his services were no longer required. "I will meditate on your words," Obi-Wan told her seriously.

"They've probably gone to ride around the pond. It's well inside the estate, and should be protected," Shmi told him primly, but with more friendliness than before. "Anakin loves the horses and would like to learn to swim, but he's afraid of the water. One day the prince will teach him to overcome his fear."

"He cares very deeply for Anakin," Obi-Wan guessed, feeling the taste of truth in the words.

"More than for his own life," she eyed him levelly. "He is not just the heir to Qui-Gon's title. He is the prince's heart, as well." Turning, she brushed gracefully out of the stable.

PART 6

Qui-Gon's horse galloped next to Anakin's. He enjoyed the wind, cool and refreshing through his hair. It was wonderful being away from the castle, from the expectations and intrigues that passed for sport in the gilded halls. But he had responsibilities, not least of which was a dinner with his father and some of the Dukes, including that odious bore Palpatine.

With regret he turned his horse toward the castle, Anakin's smaller mount smoothly following the change in course.

As they returned to the courtyard, their horses' hooves rang out over the cobblestones, the high stone walls echoing the sound back at them. A man waited for them in the stalls, black silk draping over a lightly muscled frame, highlighting fair skin and auburn hair.

His bodyguard. He almost didn't recognize Kenobi dressed in the finery -it certainly suited him, though Qui-Gon had to admit it made the lad look more like a servant of pleasure than one that was destined to be a pain in the posterior. As they dismounted he could see Kenobi's lips tightening, his mouth narrowing into a thin band. To his surprise his bodyguard remained silent and visibly relaxed, a smile softening the pretty lips.

"You must be Anakin."

The boy was not shy in spite of his youth; he put his hand out firmly and shook Obi-Wan's. The Prince lifted a brow at Obi-Wan but continued calmly. "Yes. Anakin, this is Obi-Wan Kenobi, my bodyguard." His mouth tightened after the final words, but his tone remained smooth. "Obi-Wan, this is my son Anakin."

"I am honored to meet you." Obi-Wan went to one knee, meeting the child at eye-level.

"I'm glad to meet you too, I guess. But you won't be around very long," the boy commented guilelessly.

"Oh?"

"Bodyguards never are." Spying his mother across the courtyard, Anakin brightened and darted off, leaving Obi-Wan to raise his eyes to the prince's wryly.

"This one will be," he commented dryly, and pushed himself to his feet, dusting his hands on his unfamiliar satin breeches.

Qui-Gon shrugged noncommittally. "We are late for dinner." He kept his voice cool, showing none of the warmth he'd granted Anakin. Qui-Gon strode down the hall without apologizing for his 'transgression,' taking the longest steps he could and ignoring Kenobi's efforts to keep up. They were late, after all, and his father would frown if they came into the banquet hall after the first course had been served.

To his credit, the young man kept up without trotting, though he occasionally doublestepped to keep the pace. "You will not absent yourself in that manner again," Obi-Wan informed him in an annoyingly sharp tone.

"I shall do as I please," Qui-Gon informed him tartly as they rounded a corner to the banquet hall. He gestured for a guard to open the door and strode in grandly; a server who had poked his head out vanished and Qui-Gon knew that the kind-hearted Shmi had told the domestics to wait dinner for him.

He took his seat at his father's side, dipping his head respectfully. The old man's eyebrows lowered with disapproval, but he did not speak.

He could feel Kenobi slide into the seat on his other side and deliberately ignored the lad.

He smiled perfunctorily at the Dukes and their wives scattered around the table, listening idly as conversations, quickly hushed at his entrance, resumed once more. Palpatine was pontificating once again on the importance of his territory to the kingdom and how strategic an alliance between himself and the Duke of Valorum's young daughter would be.

Palpatine's precise pronunciation seemed more obscene than ever as he virtually proposed a union between himself and Valorum's girl -easily 4 times his junior. Qui-Gon was happy to hear Valorum easily brush aside the idea, but he made a note to keep an eye on the situation. Amidala was a charming young thing, only a few years older than Anakin, and Qui-Gon was of a mind to foster a union between the pair, but felt it was far too early to thrust his son into an arranged marriage.

Qui-Gon's own marriage, arranged and performed by his father before Qui-Gon turned 16, had been stressful and short-lived. The girl hadn't been much smarter than a fence-post, but she had been kind and innocent and Qui-Gon had treated her very badly.

It was something that he felt sorry for in retrospect, even more so given that their marriage had ended in her death. Thrown from her horse, she had lingered only a day before succumbing to the injury; Qui-Gon had always felt that if he'd been a better husband she might have chosen to fight for her life rather than let it slip away. His guilt was compounded by the fact that he was relieved, both then and now, not to have to spend any more time with her.

