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Te Tohungia o te Tane / The Mark of the Man (Part 2)

by Tem-ve H'syan (tem-ve@gmx.de)

Qui-Gon wasn't sure whether to be pleased or frustrated. The green goo at the bottom of the cooking pit he was supposed to clean out put him in mind of something... or of someone, to be precise. It didn't make any sense, but it felt desperately right, like a memory trying to push to the surface. Sighing, he sank his hands into the overcooked green vegetable residue that had gathered underneath the layer of stones. Best not to think. Not that he was avoiding it, but... in general, it had been the best method so far to not think in the direction you desperately wanted to think in, like 'how did I get here', or 'what's wrong with my mind for Force's sake'. Much better to focus on the here and now, on what was at hand, and be mindful of the little splinters of memory that would get tangled in the random threads of thought while you weren't looking.

It wasn't much. He'd remembered his clothing, and what it had been for when he still had it, and that being without it was... funny. Well, he remembered people giggling anyway, friendly as far as he could tell. He remembered being one of many, many that were the same, always in a sea of faces. And now the slushy green leaves reminded him of someone as well. He filed the memory away, hoping it would come to something eventually. Hoping it would come to enough of a something to form an image of where he belonged. And he really hoped there would be such a place. He did not want to belong here.

Not here, in the possession of a man who was capable of giving him sheer agony with a Force aura he could unleash seemingly at will. Well, maybe not at will... it seemed to be stronger whenever he was with his lover. Or... that first time they had met. Qui-Gon swallowed. It still hurt to think back to how powerless he had been. How utterly incapable of getting through. How needy. It stung, with every day that brought back more memories. Damn, he should be capable of dealing with this, capable of _using_ this Force, not letting himself be used... he shook his head, angrily. He wasn't being used. He was being ignored, most of the time, and he could not honestly say whether that was all that much better.

Dropping the putrid green mass into a waiting calabash, Qui-Gon straightened his back and allowed himself a glance around. He still had no sense of the man – he could be anywhere. He could come leaping out of the underbrush for all he knew, to grab him by the wrist and drag him to his next place of labour. Or into the house. He wasn't in the house at the moment, he had overseen the big man getting dressed and perfunctorily comb his hair with those big clumsy fingers of his. From where Qui-Gon was standing, ankle-deep in a three-foot-deep pit sticky with wet ashes and loam and food residue, he could not see where the big chief had gone. He had gone away, that was what mattered for the moment.

I should try and reach out to the Force again, he thought bleakly. Pray he is at the other end of the village.

Staring down at his mucky hands, Qui-Gon tried to will his thoughts away from the hands of his owner and from the acute sensation of how they felt grabbing his wrists. Not here, not now. I don't even like men, he thought desperately, I don't _want_ him in my mind. I don't want him. Then why can't I stop thinking about him? As if he was the only thing that was real in this place.

Grabbing one hand with the other, he felt the slick coolness of the greenish dirt on his skin. This is real, he reminded himself, this muck is real. Reach out to the Force and keep your thoughts on this stupid stinking muck. Taking a deep breath, Qui-Gon let the armour around his mind thin a little, staring intently at the calabash full of muck. Think Force, he thought muzzily, think strength, flowing through you, out and down to this dead... thing. Oh, and it flowed, like tiny droplets of water down a sun-dried rock. So good...

Qui-Gon almost fell over backwards into the pit. The calabash was floating several inches above the ground, tipping precariously. He caught it in his hands and set it down carefully, hardly daring to breathe for fear of letting out an all-too conspicuous whimper of joy. It was coming back to him! He grinned insanely at the green goo in the calabash, thanking the nameless green person it had reminded him of. It was.. the Force was coming back to him. He would be able to... what? To drink from the slow trickle of Force to assuage his raging thirst. To make life a lot easier for him for a start, maybe to understand, and then... to fight back his owner's mental assaults? To... hells, what do you do with a man who is water when you're no longer thirsty? What do you do with the sea when you have a spring?

You swim, said a small voice in the back of his head.

Still elated from his discovery and feeling a whole foot taller and more powerful despite his ragged appearance, Qui-Gon dumped the calabash full of muck in the forest, grinning at the little green pile of stinking stuff. If he made good headway like this, maybe floating the odd handful of gunk out of the pit instead of having to bend his back every single time, he might get round to having a go at his master's plucking-shells before he returned. Surely the man was not expecting his slave to be naturally beardless, and Qui-Gon was decidedly too old to not have a faint blue shadow on his jaw in the morning. A shadow which had deepened into the tactile region recently, and the pair of shells looked sharp-edged enough to allow him to get rid of at least the worst of the new bristles on his face without having to pull them all out individually.

Still elated and feeling rather overconfident, Qui-Gon redoubled his efforts at getting the cooking pit clean as quickly as possible. Very soon, he would not have to be afraid of that big savage of a man any more. Not afraid of the touch of his hands or the look in those eyes. Not afraid of the brute strength in that body, and the blackened lips...

Why was he still thinking of him? Shaking his head, Qui-Gon picked up the last batch of gunk he'd managed to scrape out of the pit. It was pristine now as far as he could see, down to the thick wet earth. Take that to the forest's edge, and then maybe go for a stroll around if master's not looking... what was that noise?

There was chanting. Motley voices singing a low and narrow tune. On the other side of the house? As quietly as possible, Qui-Gon disposed of his last load and crept around the corner of the house towards the public part of the yard. The feeling at the sight of his master was no longer one of dread, he was pleased to notice. No roiling in his stomach any more, and hardly any headache. The slight curling of something in his lower abdomen was probably relief – anyway, it was good. But his master was far from alone.

He was standing with his back to Qui-Gon, wrapped in his favourite cloak, hair streaming over his shoulders. It looks greyer in daylight, he caught himself thinking. The chief's attention was focused on the young man walking towards him slowly, almost reluctantly. Not quite as tall as the master, and a little stocky, with a face as broad and regal as the man himself. Only it was perfectly smooth and uncarved – but then, the other man was barely a man, maybe seventeen, eighteen years of age. His hair was pitch black, an angry cloud of half-curly, thick strands framing a face set in a thunderous frown. He kept his upper arms by his sides as the old chief embraced him tightly, standing very still. The lad was clearly very uncomfortable with being hugged by the chief, and stepped back as soon as the man's huge arms would allow him, looking at his toes stubbornly as the older man's rumbling voice addressed him in quiet, awed tones. The boy did not reply, and after a moment's uncomfortable silence he settled down to sit on a mat on the ground, resting his head in the lap of the man sitting cross-legged behind him.

Qui-Gon looked up into the man's face. Ketoa. With a look of intense concentration on his face, even though he was not chanting along with the rest of the group. A few men of middle age, one or two women, and three pretty young girls, hovering on the sidelines as if unsure of what to do. Ketoa inclined his head, looking down into the tense face of the boy in his lap. The boy whispered something, and Ketoa gestured to the three girls to come closer. When they had knelt down by his side, almost shielding the boy's body from sight, Ketoa looked up at the chief, an almost pleading look under dark closely-drawn brows. A few words softly spoken, and the chief withdrew from the scene, lips a thin black line. Qui-Gon almost felt sorry for him, though he knew not why.

Ketoa had picked up a piece of charcoal in his right hand, wet it with his tongue and began applying it to the reclining boy's face, drawing bold black lines from his nostrils around his slightly quivering mouth to his chin. His hand was steady and calm, as if he had done this millions of times before. Well, he probably had, Qui-Gon mused. Smaller designs on the boy's chin made the lower half of his face appear almost black now, at least from a distance. The older people were still chanting their careless tune, the three girls kneeling by the boy's side not doing much at all.

Then Ketoa laid down the charcoal and reached for a shell and a pair of what looked like polished twigs from where Qui-Gon was standing. One, branched like a miniature hoe, he dipped into the shell, and its previously white tip came out pitch black and glistening. With almost meditative slowness, the young man rested the black tip against the reclining boy's cheek, then swiftly struck the implement with the other, slightly thicker tool. The boy winced slightly, but made no sound. The girls started twittering excitedly, reaching out to let their hands roam over the boy's body, soothing, caressing, distracting as the sharp little chisel kept cutting into the smooth cheek, incising a deep black gash where the charcoal line had been.

The girls' voices joined the older ones' now, low and melodic, caresses raining down on the stony-faced youth's body as the blood flowed from the wound in thin dark stripes, marring the charcoal drawing and dripping on Ketoa's knee as he worked, ceaselessly, with the rhythm of one who had long ceased to look for signs of pain in his subjects. And indeed the boy did not cry out, for all that his eyes were squeezed shut and his lips were pressed tightly together amid what was fast becoming a beard of smudged charcoal, shining ink, blackened gashes and trickles of blood.