A polite cough from one of the servants interrupted his thoughts and he reached smoothly for a portion of venison from the tray being held out to him. Shmi pickled the coldmeat and served it wrapped in fat; it was one of his favorites. Placing three more of the morsels on his plate, he plucked a fourth from the tray, intent on eating it directly.

Deft fingers plucked it out of his grasp, and he watched in disbelief as his new bodyguard popped the delicacy into his own mouth, chewing and swallowing genteelly as he wiped his fingertips on his napkin.

"What the Sith do you think you're doing?" Qui-Gon hissed, as annoyed by his own surprise as by the loss of the tidbit.

"Tasting your food, my prince. I shall take a bite of every dish that you are served, and eat it before you touch it. I've been trained in the recognition of poisons, and should be able to detect most toxic flavors."

Qui-Gon blinked, aware of the attention from nearby diners. "You are very thorough." His voice was dry.

"It is my job, Your Highness." Obi-Wan folded his hands in his lap. "You may eat."

Qui-Gon glanced at his plate, weighing his taste for terpreted as further mockery. "You stand between her son and the throne, my prince. The long lives your family enjoys are renowned throughout the land. It is possible, though unlikely, that she would care to see her son crowned before her own death."

Qui-Gon sputtered, unable to find a satisfactory answer, and his father intervened. "You are wise, lad. Continue as you are."

Thwarted, Qui-Gon glared around the table, defying the assembled courtiers and nobles to brave his wrath. Without exception, they looked away from his gaze. Palpatine took longer about it than most, daring to let laughter dance in his eyes. He averted his gaze only to take up his wineglass.

"A hot-blooded young lad. I'm sure he will serve you well." He bowed ambiguously toward Qui-Gon and Yoda, lifting the cup to his lips in toast.

Deliberately Qui-Gon turned to Valorum, asking after his wife, who was absent this day, and then inquiring as to his crops and livestock, holding the conversation to topics of no interest to Palpatine.

Out of the corner of his eye, Qui-Gon saw the man stiffen. Good, he thought, I'll give the insufferably smug bastard a taste of his own medicine.

Feeling once more as if he had regained the upper hand, Qui- Gon began to enjoy his meal. His bodyguard sat silently at his side, easy to ignore. That is, until the soup was served and a spoon not his own was dipped into the liquid.

Qui-Gon's fist clenched around his own spoon and he watched, outraged, as Kenobi swallowed down the soup as delicately as he'd eaten the coldmeat. "Are you going to do that with every course?" he asked through clenched teeth.

Kenobi offered him a look of surprise. "Every course of every meal. Of any meal. I do believe I made my intentions known earlier. The soup is safe, my lord."

Qui-Gon considered making further protest, but the stinging memory of his earlier humiliation stopped him. Turning to his soup, he grasped his spoon and took a bite, only to realize that his father was smirking, a faint smile curling the corners of his lips. The thick, hearty soup tasted like ashes in his mouth, and something deep inside him snapped. If his father cared nothing of embarrassing him in front of this whole company, why should he owe his father constant respect, as though the man were the crown itself?

He set the spoon down carefully and pushed the soup away, waiting for the next course.

"Is the soup not good, Prince Qui-Gon?" Palpatine inquired, oozing oily politeness.

"It is quite good. Would you care to have my portion in addition to your own?" Qui-Gon entertained visions of upending his bowl into the man's lap. He would pretend that it had been an accident, of course.

"No thank you," Palpatine responded, his smile freezing a little.

"I would not mind another bowl," Obi-Wan interposed, taking it from the prince's hand. "Thank you."

Qui-Gon just gritted his teeth and waited for the endless meal to be finished.

PART 7

Obi-Wan watched his charge relax as they entered his chambers. The prince worked his shoulders, yawning, and unbuckled his sword. He tossed it carelessly onto a carved chair with his cloak. Wordlessly Obi-Wan retrieved it, slipping over to prop it against the wall by the bedside. It had been a hard day for the prince, one filled with more than its share of humiliation. Obi-Wan felt sympathetic, but there was no room for carelessness in sympathy.

Pushing aside the bed curtain, he was pleased to see that the maids had turned back the prince's coverlet. Motion flickered in the corner of his eye, and his hand darted for his sword faster than thought. He slashed forward, the motion eliciting a terrified feminine scream.

Qui-Gon sprinted to his side, heavy boots thumping; Obi-Wan threw his left arm out protectively, holding him away. He held his sword steady at the intruder's throat. "Bring a lamp," he commanded the prince.

"You're a damned fool, Kenobi." Qui-Gon sounded smug and Obi-Wan felt a flicker of uncertainty in his belly; the prince brought the lamp and shoved the bed curtain aside. Light fell on Sira's white face, her eyes wide with terror. She huddled against the far bedpost, trembling.

"I didn't mean no harm, Your Highness!" She extended a shaking hand, petitioning for mercy.

Obi-Wan put his hand on the Prince's arm as Qui-Gon reached for the girl. Qui-Gon looked at him sharply. "Have you lost your mind, Kenobi?"

"You do not seem to understand the seriousness with which I take my charge," replied Obi-Wan tightly. His stomach tightened and he could taste regret at frightening the girl in his mouth, but if he were anything less than diligent the Prince could be dead.

"She's my maid, Kenobi. She often warms my bed for me and you've frightened her out of her wits."

"And what would you do if one of your enemies had paid her to bring a knife to bed to slit your throat once you'd gone to sleep?" asked Obi-Wan, tightening his hold on the Prince's arm. "We can avoid this kind of unpleasantness in the future if Sira would wait for us in the sitting room and allow me to search her before she...warmed your bed."

He pulled his arm back, watching Qui-Gon consider. "Very well," the prince spoke icily. "Sira, kindly show my bodyguard where you have concealed your weapon."

"Your Highness?" she quavered. Obi-Wan let his sword arm drop, remaining ready.

"Up, girl!"

Sira rose obediently, and Obi-Wan's eyes popped as she emerged from the bed, her slender limbs as bare as the day she was born. She stood and raised her arms, turning obediently to display her body to him. Her breasts were young and firm, capped by pink nipples that tightened in the chill of the room. Her hips were round, heavier than a man's, with an exquisite measure of flesh at the base on each side. Her legs were long and whitely slim, not quite touching even at the knees. Her hair cascaded down her back in ribbons of curls.

Obi-Wan tried to find his voice, and could not.

"Do you wish to search further for a weapon? Perhaps she is concealing it elsewhere." Qui-Gon's massive hand moved to cup the triangle of curls at the base of her belly, fingers sliding between her legs. "Would you like to search her?" he asked slyly.

Obi-Wan felt his mouth fall open, but again no words emerged. Sira was blushing now, faint pink chasing over the trim, clean lines of her body. "I... I will check the bedding," he managed at last, blushing in his own right as he moved past them and tossed the covers back. He even checked beneath the edges of the mattress, then stepped back with averted eyes.

"Are you quite satisfied?" the prince asked him impatiently.

"For the moment," allowed Obi-Wan. "But I would prefer if we could avoid this in the future by having Sira wait for us in the sitting room, with a lamp lit."

"Yes, yes, whatever," growled Qui-Gon, waving his arm dismissively.

Obi-Wan looked around the room, looking for his pallet.

"Why are you still here?" asked Qui-Gon.

"I'm looking for my pallet, actually," Obi-Wan answered primly, keeping his eyes averted.

"Your what?" roared Qui-Gon.

"A pallet, my lord; I can hardly sleep in your bed with you, especially in light of..." Obi-Wan pointed his chin in the general direction of Sira. The girl giggled again and Obi-Wan felt his face growing red, his calm definitely shattered. He had never learned how to deal with this situation at the monastery.

"Let me see if I understand you," said Qui-Gon slowly, as if Obi-Wan were deaf, or feeble. "You want a pallet placed in my bed chamber. And you will sleep on this pallet in my bed chamber."

"Only when you are here, my lord."

Qui-Gon grabbed a pillow and a blanket from his bed and threw them at Obi-Wan. He plucked them easily from the air. "The lounge chair will have to do for tonight, I'm in no mood to wait for a servant to bring you a pallet. My... appetites are too strong."

"Appetites?" Obi-Wan repeated slowly, then flushed crimson. "Very well, my prince," he managed to speak courteously, though he felt like his face was on fire. "You need not wait longer to satisfy them." He turned his back resolutely and laid the blanket out on the thick carpet in the middle of the floor. Plumping the pillow, he tossed it down resolutely at the top of the blanket and rolled himself up in the makeshift bed. It was actually as comfortable as the cot in his cell had been, and more comfortable than many nights he'd spent on the road.

The only problem was the clothing he wore-- pearl buttons and silver buckles dug into him uncomfortably, and he shifted, trying to ease them. He was not about to change his clothing with that woman in the prince's bed.

Then a second problem manifested itself: sound. By the light, had they even closed the bed curtains? He squeezed his eyes shut, but that didn't block out the sounds. A small feminine giggle, then a moan. Qui-Gon's voice rumbling... his eyes flew open and he gasped. He'd never heard such filthy language; the prince should be ashamed of himself!

The girl seemed to enjoy it, though. She laughed breathily, then cried out; the bed began to rustle rhythmically.

He felt his body tighten as he listened, a reluctant captive of his job. He knew what those sounds must mean; even a monk could witness farmyard copulations. He bit his lip, trying to distract his body's mindless craving. This was a harder trial than the rest of the day put together!

"Above your head. That's right, little one." The noises changed. Above her head? What would possibly go above her head? Curiosity burned in him suddenly, he kept himself resolutely still.

As he lay there, he realized a second sensation was building in addition to arousal. The servants at the banquet had kept his glass filled, and now he badly needed to relieve himself-- not that he could stir, given the spectacle on the bed!