When the boy's mouth finally opened to let out a deep agonised gasp, it was because one of the girls' ministrations had focused on a rather delicate area of his physique, and rather expertly so. The girl giggled and grinned, and Ketoa spared a her a conspiratorial glance before bending his eyes to his work again, looking approvingly at the tense, silent face in his lap. Oh yes, this one would become a work of art yet. Under all that blood and ink lay a great warrior. This boy would be a work of art yet.

He would make him so.

10. (In which Qui-Gon tastes the sublime and the disgusting)

It was the next morning, and Qui-Gon had just finished surreptitiously scraping at the insistent stubble on his cheeks with his master's plucking-shells when the chief's imposing figure literally darkened the doorway again. He did not come in, did not come for Qui-Gon to chide him for using his cosmetic implements. He merely looked at him with those fierce sea-blue eyes and held out a hand, rumbling a curt 'tae mai' which simply had to mean something along the lines of 'come here'.

Qui-Gon got up from the floor quickly and approached the man, who took his wrist in his big hand in the way they were both accustomed to by now. With his newly-regained confidence, Qui-Gon allowed himself to accept the touch, not flinch from it. Yes, the man's hand was warm, and he no longer left bruises on his skin, holding tightly enough to assert his ownership, but gently enough to... well, it felt good. It felt... easy. Breathing in and falling into step behind the tall man, Qui-Gon relaxed into the presence. There was something familiar about walking at someone's shoulder, though he couldn't quite place what it was. But it certainly felt a lot... well, easier to do so now. He realised he was warm all over, pleasantly so. As if the big brutal body held no more threat over his own, slender one. As if... well, yes. He was no longer afraid of being raped and beaten, because his _mind_ would no longer be. Strange thing to realise in the middle of being dragged along a path through a strange village by a scary tattooed man... but that was just it. He was no longer all that scary. Not now that Qui-Gon had an inkling of his own Force back.

This is how it should be, he thought. Well, almost. He could take that hand off my wrist.

Though Qui-Gon would have been at a loss to say where he would have preferred that hand.

The house was small and dark, with nothing but a sleeping mat on the floor, and a supine figure on it. The figure stirred, and as Qui-Gon's eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he thought he recognised the young boy he had seen yesterday. Except his face was barely recognisable, cleansed of the charcoal and the worst of the blood now but swollen up as if he had been kicked in the teeth on both sides, and repeatedly. His mouth was a small pout amid deeply-cut blood-caked black ridges of flesh, and his eyes glittered with suspicion at the sight of the two men entering his house.

Keeping Qui-Gon behind him with a sharp tug on the slave's wrist, the chief spoke to the young man in quiet, measured tones. The only reaction he got was a faint grumble from below. Sighing, the chief released Qui-Gon's wrist and strode over to one corner of the house, picking up a small bowl that he must have known was standing there. Crouching down at the boy's side, he entreated him in earnest, clipped tones, again getting no reaction beyond the fierce glitter of eyes. Pressing his lips into a thin line, the old man scooped a small quantity of the mushy brown contents of the bowl up with two fingertips, then smelled it, relaxing his features into a soft grin. Qui-Gon could almost hear that cracked earthy voice saying 'it's quite good really', even though what he was saying was dripping from his mouth in that strange flowing language they all spoke. With a quick gesture, the chief motioned for Qui-Gon to kneel down at the boy's bed too, then held the bowl out for him, smiling.

Ah, he wants me to show him it's good too, Qui-Gon thought, and dipped two fingers in as he had seen his master do, then carefully tasted the food. True, it was quite –

A kick to his thigh nearly sent him sprawling on the floor. The boy was glaring up at him, clearly in a mood to shout if the state of his face had permitted him that. Shocked, Qui-Gon looked up at his master, who could not help chuckling, lending an altogether strange expression to the savagely tattooed face. Those little lines around his eyes... calming the angry boy with one large palm on his arm, the old chief explained to Qui-Gon what he was supposed to be doing. Not that the words made any sense to him, but the man's other hand spoke clearly enough. Ah. So he was supposed to feed the boy. But couldn't he do that himself...? Oh well, Qui-Gon thought, better not ask this one any questions. He seems to like me even less than he likes my master.

Still, he diligently scooped up the soft mush fingertipful after fingertipful, urging the food between the disgusted-looking lips under the watchful gaze of the older man, hoping all the time that the boy would be wise enough not to bite down. Given the state of his jaw, that would probably be as painful to the boy himself as it would be to the hapless slave, but still, you never knew.

For all his protesting, the boy must have been hungry though – the bowl was nearly empty when he finally refused to eat more and resolutely turned on his side, his back to his visitors. The chief caught Qui-Gon's questioning gaze and nodded, smiling slightly as if grateful for the service. The man is beautiful when he smiles, Qui-Gon thought, can't help being beautiful even through all that tattoo. Or maybe it's just because I can now finally bring myself to look at him.

The hand that took hold of his wrist was warm and good, and Qui-Gon followed eagerly, back to the house. Walking at someone's shoulder felt good, felt right. It was... easier now.

It certainly was easier to administer the customary treatment to the big man's face, hunting down new beard hairs with his fingertips, looking closely nevertheless, for the few white ones the man had were easily missed by touch alone. They were softer. And he found he enjoyed running his fingertips over the rugged landscape of his master's face, tracing the lines and swirls of the man's tattoo, stealing a touch of those impossibly full blackened lips. Oh, the thirst was still there, the longing, but it was... well, less now, and more. Less because it didn't feel like it was threatening to pull him under any minute, and more because... well, it was there all the time now. Not just when he was touching the man's face, not just when his master's large hand closed around his wrist. It was there pretty much all the time. He thought of his master a lot, and, well... not just in terms of his master. He was a mighty strange man, mighty and strange, and... fine to touch. Gorgeous actually. Have I forgotten I don't... like men that way, he thought, then told himself he might as well forget that as well now. His body was humming with contentment at the touch, and his mind was occupied elsewhere.

The food... with a mischievous grin, Qui-Gon laid the plucking-shells aside and darted over to where they had left the nearly-finished bowl of mush. Yes, he was hungry, that much was true. But he wasn't going to put the stuff in his mouth, hearty though the taste was.

Scooping a little up with two fingertips, he raised his hand to the sceptical face of his master. As his fingers approached the black mouth, the most amazing thing happened. The big man's lips split in the most radiant grin Qui-Gon could ever remember seeing, little lines of mirth spreading out across the artfully scarred skin and a low guttural laugh rumbling from the depths of the bare chest. Qui-Gon blinked away a tear of relief – right now, he felt like falling into the big man's arms and disappearing there, like slaking that constant thirst from those lips... lips that were... slowly closing around his fingertips, sucking the mush off.

Qui-Gon hadn't managed to close his mouth yet before his fingertips had already darted back to the bowl and up again, laden with a new dollop of food, begging entrance. And they were received well, held in place by gentle teeth while an insistent tongue licked them clean. The man's eyes were still sparkling in amusement, but the noise low in his throat spoke another language entirely. Qui-Gon couldn't decide whether it was more of a purr or a growl. Not that he needed to decide. The lips released his wet fingers slowly, possessively almost, and the chief's heavy hands fell on his shoulders, pushing him down to a kneeling position before his seat. The muscular thighs parted slightly, and the impossibly blue eyes narrowed with a challenge. There was nothing of the commanding about him now, nothing save the irresistible aura of Force around him, the currents that pulsed through that marvellous hard body, calling to Qui-Gon to drink, to plunge in and swim.

Hesitantly, he parted the woven strands of the man's kilt, running his hands up the strong, black-marked thighs. Torn between disgust at how easily he could be brought to do this and sheer throbbing desire, he bent down to where the soft flaxen strands parted to reveal the hard deep red tip of the man's cock.

Oh Force, it's huge. A... a weapon. Hesitant hands brushed away the last strands of the kilt, tingling with a mix of terror and need that made him feel hot and cold at the same time, all the way to his fingertips. Why am I doing this? Who am I, doing this? To the man who... well, I could say he abused me. But my body loved it, didn't it? The sheer brutal strength, the helpless struggles, that hard warm hand on my cock... Qui-Gon squirmed a little in his kneeling position, fully aware that yes, his body liked it. Liked even the memory of the brutal possession at the hands and body of this man who claimed him for his own. Oh, my body liked it. And my mind... well, my mind still doesn't know what to think. But I am not... I'm not afraid any more. Not of what happened anyway. Maybe of what will happen. Force, the thing is... hard. And big.

Blushing, Qui-Gon looked down at the evidence of his own arousal, barely hidden under the fabric of his leggings. But what would I look like, he thought, at such close quarters? Blinking hard, Qui-Gon realised he couldn't remember, couldn't even remember pleasuring himself. A complete blank. A blank filled by an insistent column of hard flesh so close to his face that he could smell it. He should stink, a small voice in the back of his head supplied. He should stink, he's a savage... he smells... he _tastes_ like the earth, his reeling mind replied as the taste of the man's flesh invaded his mouth. Salty. Strong, and old, and alive. Pulling back slightly to gasp in a deep breath, Qui-Gon marvelled wordlessly at the sight of the dark engorged cock, now glistening where he had kissed it. Tasted like... like more.