This, he decided miserably, was hell.

The sounds began to crescendo; her moans mutated into gasps, then soft cries that rapidly escalated to shrieks. Light above, was he guarding the wrong person? It sounded as though the prince were killing her! Forgetting his need to piss, he listened, increasingly concerned. Someone was scratching at the bed sheets; surely this could not be normal!

Eventually he realized he had to look and make sure everything was all right. The prince's breathing had grown labored and he was suspiciously silent. Perhaps the girl had worn some kind of poison on her skin; murder/martyrdoms were not unknown. Gulping, he turned his head and opened one eye to investigate.

Sira lay on her back with her legs open, grasping her ankles, which lay in the air over her head. She was writhing and shrieking, sweat glistening on the perfect creamy curves of her flesh. The prince lay between her legs, his naked hips pumping obscenely; Obi-Wan's eyes widened and he stared helplessly at the tableau, fascinated with prurient horror.

Prince Qui-Gon scrabbled at the sheets to maintain his balance, bending to nip at her throat, which was marked with pink patches and bites. He growled low in his throat, shifting for a better angle, and resumed pushing in and out.

Obi-Wan couldn't see any great advantage in the new position, but Sira screamed, convulsing. He jumped, hand flying to his sword hilt instinctively; the prince he gasped hoarsely pushed deeply inside her. His body shuddered and he collapsed. Alarmed, Obi-Wan shot to his knees, ready to run to the prince's aid, but Qui-Gon merely nuzzled at her neck, helping her lower her legs, and then began to snore, still covering her.

Obi-Wan blinked, mortified, then swathed himself in the covers again, covering his face. It was a long, long time before he dared to creep out and use the chamber pot.

Soft moans wakened him at first light; Obi-Wan blinked blearily, realizing they were at it again. He sighed, rolling to put his back toward the bed, then realized he could see them anyway, reflected in the wide full-length mirror that the prince used for dressing.

This time, the coupling didn't seem as violent as it had before; Qui-Gon had the girl's small body nestled in the crook of his. The covers had drifted away, baring their bodies. Qui-Gon gently lifted Sira's upper leg and draped it over his own. Obi-Wan sucked in a low breath, staring in amazement. The prince's male organ was exposed by the position, and he'd never seen such a sturdy masculine endowment. It seemed as long as his forearm and as thick as his wrist; surely that could not fit inside-- but with a lazy roll of his hips, the prince pushed it into the girl.

Sira moaned, her throat working as she swallowed. Her hand rose and moved behind her, to twine into Qui-Gon's hair. Satisfied with the position, the prince began to move, his erection gleaming with her fluids as he gently pumped in and out. He moved his hand down and toyed with her curls, then stroked her gently with his fingertips.

The simple gesture produced a surprising result; Sira began to keen and wail, struggling in his grasp, but he held her firmly, his other arm moving under her body so he could pinch at her nipples. She writhed, sweat breaking out on her pale skin, her thigh muscles flexing as she rode the thick shaft that penetrated her.

Rolling onto his stomach, Obi-Wan pressed his hips firmly into the ground, hoping to ease the ache. He closed his eyes tightly, wishing he could block his ears as easily. His hips rolled instinctively, a gasp of pleasure breaking from his lips, and the sudden realization that he was about to break his vow of celibacy broke over him like a pitcher of cold water.

It gave him the strength he needed to control his body and by the time Sira's shriek of completion was followed by the Prince's low moan, his erection had subsided, though his cheeks were still aflame. He pressed them into his pillow, the silk coverings welcomingly cool against his face.

PART 8

Giving Sira one last kiss, he swatted her out of his bed, watching her wriggle into a simple white sleeping gown before disappearing through the servant's entrance. His bodyguard was awake, and had been for some time; the stiff pose of the blanketed figure gave him away. He raised himself lazily from the bed, giving the lad an rough nudge in the ribs with his toe. "She makes a fine armful, don't you think. Lusty and willing. Maybe you'd like to take an evening off and have her yourself."

He watched the lad blanch, amused. "I think she'd be just your type. Full of fire, insatiable... she keeps half this wing of the castle awake at night, as I'm sure you noticed. I trust you enjoyed your little voyeuristic interlude."

"I assure you that I did not," Kenobi answered primly. "Nor do I have any interest in availing myself of any of the... anyone's... I won't be taking any time off, my lord."

Qui-Gon laughed, a good night's rest, the rutting and his bodyguard's discomfort restoring his good humor. Having finally found a subject that so obviously bothered the seemingly unflappable young man, Qui-Gon couldn't resist teasing further. "No time off at all? You'll be polishing your hilt in front of me then? I hope you don't expect me to be as discreet as you-- I shall watch and enjoy it too!"

Kenobi's face flushed deeply and sputtered, causing Qui-Gon to go into another paroxysm of laughter. Really, if he could be promised this sort of entertainment on a regular basis, perhaps it wouldn't be too hard, having the boy as his bodyguard. "Next you'll be telling me you're a virgin, too!" he said, once he'd calmed down, breaking into laughter once more when Kenobi stiffened and refused to meet his eyes.

Oh, but under different circumstances the boy could be a joy to have around; such innocence would be sweet to taste.

Despite his early morning activities, he felt himself harden as he looked the boy up and down. The fine silk clothes were rumpled -they'd need to find Kenobi something to use as a nightshirt if he insisted on sleeping in clothing- and the odd hair cut was standing completely on end while the silly braid looked unkempt. With the crimson that still stained the high cheeks, the boy looked thoroughly debauched. Qui-Gon found himself with a strong urge to be the one doing the debauching.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so impossible after all. What would annoy his father more than to discover that his son had not only accepted a bodyguard, but had bedded him as well. Innocent as Kenobi was, and used to a cloistered life within the walls of the monastery, Qui-Gon presumed that with some small effort, he would have the boy seduced in short order.

With that pleasant thought in mind, he settled into an armchair and relaxed. "Your clothes are rumpled, but Adi has prepared more." He nodded at the wooden wardrobe on the facing wall of the room. The boy blushed yet again when he realized Qui-Gon meant to watch him change, but to his credit, he stalked across and retrieved one of his few outfits from the lower hanging rod inside.

The prince, already naked, was prepared when several serving girls entered, bearing a washtub and kettles of boiling water. Other servants brought buckets of cool, and they mixed it together in the tub. The prince stepped in calmly and allowed them to wash him, aware of his bodyguard's wide eyes following the process.

"There is water for you as well," Qui-Gon informed him pleasantly. His expectations were not thwarted; his bodyguard pinkened nicely. Servants moved to work his buttons, flustering the young man terribly.

He batted their hands away. "I can undress myself," he murmured, his actions belaying the words as his fingers tangled in the cinches at his waist.

Qui-Gon could not hide his smile as the boy was forced to let the servants remove his clothing and the Prince reveled in each piece of flesh as it was revealed. Kenobi's skin was pale beneath the black silk and Qui-Gon wondered if these monks ever indulged in the pleasure of the sun's touch upon their bare flesh.

He would certainly wager that Kenobi had not and his grin grew wider as he devised a plan to change that. An impromptu swimming session during an afternoon's ride should do the trick, for surely Kenobi would feel it necessary to wade into the lake to keep close to his charge. In the meantime, Kenobi was now naked, standing awkwardly beside the tub, his hands folded over his sex.

Instead of getting out of the water, Qui-Gon moved to one side--there was room enough in the wooden vessel for two, if they didn't mind standing close together.

Kenobi blinked, hesitating.

"You said you were planning to stick close to me," Qui-Gon pointed out reasonably. "Did you mean it, or not? If not, you may as well get out and never return."

"You are having a game with me, your highness," the bodyguard responded stiffly.

"And a fine game it is. You will bathe here with me or you will stink. Which will it be?"

The lad's spine snapped straight, eyes flashing with pride. He stepped over the edge of the tub, bracing himself on the rim as he sank down, none of his skin touching Qui-Gon's. He suffered the washing without speech, folding his hands over his lap. Qui-Gon smirked, knowing that he concealed an involuntary erection, his helpless reaction to being touched and washed by pretty serving maids.

"Perhaps her. Would you like me to order her to your bed?" He indicated a petite blonde. "Or her?" He pointed to the lavish curves of another girl, her shirt plastered to her body with soapy water.

"They are fine girls, I am sure." Kenobi had recovered his composure, and wore it well. "No offense to either of them, but I am comfortable on my own."

"Would you prefer a boy?" Qui-Gon raised a brow, inquiring. "Or perhaps a man might tempt you more?"

The jibe fell true, piercing Kenobi's calm once more. His bodyguard stiffened, pulling further into his corner of the tub, "I have neither the desire nor the time for a dalliance of any sort; I am here as your bodyguard and nothing will distract me from my duty."

Despite Kenobi's words, Qui-Gon believed he'd piqued the boy's interest. He let his eyes roam once more over the supple limbs of his bodyguard, enjoying the way his own body responded to the sight, and then stood, towering over the seated boy, his heavy sex dripping water just above Kenobi's eye level.

"Let me know if you change your mind." He let lazy invitation rumble in his voice, toweling himself off without hurry.

Obi-Wan scrambled to his feet, snatching a towel and covering his fine backside. A pity, but it would look nearly as well in the leathers Adi had provided for him to wear this day.

Qui-Gon himself dressed casually in hunter green and butter- soft leather boots, looking forward to his planned outing. And to the evening ahead. If he didn't succeed in seducing the boy today, he thought he would ask for Sira to bring a companion with her when she came to his bed; exercise and fresh air always put a keen edge on his senses. And it would be fun to taunt his bodyguard.