The need overtook him like a wave crashing on to the shore, and he almost fell forward into the earthy, salty taste, holding on like a drowning man, and feeding, feeding, licking greedily, sucking the warmth deep inside him. Oh, it was good. It was tender and soft as silk, dirty wet silk that clung to him, clung to the insides of his mouth, filling him with the flavour and the need, and it was so good. So warm and so hard, mercilessly gloriously hard, a shaft of pure strength in his grasping palm, something to hold fast, to squeeze and devour endlessly. The sound of his own gasping breaths was loud in his ears, he heard his own jaw working trying to suck as much of the perfect flesh in as he could... and the earth moaned. No, the man moaned, in that cracked earthquake voice of his, loud ragged sounds of pure need that tasted so so good and filled that gaping emptiness inside so perfectly, like water, like flesh, like pure Force in his mouth, in his body, everywhere inside and around him... he was hot, prickly with sweat, and aroused all over, greedy for that oh so good flesh, greedy for the pulse of goodness that made the hard cock move, thrust into his hungry willing mouth and he wished this could go on for ever, just feeding, filling, making him full and whole and so good, so good...

And no, it must not go on forever, there must be more, and he sucked harder as the moans got louder and the thrusts harder, reaching for his own erection as the thick earthy cock fucked his mouth savagely, deeply, and never deep enough to quite fill him but oh, the singing in his ears was good, and he moaned in hungry greed as the warm drops spilled down his throat, as the musky flesh that filled his mouth twitched and pulsed in animal ecstasy.

Oh, it was good. It tasted bitter, and clung thickly to the roof of his mouth, but he swallowed it quickly so that he could have more, more of the glow that surrounded the man, more of the skin that tasted so good, of salt and earth and musk and brutal living Force and he knew not who he was, nor who he himself was, but he knew for certain that he had not yet had enough, that he craved more, craved to press his lips to the strange dark skin and sink into the flesh, the flesh that sang with deep low growls of pleasure and with the song of the Force itself.

Sweaty flanks so warm, and tiny brown nipples so hard and so delicious under his lips, like small rough fruits... and the hand, the huge warm hand hard in his hair, pulling his face up to meet that of the other man, close-up, a maelstrom of black and tan and fierce eyes glistening with unabated desire and possession, and no, he did not resist when the big hands pushed him away. He knew beyond a doubt that it was only to allow the big man to rise out of his seat and lie down on the floor with him... he knew not how he knew, but his body sang with the certainty. And so he allowed himself to watch in awe as the man stretched out on his side on the floor, head propped up on one elbow, hair streaming messily to the floor and that slight smile playing around those full lips, sea-blue eyes bright, and all that skin, all that long, wonderful body... too fast to be reverent yet too slow for his own tastes (oh, the taste...), Qui-Gon let his hands roam up those long legs, marvelling at how pale his hands looked against the bronzed skin, how crude they seemed against the savage lace of the tattooing on the man's thighs, all the way up... impatient, Qui-Gon brushed the strands of the flax kilt out of the way, away over the man's waist, and marvelled at the sight.

Perfect round buttocks, skin softened just that little bit with age. But such fine strong flesh underneath... and so beautiful. Swirling out from the centre of each, a wide black spiral covered the man's skin, merging into the thigh ornament where it ended, after having covered the whole backside and turned it into a living work of art. Deep bluish black lines, quite wide and yet almost smooth, not cut as deeply as the lines on the man's face, and... delicious to the taste, barely noticeable indentations under Qui-Gon's questing tongue. Painted everywhere, everywhere... except in that sensitive area just above and between the two spirals. Thin delicate skin on his lower back. He ran his fingertips over it, rubbing softly, trailed nails over it, barely there, barely touching. The man shuddered, thrusting his hips a little. The spirals moved. Qui-Gon chuckled.

The long-haired head whipped around, eyes crinkled in amusement. Slowly, the man reached out one long arm, settling his hand on the back of Qui-Gon's neck. Grabbing loosely. Sending shivers down his spine, sizzling down to where his hardness still throbbed insistently, quietly, awedly. That hand on his neck, possessing. Urging him on, a little lower, a little closer. Arching into the grip like an animal, Qui-Gon raised his face to gaze into the other man's eyes. He heard the words, and understood. Not the words, he understood the hand, and the eyes, and the skin. Breathing deeply, Qui-Gon slid his hands to either side of the cleft, gently pulled the cheeks apart, and leaned in to taste.

Ugh -

He gasped. Choked for more breath, and drew more of that putrid vile taste into his mouth. Distantly, he felt his throat closing as if he tried to expel his own tongue, and the taste that clung to it, felt tears rushing to his eyes as he tried in vain to control the retching that kept him from breathing, kept him from thinking clearly. He wiped at his mouth, at his tongue, with a hand, oh but the hand smelled just as awful, everything was full of that disgusting rotten taste, and the hand... he had to clamp the hand over his mouth, his whole face trembling, his body shivering cold as he leapt up in a cold horror, unseeing, barely breathing, just out, just not in here, not here...

He only noticed the threshold stopping his escape when he'd tripped already. Caught himself on his hands, tumbling gracelessly on to the wet ground just outside the door, retching convulsively, hot tears falling from his screwed-shut eyes on to the soiled earth.

Not like this not like this oh why did I have to... he was so good. So good. The thought of himself sucking the big man's cock sent his stomach into convulsions again, useless cramps trying to empty what was empty already. But he _was_, he thought, through the cold red haze of cramping muscles, he was so... warm... I want him so. So much. So much more.

Disgusted at himself, Qui-Gon turned away from the mess on the ground, wiping at his eyes, nose, mouth uselessly. I should just curl up and die somewhere. Curl up and die. Inside him.

Fresh sobs wracked his body at the thought. Just get away from here, before his scorn finds me, he thought miserably. Just get away... pulling his legs up against his body from where they had been lying sprawled across the threshold, he encountered resistance.

Warm resistance. Peering up through tear-fogged eyes before his mind had caught up and told him this was probably not a good idea, he saw the figure of the chief standing in the doorway, naked feet brushing against his legs, face blank under the savage swirls of black. Eyes grey.

//mine... please...//

11. (In which Qui-Gon acquires yet another name, and it isn't his own)

Qui-Gon truly did not know which to recoil from first – the foot brushing against his thigh, the slow hand reaching for his shoulder, or the voice in his mind. Had he really just heard that? Impossible. Voices in your head were supposed to be... he recalled, with a clarity that seemed simply unreal in the fog that was his present, what voices in your head were supposed to sound like. They were voices, for one thing, words plain as if they were written, clear and purposeful. For a moment, he caught an image of the person whose voice had been the one in his head, a clean-cut, sober grey-haired man, pale, with a long nose and an earnest expression.

/ /Mine... please, no./ /

Qui-Gon jerked in shock. This was not... he searched in vain for a way to explain to himself. He did not hear the voice... did not hear the words at any rate. What he had in his head was like the memory of having heard a voice speak, like the echo of words, and his mind flooded with the images the words gave him. He did not comprehend. But he felt like he understood, and he did not understand why or how.

The real voice was making soothing noises, nonsense vowels, and the chief's big hand had settled on his shoulder, warm and dry against his cold sweaty skin. He felt miserable. And yet he was absolutely certain he would feel much more miserable if the man, and his voice, and his hand, weren't here.

/ /Mine, mine... it pains me to see you cry./ /

Qui-Gon stared up into the scarred face in mute amazement. The man's brows were drawn together in concentration and – was it sadness under those furious black lines? The eyes were mild and grey, and... deep as the sea itself. I must be hallucinating, he thought. I am hearing things.

Things I wish he would say.

/ /Please, mine... I don't want to... ah, I can't even call you by a name, mine.../ /

"Qui-Gon," he supplied automatically, forgetting his resolve not to believe that voice just as he had forgotten the acid taste in his mouth. He cleared his throat, wincing. "Qui-Gon Jinn."

The man nodded, thoughtfully, as if trying to accustom himself to the fact that his slave might have a name, then slowly, hesitantly, spoke.

"Kuai-kone. Kuai...?"

"Qui." Force, he _looked_ like he had some measure of understanding of what he was saying. And I wish, I wish, Qui-Gon thought. Then took the plunge.

/ /Qui will do.../ /

The chief's face lit up, and Qui-Gon quite distinctly felt his insides melt at the smile that resided in those eyes, and in the tiny lines around them.