He slung his cloak over his shoulder and raked back his hair. "Whenever you are ready," he stated with exaggerated politeness.

Obi-Wan just clenched his jaw and started walking, still buckling his belt. "After you, my lord."

PART 9

Qui-Gon carried the conversation as they walked to the dining hall, refusing to alter his gait to accommodate Kenobi. The subject turned to their upcoming hunt, the Prince extolling the abundance of game to be found in the King's forest. While Kenobi remained silent, he seemed as keen on the subject of hunting as he was regarding sex, which stopped Qui-Gon short.

"You do hunt, don't you?"

"Of course," replied the boy. "At the monastery we are reliant upon no one but ourselves for our survival. We hunt and trap for food and clothing as well as harvest grains, vegetables and fruits."

"But you don't approve of hunting for sport," suggested Qui- Gon, reading the unspoken words.

Kenobi shrugged. "It is not my place to approve or disapprove of my lord's activities."

"But you do have an opinion," Qui-Gon commented lazily.

"You make war far better with words than you do with swords."

"A talent that is valuable to any prince, and more so to any king," Qui-Gon returned soberly, and Obi-Wan inclined his head, granting the point.

They made their way into the dining room with time to spare, showing considerably more grace than the previous evening. Obi-Wan seated himself by Qui-Gon again and they waited as the court trickled in. Most of the same people as yesterday, minus a few-- particularly among the younger gentry. However, nearly all of the diplomats, including the dukes and earls, were present.

Qui-Gon searched their faces for memories of the previous day's events; it was well to keep apprised of which nobles might be sympathetic to him and which might be his enemies. Unfortunately, his enemies were usually too subtle to betray themselves via their facial expressions; the few smiles he saw were mostly from cloth-brained fops and flip-skirts who thought of little more than themselves at any time, and were certainly incapable of fomenting serious discord.

His father, whose joints were painful in the mornings, had not ordered a place set for himself, and the meal began as soon as Qui-Gon was seated.

Obi-Wan sipped his juice, then handed over the glass reverently. "I hope you've no contagious diseases," Qui-Gon groused quietly, accepting it.

"None, I assure you, my lord. I have always treated my body as a temple." The suddenly chagrined look on Kenobi's face told Qui-Gon that the insult implicit in the words had not been intended and, in the spirit of their current unexpected camaraderie and his plans of seduction, he let it pass.

Kenobi offered a smile in return, this one more genuine and lighting his face in a manner his usual cool smile did not. Qui-Gon felt his sex stir and he let his own smile grow, looking forward to the coming evening more than ever.

When a servant brought by a tray of his favorite sweet breads, Qui-Gon helped himself to several and then passed his plate to Kenobi. It was accepted with a slight incline of the boy's head and Kenobi took a small bite from the corner of one. Drawing the plate back, the Prince had the delicacy half way to his own mouth when he noticed the oddest look come over Kenobi's face and then the food was dashed from his hand.

Kenobi leaped from his seat, the tray of sweet breads flying to the floor with a crash as the boy wrapped his hand in the servant's shirt.

"What's the meaning of this?" roared Qui-Gon.

"That's what I'd like to know," said Kenobi, shaking the servant, who cowered within his grasp. "Who paid you to poison the Prince?" he demanded.

The server blanched white, shaking. "I... I... I did not poison the Prince! I took those sweet breads from the table in the kitchen and brought them out, as I always do!"

"Surely you're overreacting, young man." Palpatine intervened, his smile reassuring. "You are, after all, from a rustic setting, unused to the rich spices and dishes served here at court."

"Look!" a woman cried, her voice loud with fright. Qui-Gon did; he winced to realize that one of the ladies' spaniels had snapped up the breads and lay on its side, whimpering.

"It appears the breads are poisoned," Qui-Gon observed calmly. "Perhaps an accident has happened."

"A poison that strong is no accident," Obi-Wan commented acidly, not releasing the servant. He jerked his head toward the floor; the dog's ribs were longer moving.

"And you?" Qui-Gon looked at him with sudden concern.

"I spat out the morsel as soon as I tasted the toxin. Call guards; have the kitchen staff held. I want to question them."

Qui-Gon frowned. "I see no reason to suspect any of them-- clearly this is the work of someone with a knowledge of such things. Where would a servant get such a thing, for starters."

"Who knows which dish you will eat, without a doubt? The servants. Who are always in sight of the food--in the kitchen, in the hall, here? The servants. While they may not have poisoned you themselves, without a doubt one of them knows something. And unless we get to the bottom of this, it will happen again and again and again until I fail and you are dead!" Kenobi's voice rose with each word until he was shouting, his voice made even louder by the hush that had fallen over the assembled guests.

He seemed to visibly calm himself as Qui-Gon watched, astounded and amazed at the power and beauty of this man in full passion. His voice was quite calm when he continued. "If my lord values his own life so little, I will, by all means, let this man go and we may continue with our repast."