/ /Kuai. Too short a name for so long a boy, don't you think...?/ / The chief's hand left his shoulders, gesturing down the length of Qui-Gon's body, sprawled as he was on the floor, all thoughts of curling up into a miserable ball forgotten. The warmth was back, and the nagging desire that smile always brought out in him. Qui-Gon blushed a little, looking down his tall gangly frame, grown too fast to be really graceful. His eyes kept sliding back to the older man's muscular bronzed body, haven of savage strength. And yet he had these smiles, and he had that voice... that voice that sang with the Force as it echoed inside his head, carrying images and thoughts. And feelings.

Qui-Gon attempted an answering smile, forcing himself to remember the grins on the children's faces the first time they had heard his name, then spoke softly into the other man's mind.

/ /My full name does not seem suited to your tongues... the children called me by another name./ /

Eyebrows rose in curiosity. / /What name did they give you?/ /

/ /Hine/ /

And the earth laughed. The cracked dark voice melted in an open, warm laugh that sounded like arms outstretched in welcome, inviting to join in the merriment. "Hine...," the big man snorted in amusement, "hine!"

Qui-Gon was torn between drinking in the warm rumbling laugh, never knowing when he'd next find his master so friendly and open, and interrupting him to find out what on earth was so funny. When finally the laughter had died down into rough, earthy chuckles, he saw a tear of mirth escape the corner of the chief's eye, cradled in the swirl of tattoo next to it. He is beautiful, Qui-Gon thought, unbidden. Well, it's just true, he answered, to himself. Just true.

/ /Nothing could be further from the truth, Kuai mine. They named you a girl?/ /

/ /A girl?/ /

"Hine." The mental image that accompanied the softly-spoken word was that of a grinning young girl with slender hands and long curly hair. Qui-Gon looked down at his hands, large, bony and a little awkward, then chuckled.

/ /It means 'girl'?/ /

/ /That it does. Not what I think of when I see you./ / The amusement was half in the mental voice, half in the smiling eyes, bluer now, or so they seemed.

"Hine... Jinn... Jinn-e." / /Yes, I suppose so./ /

/ /They don't know what they're talking about, mine... Kuai. Your name tastes strange on my tongue./ /

Qui-Gon froze, trying not to project the disgust that had overcome him at the taste of the master's most intimate flesh. And yet he had wanted to do it, hadn't he? It had been pleasure until then... though he couldn't help noticing now how the man was keeping his distance, squatting on the floor half a step away, looking down on his slave. The hand had not returned to his chilled shoulder.

/ /As would yours, I imagine... master,/ / he added, hesitantly.

/ /You haven't heard?/ / The eyebrows rose again, then the older man shook h is head, snorting as if to remind himself that they hadn't shared a language until a few minutes ago.

"Te Roa'ama." / /They call me that, and lord. And father. And... master. Though not many do that, and not many should./ /

"Te Roa'ama..." Qui-Gon let the unfamiliar name roll around his tongue, savouring the sounds, realising too late that maybe he was not in a position to call his owner by his given name. He bit his lip, staring uncertainly at the broad face above him, half-expecting an enraged assault. Half-wanting it, and blushing for shame. What was wrong with him? He could no longer pretend it was the wild streak of Force running through this man that he so desired. Not now that he had his own touch of it back. It wasn't what made the voice in his head sound, it wasn't that that was so good... it was the voice itself... and the voice was saying things to him. The real voice.

Qui-Gon's head snapped up, embarrassed even though he knew the words of that gravelly voice did not mean a thing to his ears. He had been inattentive. He had missed out on several moments of his master's voice, and he secretly mourned the loss, trying to hold on to the last syllables of that strange tongue as they slipped through his fingers. A hand reached out for his wrist, tugging gently but purposefully.

/ /Come up. I feel there is something I need to show you./ /

The rumble of Te Roa'ama's voice was rather longer than his thoughts, and Qui-Gon found himself bathing in it. Now that that voice was capable of speaking his name... or was it the Force that had opened up between them? Whatever it was, it felt... easier now. It felt right to listen to that voice. His master's voice.

"...taku Kuai." Yes, there it was. He had said his name. Qui-Gon felt inordinately warm inside, his cramped stomach easing into exhausted relaxation. Carefully avoiding the stain of vomit on the ground, he rose to his feet, unfolding. He was almost his master's height. Funny how that only occurred to him now. The hand on his wrist was a comforting presence. If only all of this could be as solid as that hand, as easy as that faint smile Te Roa'ama sometimes wore... wore when looking at him. If only he hadn't spoiled it all by almost throwing up all over him... still, the chief seemed to be inclined to forgive. Or to hold on, and demand more. At least he calls me by my name now, Qui-Gon thought. That is something. Something like my name.

"Taku Kuai?" he asked, as if thirsty to hear it again. Damn, he was, all told.

Te Roa'ama's savage mouth quirked in an indulgent smile. The hand on Qui-Gon's wrist tightened.

/ /It means 'mine'./ /

12. (In which Qui-Gon loses the last of his clothing)

The ground was treacherous under his feet, and even though he made an attempt at stepping on to the flats of the large fern leaves at every step to avoid the hardened broken-off stalks in the middle that could be as tough as old wood, he was not making headway as well as he should. Or maybe he was just too busy trying to keep up. Keep up with the big man's comfortable barefoot stride, keep up with the crazy whirlwind in his head.

The hand was no longer on his wrist, but there wasn't really a doubt as to who was leading the way. Besides, the path, if it could be called that, barely a groove cut into the lush undergrowth, was descending ever more steeply now so that the master... Te Roa'ama, Qui-Gon reminded himself, that is his name... would very probably have ended up being bowled over by a heap of clumsy stumbling slave if he wasn't careful, or far enough away.

It had begun to rain again, as it did almost every day in this place, and this time the cold drops were not entirely unwelcome. They washed away the cold sweat and the stench of embarrassment and terror. They made his leggings, held up perfunctorily by a string of whatever it was that the tribe wove their own clothes from, cling to his thighs and chafe at his skin. He wouldn't mind taking them off now, actually, if only he could be sure that whoever would be at the end of this mystery trip would not read the wrong signals into the Padawan's nakedness.

The... Qui-Gon stumbled, blinked, caught himself just in time. Where had that come from, all of a sudden? The word echoed inside his head, flickering. Padawan... Qui-Gon formed the syllables with his lips, barely whispering, as if his Master could have overheard him anyway, steps ahead as he was and nearly swallowed up in the din of cicadas, birds, and groaning trees.

Padawan.

He had no clue what the word meant, but was positive it meant him. He was Padawan, had answered to that name where he had come from. Had answered to the voice he had heard in his head before he had begun hearing his master's voice in his head. Had followed behind just as he was following his master now... well, a little more closely perhaps than now, now that he was struggling to keep up with the big man as he determinedly made his way down through the thick ferny undergrowth as if convinced that the wild vegetation would make way for him just here, just like this, just because he wanted it to.

Then again, maybe that was simply the case. The man was so full of this strange current of Force that maybe it obeyed him, like... Qui-Gon grinned involuntarily as he remembered floating the calabash full of muck. That had been the beginning. That had been when it had started to get better. Or so he had thought. In truth, he did not know what to think or whether to think at all at the sight of his master making his way down the steep wooded slope, huge dirty feet dancing forcefully over the treacherous ground, the muscles of his lower back playing easily to keep him balanced, and all that thick tangled greying hair streaming over his back, clinging at the tips, from the rain. He truly did not know what to think beyond the obvious – that this man was his anchor, his owner, his... his everything. He had felt so good when... was it wrong to wish for his master to be his lover? Was that what he wanted him to be? And was that what his master was willing to give to him...?

The path had evened out, and the woodland had lightened up, and Qui-Gon gasped in surprise as he thudded into his master's broad wet back. What had the man stopped for... Qui-Gon yelped as a strong hard arm grabbed him around the waist, and his world tilted on its axis as he found himself swung around and toppled over backwards, falling into the sky... water...

He rose to the surface spluttering and panting, attempting to dart a fierce look up at his master still standing at the top of the small cliff and failing utterly. Te Roa'ama stood there in the rain, laughing that earth-warming laugh of his, slowly divesting himself of his kilt and grinning down at his soaked slave before taking an elegant dive and disappearing into the green waters of the pool.

Never to be seen again. Nervous, Qui-Gon looked around. There was the woodland above them, where they had come from. There was quite an expanse of sand on the other side, and water, a strait maybe or a rivermouth, sand strewn with sharp-looking grey rocks and criss-crossed with small erratic rivulets of rainwater. There was a thin noisy waterfall where the rain cascaded off the slope they had come down and tumbled into the warm green water Qui-Gon found himself barely standing in. Green, murky, and smelling of earth and rain. Warm. Good.

Something grabbed him by his hips and yanked, hard. Screaming in surprise and struggling to free himself, Qui-Gon only succeeded in sending up huge splashes of green water as the insistent weight held him under while strong hands worked his sodden leggings off him despite his mad struggles to get to the surface for breath. When he finally broke through and heaved in a huge lungful of rain-washed air, he was no longer surprised to find the arm clamping his own upper arms to his sides was his master's... nor the other hand... wrapped firmly around his cock, squeezing hard, making him throb and harden as he thrashed helplessly in the big man's embrace, feeling Te Roa'ama's own hardness stabbing him in the back, just like when they'd first met, but so, so much better now, so much closer...

/ /...struggle... so sweetly, boy.../ /

The teasing tone of the voice in his head, the rhythm of his master's heavy breathing in his ear, the insistent pumping of the hand that possessed him totally, controlling him, owning him, making him scream with delight as a hard fingertip rubbed against that most sensitive spot on his body, mercilessly driving him towards a breathless climax... it was all too much. Too much and too fast, and too good. His whole body a lightning arc of spasming pleasure, Qui-Gon writhed in the tight embrace as he came, a roar on his lips that was beyond words.

Or so he thought. When he came back to himself, limp now and still held tight by those hard arms, he found himself facing a quirked eyebrow and a questioning look in those improbably blue eyes.

"Mataa?" Te Roa'ama murmured, curious.

/ /Master/ / Qui-Gon flushed, and could not tell whether it was from the heat of the water, his recent orgasm, or from the pure animal sincerity in those eyes.

"Matua," the older man's voice rumbled, then repeated, in his head, / /Master/ /.

"Matua?", Qui-Gon repeated, unsure. / /That is almost the word... the word I use/ /.

/ /Some things are yours as well as mine, Kuai mine.../ / Te Roa'ama chuckled and gave Qui-Gon's buttocks a little squeeze as if to illustrate his point. Qui-Gon grinned, wriggling a little, and finding that he enjoyed the skin contact far too much to give it up. In fact... pushing himself up with his hands on Te Roa'ama's arms, he brought his face closer and closer to the older man's, closer and closer until his world consisted of nothing but the delicate swirls of black on tanned skin, nothing but the greyish blue of those eyes, nothing but the taste of those pliant darkened lips on his... and he feasted, suckling on the delicate flesh, running the tip of his tongue over the smooth moist warmth of the man's mouth, pressing his lips against his master's and drinking of him deeply.

When he withdrew, flushed and with the beginnings of a second arousal stirring in his groin, he found the grey-blue eyes staring into him, unreadable.

"M-matua?"

The older man shook his head, as if to dispel a lingering thought, then focused on his young slave again, nude, soaked, those pale lips pinked and moist, the finest of meats...

Qui-Gon had seen the pounce coming, had anticipated the slight tensing of Te Roa'ama's muscles. Letting himself fall sideways into the water, he wriggled out of his master's grip like a fish, laughing, inviting chase.

/ /Catch me - / /

/ /And catch you I will, impudent boy!/ /

Minutes later, the only thing Te Roa'ama felt like catching was his breath, bracing himself against a moss-covered rock underneath the noisy little waterfall, trying not to scream in undignified need as Qui-Gon's rough little tongue flicked and teased at his anus, sending little spears of desire through his most delicate flesh while the boy's hands kept a firm hold on his master's throbbing cock and balls. Just the thought of the exquisite pale boy's face buried in his flesh, licking with abandon, was quite enough to take him to the edge, and he thrust sharply into the restraining hand, only to feel the grip on his balls tightening almost to the point of pain. Almost. He rocked back automatically, and found himself speared by a slick tongue. A thick moan escaped him, much to his boy's satisfaction, for the hand around his balls loosened and the one around his cock moved just a tiny little bit. Savage with desire, Te Roa'ama thrust again, desperate for release, desperate for an end to this delicious torture, an end that was not forthcoming.

He thought he heard a chuckle against the base of his spine as he writhed madly in the grip of those surprisingly strong hands, moaning desperately now, gasping for breath, for the strength to just throw this infuriating boy off and fuck him senseless... gathering his wavering strength, Te Roa'ama braced himself against the rock, drawing a deep breath –

and expelling it in a 'whoosh' of surprise as he felt a tiny fluttering touch against the tip of his straining cock. He stared, incredulous. The boy's hands were still wrapped firmly around his shaft and his balls, refusing to budge. His face, his tongue, bless his tongue, was still busy behind him... but this touch was there nevertheless. Not to be seen, only to be felt. And it felt... good, so good...

Thrusting savagely between that elusive touch and the wriggling tongue and those merciless hands, Te Roa'ama roared in pleasure as he splashed his seed on to the wet rock, milked gently by those hands that just would not let him go until he was spent and sated, limp in his Kuai's sinewy arms, heavy and warm...

splash

Wrestling the mischievous lad under the chilly waterfall, the only thing that was louder in his ears than the rushing water was the sound of Kuai's moan as he drowned his mouth in his own.

/ /You don't seem particularly inclined to leave this place now, do you?/ / The twinkle in Te Roa'ama's eyes was only slightly mischievous, his face softened by exhaustion and satiation.

/ /Thanks to you, _master_, I have lost my last scrap of clothing in this murky pool. And I'm not much inclined to walk all the way home naked, no. Not in broad daylight./ / He pouted. / /Besides, you don't seem to keen on climbing back up that path right now, do you?/ /

/ /Brat./ /

Qui-Gon merely grinned.

/ /I could make you walk home naked and whip you with fern-stalks all the way if I wanted, just to watch your pretty flesh pink.../ /

Qui-Gon stared, half-aroused, half-terrified. He had very nearly forgotten his position, forgotten under the influence of this strange familiarity of voice and touch.

Te Roa'ama slid one huge hand around the back of Qui-Gon's head, tilting it towards him. / /Forgive me? For... being unwashed?/ /

Qui-Gon shook his head, grinning embarrassedly. / /Just don't remind me. I'm trying to memorise here how good you taste when you're clean... master./ / He looked up into the older man's face, melting a little at Te Roa'ama's gaze. / /Just where did you get these impossibly blue eyes from?/ /

/ /My mother sat on a piece of sky./ /

Qui-Gon chuckled, warming inside as he watched the little laugh lines around the twin pools of blue crinkle.

/ /In truth, there isn't a single one of the Ngati Wainui with sky-ish eyes. Not even in my family... I'm the bizarre one if you like.../ /

"Ngati Wainui." Qui-Gon's tongue tasted the strange name. So that was the name of these people.

/ /People of the Great Water./ / Te Roa'ama made a sweeping gesture towards the horizon, splashing water droplets all around. / /And not even my son has kept them, the little skies in his head when he was a baby. He went dark, just like the rest of us./ /

/ /You have a son?/ / Qui-Gon's head reeled. But... he had only seen the master lie with another man...?

"Rangirua." / /We named him Two-Skies when he was born, so bright were his eyes, and so big, as if he wanted to see the whole world in one gaze./ / The older man's lips had narrowed imperceptibly. / /Not that he looks up at me as he does at the sky any more./ /

/ /Who... the boy we.../ /

/ /Yes. His mother ran away when he was still small./ /

/ /Oh./ / Not sure whether to ask any more or whether to offer compassion to his master, Qui-Gon joined the uncomfortable silence for a few moments, then gently changed the subject.

/ /Well... there's two freaks now I suppose. Me with my pale skin and blue eyes, and you with your.../ /

/ /And you've got the witchpower as well./ /

Qui-Gon's mouth fell open, then closed again as he realised Te Roa'ama wouldn't understand him if he spoke anyhow. A large blunt finger forestalled his reply, settling on his lips.

/ /I felt it... in a most delicate area./ / A chuckle. / /If you weren't a plainfaced little slave I'd be trembling before you like the people are trembling before me, Kuai. That sort of thing is a gift from the gods. Don't tell me you haven't heard the stories they tell about me behind my back? Not that they're not true, mind, but.../ /

/ /Master, I do not understand your people's language./ /

Te Roa'ama shook his head, cutting him off with a curt gesture. / /I keep forgetting. Well then, imagine me at about your age, still in the wars, and there I was alone in the woods, drinking from a pool much like this one, and suddenly there's this army of enemies surrounding me, one hundred, two hundred of them, all around. They knew who they were facing though, and dared not advance. They wanted me to attack, see, so they could retaliate. Only I didn't. I could read the fear in their eyes, boy. So I stood, wiped my mouth, lifted my kilt, and calmly peed./ /

Qui-Gon snorted in amused surprise. / /You pissed at them?/ /

/ /That you may well say. When I was done, and they were still staring, I raised my voice and spoke to them - / /

And Te Roa'ama cleared his throat and let his voice ring out throughout the dripping forest and along the dusky beach, the syllables of his native tongue sounding like an earthquake about to happen.

He peered at Qui-Gon, who sat in eager anticipation of an explanation.