Qui-Gon subsided reluctantly; he had no desire to die, that much was certain. The spaniel lying on the floor was ample evidence that Obi-Wan's concerns were sincere indeed. "Very well. But I shall be present at the questioning."

"Indeed," Obi-Wan agreed. "I thinkd in from the kitchen.

A few minutes later, Qui-Gon sat back and watched as Obi-wan questioned his staff. He would not allow Kenobi to torture them; they were a simple and loyal bunch. Well, all except for one perhaps, for surely Kenobi was right someone must have conspired to allow this to have happened.

His bodyguard made no move to touch any of them. Instead he questioned them, sitting them one by one on a chair and speaking quietly, but seriously to them, his stare intent. Several of the girls were crying quietly by the time Kenobi had finished questioning them all, but under Qui-Gon's watchful eye he had harmed none of them. Having finished, the boy stepped back and addressed them as a whole. "Thank you for your cooperation. I know that this is upsetting for you; it is upsetting for all of us. However, the Prince's safety is our primary concern, I'm sure you will agree. I ask you, all of you, if you see anything suspicious, please report it immediately to the Prince or myself."

The servants nodded and Qui-Gon couldn't help but be impressed with Kenobi's people skills as they all seemed to stand taller, their pride restored in being given a role to play in keeping him safe.

"If you would all stay here while we question the rest of the kitchen staff, the chamberlain will let you know when you may resume your duties." Kenobi turned to Qui-Gon. "My lord?" Qui-Gon nodded and rose from his seat, feeling the tension return as they headed for the kitchen.

The domestic staff were assembled there; Anakin was there as well, clinging to his mother's skirts and looking as though he couldn't decide whether to cry like a child or act like a young man. Qui-Gon opened his arms and the lad rushed into them, clutching him with a child's devotion. "Did you eat any of the bad sweetbread?"

"No, Anakin. I didn't." He smoothed the lad's hair and drew him into his lap. "Obi-Wan saved me from the poison. You must thank him when there is time."

"I will. I'm glad he saved you." Anakin settled on his lap, watching as Obi-Wan conducted a thorough examination of the kitchen. The young monk sniffed at everything he touched, occasionally lifting his fingers to his tongue, tasting part of a dish.

At last he stopped, holding a jar of flour. "This is the poison," he stated flatly.

Shmi started, looking dismayed. "All the dishes using flour were prepared from that container." Her frown pinched. "The entire breakfast will have to be buried."

"See to it," Qui-Gon instructed the chamberlain.

"Yes, your highness." He hurried out.

"That isn't all," Shmi frowned. "Where is Joram? Did you question him in the hall?"

"Joram was not in the hall," one of the maids piped up. "We thought he had remained in the kitchen."

Obi-Wan looked between them, his expression inscrutable. "Then you believe Joram placed poison powder in the flour."

"He must have... everyone else is here!" Shmi's hands clutched in her skirts, betraying her nerves.

"Did you tell him to put the poison there?" Obi-Wan's voice fell into the chamber with deadly, soft grace.

"That is enough." Qui-Gon rumbled, equally dangerous, as he set Anakin aside. "She is not under suspicion."

Anakin ran to his mother this time, and held her protectively. He threw a confused glare at Obi-Wan; Shmi's hands moved to caress his back and hair.

"She has the motive, your highness. What motive do any of these others have? What motive could Joram have had?"

"She is not guilty."

"There is no proof that she is," Obi-Wan acknowledged. "But there is also no proof that she is not."

"There is my knowledge. Shmi has served me since I was a lad of nineteen." Qui-Gon stepped to her side and laid his hand on her shoulder. "She is dearer to me than any but my son. You will not accuse her again." The very mildness of his tone shivered the entire room with threat.

"Very well. But I shall suspect her until such time as I have proof." Obi-Wan met his gaze without flinching.

Qui-Gon felt his anger build, rising in him at this upstart's refusal to take his word. Shmi was the one person who had never asked him to change, who had always, with unflagging love and support, accepted him for who and what he was. The very idea that she could in any way be involved in this attempt on his life was preposterous. He stepped forward, intent on striking Kenobi where he stood, on making the boy recant his words.

A soft touch against his back stayed him. Shmi's palm flattened over his spine, a gentle caress calming his rage. "It is his job," she whispered, her voice unhappy but threaded with steel. "He cannot find your enemy if he is dead."

Qui-Gon inclined his head in her direction and stepped back again, watching Kenobi carefully, making sure his bodyguard realized that it had been Shmi's words that had stayed him.

"Are you done." It was clearly not a question, and Kenobi gave him a half bow.

"As you wish, my lord."

PART 10

Qui-Gon rode his stallion hard, not caring whether or not his bodyguard was able to keep up. In fact, he'd be happier if Kenobi got lost in the woods.