/ /I said to them, you have now seen Te Roa'ama's weapon. Be sure that if you advance any further, his powers will kill you./ /

/ /And they...?/ /

/ /They ran. As fast as their feet would carry them./ / The smirk on the chief's face was altogether too smug not to be kissed away immediately.

The splashing of the waterfall drowned out the two men's laughter, drowned out the shrieks of the night birds waking up. Drowned out the careful steps of the observer as he retreated, fascinated and afraid of what he had seen and heard.

13. (In which Qui-Gon sits on a piece of sky)

Qui-Gon adjusted the belt around his waist, wincing slightly at the scrape of the coarse material of his short kilt against the skin, freshly bruised as it was from Te Roa'ama's possessive grip the night before. They hadn't made it home until the early morning, and only around midday had the chief deigned to give Qui-Gon one of his old kilts, finally persuaded that letting his personal slave run around naked was not the way to show off his property.

Of course the kilt was too big for him – he was noticeably thinner than his master, even if they almost matched each other in height. He truly hoped he would one day fill out into such a fine figure of a man as his master was... and until then, he would just have to tie that belt tighter and bear the chafing sensation. Cataloguing your aches was not exactly a bad thing. Not when they were sustained in the delicious way most of his were.

One ache, though, had receded almost completely over the last 24 hours. The ache in the back of his head, the one that had lingered since he had woken up in the dark house for the first time, flaring up now and then.... the ache that kept trying to tell him that he didn't belong, that he ought to go home.

He remembered more and more with time. That he had walked at someone's shoulder. That he had been called Padawan. That he had had a voice in his head, and that the voice belonged to a chilly but kind face, thin and grey-haired. That there had been dancing at some point, and something called Llipe. Someone called Llipe, he surmised, though no voice or face was forthcoming. That the Force was with him. That he was one of many there, not the only one out like he was here. Not the only one, focused on with fierce determination and savage desire... he found his thoughts trailing off into familiar waters again. Te Roa'ama. He had been in there for far too long already. Qui-Gon felt his insides warm and tighten at the thought of his master's touch. He found he craved it much like a drug, after that first heady dose... and as far as he was concerned, that drug need not wear off any time soon.

Though he could always do with another shot.

Picking up a random handful of the fern roots he'd been cleaning, he walked around the back of the house, ostensibly towards the cooking pit. He heard voices from inside the house, loud voices raised in argument. One voice made the little hairs on the nape of his neck stand on end with its sheer brutal power and beauty. The other was darting in and out of the angry rumble of Te Roa'ama's voice, lashing out at him like an enraged small predator. Qui-Gon crept closer, marvelling at how warlike their strange language sounded all of a sudden.

The small predator voice was grunting now, obviously in pain or at least in resistance, as if its owner was trapped in a fight, struggling. Trying his best not to make a sound, Qui-Gon knelt down and peeked through a crack between the tightly-packed bundles of rushes that passed for a wall.

There was Te Roa'ama, growling as he held a much smaller man in a stranglehold, a man that was kicking and squirming for all he was worth, uttering what sounded clearly like strangled curses through the constriction around his throat. His hair had fallen into his face, shiny and black, but Qui-Gon needed only one glimpse of the chin with its slight cleft and notable absence of tattoo, to see who it was.

Ketoa. In what was obviously a lover's quarrel with Te Roa'ama.

I should be worried, Qui-Gon thought hazily. I should be scared, maybe. But all he found in himself was rapt amazement at watching the skilful way with which the big man wrestled his lover to the ground, pinning him there despite his furious struggling and writhing. Qui-Gon had little doubt that Te Roa'ama's 'weapon' was hard and ready, so ready to take what was his... and he only wished that he was the young man struggling in the chief's iron grip, mashed into the ground by his warm weight and irresistible strength.

He would enjoy it. And he had given up telling himself he ought to be ashamed for that. Fact was, he would enjoy it.

While Ketoa clearly wasn't.

Spitting words into Te Roa'ama's face, he tried his best to claw at the big man's skin, never quite reaching far enough, unable to extricate his upper arms from where they were held in the big man's paws and pressed firmly into the ground. His knees struggled fruitlessly to get some leverage, to jab into some soft part of his captor's body, but it was useless. He was utterly trapped. Trapped under the hard, hot body of his infuriating lover, who was gazing down at him with an equally infuriating smirk.

The words got quieter, more menacing... Qui-Gon winced as the younger man bared his teeth in a grimace of hatred, then spat into Te Roa'ama's face, using the split second of shock to buck his hips up and get one leg free from under him. It was not enough to properly knee him into the groin, but it was enough to free himself, struggling to his feet, shouting. Qui-Gon could feel the anger radiating off him, even though he didn't understand a word of what he was saying. Jealousy does not need an interpreter, he thought numbly, as Ketoa straightened his clothes and backed out of the house, showering abuse on Te Roa'ama all the way, not even listening to the other man's increasingly loud retorts. The words that repeated over and over again until they rang in Qui-Gon's ears were "ki te marae, ki te marae", shouted like a triumphant mantra of hate by Ketoa as he stalked out of the house.

The look on Ketoa's face when he walked by Qui-Gon was one of pure evil pleasure.

/ /So he demands.../ /

/ /The ceremony, yes. In public./ / "Ki te marae."

/ /Who is he to... I mean, where do he take the authority from? Over you, the chief?/ /

/ /Tradition, Kuai mine. That is what even my place in this world rests on. Tradition is what Ketoa knows best about. Tradition is what he bears on his face where I bear the marks of the warrior. It is older than I, that learning. And... do not think I do not have enemies./ / He sighed, clearly pained.

/ /Obviously./ / Qui-Gon took a deep breath, then looked up at his master. / /So for your world to stay on its axis, Ketoa demands.../ /

/ /...tradition demands... though it is he who demanded this rite for the first time in generations, yes./ /

/ /...demands that you.../ /

/ /Rape you./ /

Qui-Gon frowned. / /That seems fairly impossible to me./ /

/ /Oh Kuai. The other way is to be driven away and live as a tribeless one, one who has rebelled against the gods' rules by refusing to put a mere slave in his proper place. And yes, I have given a lot of thought to that recently. But that would mean renouncing my rights to you as well - / /

/ /Wait a minute. Master. When I said that raping me seemed impossibly to me, I meant it. Whatever you would do to me, it would not be rape./ /

/ /I could not... not now I know you.../ /

/ /Of course you could not. Listen. You will not. You will not rape me. You will take me, but not against my will. Never against my will./ /

/ /Have you ever - / /

/ /No. But that does not matter now. Whatever the pain, I will know it's only your body giving mine pain, only because you have to, this once. I have your voice, remember?/ /

/ /You have my voice. You have... sometimes I think you have me, not the other way round, Kuai mine. And that it hurts _me_ to have to humiliate you so./ /

/ /Master. I won't break. I am.../ / the word slipped off his tongue and back into the darkened regions of his memory again. He was something, and something that gave him an unearthly confidence. / /I am loved,/ / he finished, unsure of whether that was all he wanted to say, but certain that it was the truth.

Muscles straining with the effort of not showing weakness, Qui-Gon held himself perfectly still, trying to will away the irritating chafe of the ropes around his ankles that held his legs spread, trying to forget the unnatural position of his arms, wrists lashed tightly together at the nape of his neck and secured there by a rope circling his throat, tight enough so that he could not fully relax without risking cutting off the throb of blood in his throat entirely.

He felt like he had been here forever, bent over the wooden frame that had been alienated from its more peaceful use, stripped and helplessly bound, exposed to the scornful eyes of the many. He heard their voices, subdued murmurs, chattering. There were children among them, he could hear that. He wanted to squirm but thought better of it. It would only hurt, and he needed all his strength. He needed to make Te Roa'ama believe he could do this. For his sake.

The murmur of voices rose, then died down completely. Qui-Gon craned his neck as far as he could given his restraints. There was Te Roa'ama. Dressed in kilt and cloak, led along by his smugly smiling lover. Ketoa spoke, a calm in his voice that spoke of a sure victory. Qui-Gon tried to catch Te Roa'ama's eyes, but could not. The blue eyes were closed, the lips trembling faintly as Ketoa calmly, smugly snaked one hand inside the older man's kilt, evidently to ensure, or bring about, his readiness for the act of public humiliation he was about to commit.

A growled word and one of Te Roa'ama's big hands cut him short, surprise and hurt pride evident in his beautiful, almost unmarked face. Shifting the strands of his kilt aside, Te Roa'ama bared his proud flushed erection, locking eyes with Qui-Gon.

/ /For you./ /

A flicker of heat shot through Qui-Gon's entire body and made him shudder. An appreciative murmur rose from the audience. Of course. They must be thinking I'm scared of him. And he's... well, he's big. And hard. And... for me. Hard for me.

/ /I'm sorry, Kuai mine.../ /

/ /Master. Do it. For me./ /

/ /For you./ /

Qui-Gon felt Te Roa'ama's big hands settle on his hips, canting them to the perfect angle. He heard him clear his throat, but heard no speech. Instead, a drop of spit fell between his cheeks, slowly making its way towards where the big man's cock was nudging against Qui-Gon's tight entrance already.

/ /I thought that wasn't allowed?/ / The amusement in Qui-Gon's inner voice was tinged with more than a touch of despair, and they both knew it. Then they knew nothing more as Te Roa'ama ploughed into Qui-Gon's helpless body in one long thrust.

Oh, it hurt. It hurt more than Qui-Gon had ever imagined. He wasn't quite sure if he had felt something tearing inside him or whether that was just the unbearable burn at being stretched to the limit by his master's cock. Qui-Gon jerked and thrashed in his bonds, trying to expel the intruder buried so deep inside him, trying to work off the pain and the unbelievable energy he felt flooding him... this was as bad as it could get... he would get through this...

/ /...be still... you're good... / /

Te Roa'ama groaned at the sound of his lover's voice in his head. Groaned, a thick animal noise of pain and need and sheer lust. This exquisite body, spread out for him, struggling so sweetly, bringing back memories, and he was so tight, so tight and so hot... Te Roa'ama howled as he felt the clenched ring of muscle contracting around his cock, then relaxing, fluttering, relaxing again. A wave of brightness hit him, travelling up from where their bodies were joined, setting sparks off in his head. His lover's voice travelled on the light.

/ /...move... enjoy me... take me.../ /

Qui-Gon gasped as the huge cock inside him began to move, almost all the way out, and in again in a savage thrust, tearing at flesh he was desperately trying to relax. He felt as if he was being stuffed, filled with something so big and so hot that he was sure he would burst or melt under the assault, or be torn to shreds, bleeding twitching shreds...

/ /Oh gods... want you... Kuai... love... love you.../ /

He was spiralling out of control now, thrusts coming harder and faster, drowning Qui-Gon in a red haze of pain and pleasure. Yes, pleasure... he wasn't sure when it had started to register, the insistent rub of Te Roa'ama's cock over something hard and needy deep inside him. A pain that wasn't tearing him apart. A pain that demanded more, more pressure, harder thrusts, demanded fierce possession and wild helpless need, a core of lust throbbing in time with the big man's cock pumping in and out of him, tearing him up raw and making him his, his, his... tears streaming from his eyes, Qui-Gon threw his mind open in a wordless scream, letting all his pain and all his love and need flood outward –

The wave of love that hit him in return nearly drowned him. Gasping for breath, Qui-Gon struggled in his bonds, trying desperately to take it all in, to swallow all that love and compassion and lust and never let it go again, to take it all in, to rock back on the cock that speared him, begging for more, begging to be released from holding it all in...

The walls broke down the second he felt the splash of wet heat deep inside him. The wild thrusts continued for a while, as if their bodies refused to be parted, but Qui-Gon's mind was no longer with his body. It had dissolved into a bright stream of tears and seed, flowed from his mouth in a desperate scream. It had met Te Roa'ama's somewhere along the way. The man was water, and he drank and drowned greedily.

Panting, black spots dancing before his eyes, Qui-Gon winced as he felt the big cock withdraw from him. Something warm trickled down the inside of his thigh. He didn't have to look to see it was red. He also didn't have to look to see the small stain of his own seed on the ground. Nor did he have to look to see, very clearly, the thunderous scowl on Ketoa's face.

/ /The words, mine. Say.../ /

Drawing as much breath as he could, Qui-Gon raised his head a little. His voice was unnaturally calm as he spoke.

"Mihi atu, matua."

/ /Thank _you_, Kuai mine,/ / the warm voice in his head echoed.

Distantly, he felt himself being cut free and hoisted to his feet by several hands. Distantly, he heard Ketoa's voice proclaiming the Taking performed. Distantly, he heard the appreciative murmur of the people.

All he had eyes for was Te Roa'ama. The deep clouded blue of his eyes, and the track of a single tear across the tattooed cheek.

/ /How are you feeling, love?/ / And the voice, oh, the deep rumbling voice he just wanted to crawl inside...

Shifting his weight on to one foot, Qui-Gon attempted a smile.

/ /Like I've sat on a piece of sky./ /

14. (In which more than just a flightless bird gets caught)

The hunters had brought home shouts that could be heard a long way off, and by the time Qui-Gon had put away his work and come out of the house to have a look, he was already having to negotiate a path through a throng of excited women and children babbling and pointing at the unusual prey.

"He moooooa!" crowed a tiny boy, clearly pleased with himself for being able to name the huge beast that was lying on the ground in front of one of the houses, still bleeding but most definitely killed.

/ /There's not that many of them around any more these days,/ / a quiet voice insinuated himself into the back of Qui-Gon's mind. Casting his eyes about, he found Te Roa'ama in the crowd, or rather above the crowd, a proud warrior smile on his face, looked up to by the hunters.

/ /Too much hunting?/ /

/ /Too much good meat, love. You'll see,/ / came the amused reply.

The beast was huge, the size of two men, and covered in straggly long fur. From under its massive rump Qui-Gon could see two clawed legs protruding, hairless from the knee to the huge thick-skinned claw. At the other end, the animal's neck lay on the ground like a snake, bent at an unnatural angle where it had probably been broken in transport. The head was small, with two black beady eyes and... a beak? This monster creature was a bird? The fur was... feathers?

/ /He moa?/ / he endeavoured, puzzled. / /This is some kind of bird?/ /

/ /This is _the_ bird, Kuai mine./ /

/ /But... it doesn't have wings, does it?/ /

/ /It does have wings.... but fly it doesn't. Whereas you, love, manage the opposite quite easily./ /

Qui-Gon distinctly began to wish for a facial tattoo to hide his constant blush.

It did have wings, rather small and skinny affairs that looked utterly pitiful once they had torn its feathers off in large handfuls and piled them aside for making cloaks. They were working quickly and efficiently, Qui-Gon having gained a small measure of respect among the other slaves and the younger women who helped out. They spoke to him now, even though he still didn't understand much more than a few words of their tongue. But they spoke to him now, like he was a fellow human, if only a slave. It made work a lot easier, and they had to get this monster cooked in time for the feast after nightfall...

Qui-Gon burped delicately as he slipped under his master's feathered cloak with him, curling up comfortably against the warm body. As a slave, he had only been given pieces of the moa's skin, which had however been quite filling in themselves. And nobody had dared protest when Te Roa'ama hand-fed his 'pet' (that was the meaning of the strange word Ketoa had called him by, he had learnt. Mokai, or pet) choice pieces of succulent meat from the huge bird's thigh.

Life was good right now. The tearing in his anus was almost healed, and it wasn't like he and Te Roa'ama hadn't slipped behind a bush here and there to indulge in less intrusive kinds of lovemaking throughout the last week or so. And the big man was a fast learner when it came to kissing too...

As if our bodies knew better, he thought, relishing the contrast between the springy mattress of fern and rushes and the firm warmth of his master's flesh. His lover's flesh. He had missed the transition when the one became the other, and could not find it in himself to find that worrying, or even odd. Our bodies knew better, he thought. Just took over the thinking... not that his brain was the most reliable of allies these days, and he had no way of telling if it had ever been, really. All he'd taken with him was this flesh, and the pull of the Force, the pull that drew him towards this man who owned him, overwhelmed him like a force of nature. And loved him. Inexplicably loved him.

Wrapping himself around his gently snoring master, Qui-Gon began to wonder whether his home truly was where he had come from.

"All right, all right, all right. So what you're saying is, you're cowards."

The accusing glare lit up the house far more satisfactorily than the lone piece of kindling burning on the flat stone in their midst. The men fidgeted uneasily, knowing full well that there was a grain of truth in what Ketoa had said. Finally, one of them, a cloakless short-haired elder with a pale scar slashed across the elaborate lines of his forehead tattoo, spoke up.

"What we are objecting to, Ketoa, is not your feelings. It is not just your will that we are refusing. To do this would bring shame and wrath on all of us. It simply is not right in the way of the gods, not right in the way of the people of the Great Water, and you know that perfectly well."

An appreciative murmur rose from the assembled faces, stilled quickly by a glare from Ketoa.

"You are too cowardly to dispose of a mere plainface? A _slave_, worth nothing more than the dogs trailing at your heels? You, Matangi, you who speak so eloquently of the way of the gods," he snorted derisively, "when has the way of the gods ever kept you from easily killing an enemy, back in the days when we still gloried in wars? Remember who you were, Matangi. Remember your pride. Remember that you _will_ be remembered in the name of our tribe, as a great leader, as a great ancestor, for what you did then. The Ngati Matangi! That is the way of the gods, not this cowering! Look at me, I am not afraid of him, not the gods, it's him you are afraid of, and I am young and inexperienced compared to you. When have you ever been afraid, Te Matangi, of a man who is comparable to you in every way, and so much your junior, so much an upstart who has risen through your goodwill and his own stubbornness? Risen to high esteem, oh I can read that in your face, Te Matangi, risen to prestige and mana. But when has mana ever extended to a slave? When has the way of the gods ever kept you from killing a dog?"