The Prince barely saw the towering trees that threw a high canopy of green above him and the thunder of Sebulba's heels beneath him barely penetrated past the conversation that was replaying in his head. How dare this boy come barging into his castle, his life, his very bedroom, and then make accusations against the one person in the castle Qui-Gon trusted most? Shmi's door and her heart had always been open to him, ever since she was a lass of seventeen and he was in his late teens. A bond had formed between them even before she conceived his child. Anakin's birth had only made it stronger. If Qui-Gon could have taken another wife under the moral laws of the kingdom, he'd have married her long ago.

But Shmi was an odd woman, decisive and willful and wise in ways that Qui-Gon suspected he would never fully comprehend. He'd offered to make her his consort and keep her in riches at one of his country estates, or if she liked, to give her fine lodgings within the palace itself, but she preferred her simple kitchen and her homely ways. Though many of the lords and ladies at court looked down on her, Qui-Gon respected her and cherished her differences, protecting her in any way that situations required. That would not change now.

He knew deep in his heart that she did not have anything to do with the poisoning. Who better than Shmi knew the drawbacks of being the Prince Regent? She had no desire to thrust her son into that role, certainly not before it was necessary, and she loved him almost as much as she loved their son. She accepted him for who he was and had never tried to change him. There wasn't another single soul he could say that about.

The ring of Kenobi's horse's hooves on the hard-packed forest floor interrupted his thoughts.

"An odd way to hunt," remarked the bodyguard.

"I'm in no mood for company, boy," growled Qui-Gon.

The young man fell silent, riding a half-length back. Qui-Gon pondered their options, looking at the sweat beginning to lather on his horse's withers beneath the reins. He did not want to harm the beast, so he slowed. Kenobi maintained his position, following while the Prince stewed. He'd come away in a hurry, neglecting to bring his hounds or his falcon or even his bow. There would be no hunting today.

A sparkle of water caught his eye through the silvery tree- trunks; they'd already reached the lake near the outer boundary of the castle grounds. The overworked horses would need to be walked and allowed to drink sparingly. He angled them toward the lake. Perhaps a dip in its mountain stream- fed waters would cool his temper. Turning Sebulba's head in that direction, he let the stallion slow some more, using the distance they had yet to travel to cool the horse.

Kenobi's horse also slowed, and the bodyguard drew even once more with the Prince and Qui-Gon could see that Kenobi's horse looked even more worse for wear than his own.

"You would have me play the fool for you," Qui-Gon said, voice rough.

"I would have you live," Kenobi answered evenly. "I realize that it galls you to have me at your side day and night, testing your food and searching your bed partners, but even you must admit that there is just cause for your father to take this measure. I wouldn't be much of a bodyguard if I didn't suspect everyone and everything."

He didn't want to admit anything of the kind. He'd much rather dismiss the boy out of hand, citing insult to the Prince Regent's chosen consort. Except Kenobi was right. If it hadn't been for him, it would have been Qui-Gon himself lying on the floor, breathing his last, instead of the unfortunate hound. Reluctant though he was to give it, he realized that Kenobi had earned his grudging respect for that.

"We have much to discuss regarding your methods and tact," Qui-Gon stated flatly. "I approve of your results, but you will obtain them more diplomatically."

Obi-Wan just chuckled softly. "With respect, that seems an irony coming from you."

Qui-Gon shot the lad a sharp glance from beneath lowered brows. "Your disrespect, at least, seems universal."

"Do not confuse fawning with respect or responsibility."

Qui-Gon shook his head, exasperated. Their horses passed from beneath the canopy into the high morning sunshine, their hooves thudding dully on tended grass. "Do the monks teach the art of conversation to their novices, or do you come by your sharp tongue naturally?"

"Both, I think." Obi-Wan was serene as the mirrored surface of the lake, gazing with pleasure at the hilly vista beyond its boundaries.

Qui-Gon felt the need to break that smoothness, to be the stone that sent ripples through his bodyguard. He felt his ire finally begin to give way beneath the desire to bring Kenobi's emotions to the surface. He could picture the boy, naked beneath him, face alight with passion, eyes glazed over as Qui-Gon filled him.

Leaning back his head, the Prince closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the sun, hot against his skin, and the wind as it whistled over his face and through his beard. The horse moved easily beneath him, the great beast's hooves kicking up the ground, releasing the scent of hay and sweet clover into the air.

Sebulba slowed as they neared the water and Qui-Gon opened his eyes, sitting properly in saddle once more. The lake beckoned, the wind blowing playful waves that broke the harsh glint of the sun's rays along its surface. It was peaceful and felt far removed from any hint of civilization.

Kenobi's horse nickered gently and the Prince glanced over, admiring the boy as he sat easily in his saddle. In his haste and anger, Qui-Gon had left the castle unprepared for the hunt, but there was one beast for which he needed no tools to hunt and his smile became predatory.