"That is not what we are talking about, and you know it," Te Matangi replied, falling silent for a moment to gather his thoughts. Ketoa was nothing if not good with words, and far from easy to convince.

Another of the men came to his aid, a slender young man with a feather in his topknot and half the tattoo still missing from his delicate features.

"He is one of us, Ketoa. That would be like killing someone's child, someone's brother. He was made one of us though the rite. It was the ariki that..."

Ketoa cut him off, impatient, eyes glittering fiercely. "And who's afraid of the ariki, eh? Do the old wives' tales scare you, eh? Witch powers! Sky-blue eyes! I would have thought you men enough to see him for what he is – just a man like you. But oh, you're afraid of him. Fine warriors you are."

He let the barb sink in, enjoying the fidgeting, the downturned faces. "Suppose I gave in to your small-mindedness than. Suppose we do not kill him. Suppose we let nature do the killing. We only help her along. Karihima, what say you – how long do you think he would last without water nor food, left to his own devices out in the wild, unable to free himself? A day? Two?"

The man called Karihima, a big burly fellow with receding hair, joined in the uneasy laughter. "Two days at best, Ketoa. Look at him – hardly any flesh on him. Thin as a twig, and just as easy to snap."

Te Matangi cut in again, and all faces turned towards him. "Consider this, though. This boy has powers. Let us disregard for the moment the colour of his eyes. But did you see how he bore up against the Rite? How he took pleasure from the pain? Without even being touched? How can you be sure that such a man would not free himself in an instant and come back to wreak his just revenge on you and all yours?"

"Witchpowers again," Ketoa sneered, more than a little galled when Te Matangi withstood his scornful glare. "Do you not think my own powers are far more subtle, and far more real besides, than those mysterious powers Te Roa'ama is rumoured to have fucked into his pet? Let me take care of that – we will not kill him, and no god will find a reason to avenge him for what we're doing to him. In fact, he will die in a slow haze of twisted pleasure. I can count on you?"

Heads nodded slowly, voices murmured assent. Even Rangirua smiled a slow smile of approval at Ketoa. Only Te Matangi remained silent, knowing he was defeated.

It was far too early to be awake yet... and yet he squirmed happily in his lover's embrace, nuzzling into the hair that brushed across his face, rubbing against the hands that held him down. If this was a dream, it was a good one, and if not... he loved waking up to Te Roa'ama's insistent attentions, and nothing got the blood flowing like a good hard pounding first thing in the morning... a hand stroked his cheek, and Qui-Gon licked his lips. Mmh, he would suckle those fingers, get them good and wet, and then...

His eyes flew open as the hand clamped over his mouth, stifling a scream. Who – what – an unfamiliar face scowled down at him from behind a curtain of tousled hair. He twisted in order to dislodge the hand from his face, and found himself in the grip of more hands, holding him down everywhere. Rolling his eyes madly, he failed to see his master anywhere... and another hand was slowly snaking towards his nose...

Words. Soothing murmur with more than an edge of sneer to them. He could well imagine what they were saying. Calling him 'pet', urging him to open his mouth as the hand pinched his nose shut. Clenching his teeth, he tried to breathe through his mouth, through the dirty warm fingers, around the hands pressing down on his throat menacingly, breathe, gather enough breath to scream... before he could, he found his mouth invaded by another hand, nails clawing at his gums. With a small yelp of pain, he opened his mouth – only to find it filled with a sharp-tasting thick liquid. A hand snapped his jaw shut and bent his head back, forcing him to swallow, past where the other hand was still near-choking him, promising to go all the way. The voice sounded pleased, and the face retreated.

Another loomed into view, and a heel connected solidly with his stomach. The face faded, along with the light.

It was far too early to be awake yet... and yet he squirmed happily in his lover's embrace, wriggling slightly to dislodge an arm from where it had been lying for too long, cutting off his circulation. He was warm, and a little uncomfortable, and... horny. Hazy. He stretched, feeling dozens of little aches spearing through his body. His eyes felt gummed up, and he opened them with more than a little effort. He looked down on himself.

Down?

He was standing up?

His head snapped up, only to connect solidly with something hard. He tried to rub his eyes, only to find he couldn't. His hands weren't where he expected them to be.

His hands were... bound. Secured to the branches of some tree, coarse ropes cutting into his skin. He shook his head and felt a loose end of rope brushing his nipple, sending excruciating sensations through his helpless body. There was... he swallowed. Rope around his neck too. His upper arms. Suspended. Ankles. Spread. He looked down, and his gaze stuck on his most evidently aroused cock, bobbing in the air, hungry, demanding to be touched. A throb almost painful... it didn't make sense...

Shaking his head as if to clear his sight, Qui-Gon looked down again. The painful throb was on his right hip, there where the thin trickle of blood was oozing from the fresh cut... blood and something else.

Black dye.

Chapter 15: In which Te Roa'ama goes in search of Qui-Gon, and Qui-Gon finds himself.... somewhere

As fast as his feet would carry him. He had nothing to go by but a vague idea that something was amiss, and nothing for direction save for the fact that he was most certainly in the wrong place. It was not so much words he had in his mind, not even the faint aftertaste of words that he usually got when he listened to Kuai. It had been sort of like the intake of breath you hear before the words start pouring out. Only there weren't any words. The breath had been cut off before it could form words, and the emptiness in his mind echoed uncomfortably. Kuai?

Scattering dogs, fowl and small children in his wake, Te Roa'ama sprinted across the village towards his house as fast as he could, caring little for the bewildered stares the dogs, fowl and small children bestowed on him. Caring little for anything in his way as long it had sense enough to move out of his way.

Only it didn't, and he literally ran right into it. It gave a slight 'oof', then turned a rather miffed face up towards Te Roa'ama.

"What ails you, husband, that you're running around like a man chased by ghosts at this early hour?" Ketoa, one eyebrow raised, rubbing his not-quite-bruised shoulder with an exaggerated gesture that only served to heighten the chief's impatience.

"I'm up no earlier than you are," a deep breath. "There's something wrong with Kuai."

"Oh, Kuai." Shoulders relaxed ostentatiously, and Te Roa'ama might have heard a carefully studied long-suffering sigh if he'd managed to calm his own laboured breathing for a moment. "Is that why you're running around the place all of a sudden? To impress your new pet? If you'd take advice from me..."

"Cut it!" Te Roa'ama was clearly in no mood to banter, and Ketoa's indelible smile wavered a little as the big man made to shoulder past him.

"Forgive me, husband." That smile again, unseen as the chief dove into the low doorway of his house. It was empty of course, and the smile was in place as Te Roa'ama emerged out of the dim little space, clearly disturbed and scanning the surroundings for a sign of his slave. "But what makes you think he is in distress?"

"He's not here, that's what," Te Roa'ama replied gruffly, wanting nothing more than to swat his annoying companion away like the carrion-fly that he was being. He was not about to tell Ketoa that Kuai's every thought was more of an open book to him than the carefully contrived gestures with which his high-born husband deigned to show what passed for his affection.

"Oh, so he's not here." Ketoa nodded, slowly. "And that worries you? Has he run away, your dear boy? Well, I would catch you another if there was a war on, you know, but honestly I don't think for a moment you need another. In fact, I don't think you needed this one in the first place. You and your fondness for pathetic creatures... quite endearing, really."

Te Roa'ama swiped angrily at the hand that had settled on his cheek, clearly not in the mood for the kind of cold comfort Ketoa was offering.

"Leave it. I'm going to look for him."

"Look for him? Aroha, you're not thinking. For a slave? What use would he be for you if you'd catch him again? You'd have to kill him in punishment. And that's not worth the bother now, is it?"

"He would not run away, Ketoa. He just would not."

"Oh, so sure of that, are we? Well, let me see... he could have been eaten by a taniwha... though the nearest body of water large enough to support one is quite a while away, and I doubt the little pup has that sort of determination. Or he could have run across a war party," his face brightened up at this rather more plausible explanation, "and got killed out of caution."

Te Roa'ama's patience was wearing thin, and it was showing in his voice. "You know as well as I do that there are no war parties around these lands, and there haven't been for years," he ground out.

Ketoa danced back a step, body language carefully honed to make it look to everyone as if he was the one being unjustly intimidated by the big chief. His back already turned to retreat, he threw one last retort over his shoulder, letting the barb sink in.

"I know as well as you do that the ways of the Ngati Mura are unpredictable."

The Ngati Mura. People of the flame, though the flame of their ancestor Te Mura had gone out centuries ago, and they had had little but afterglow to go on ever since. Haughtiness ran in the family with them, and beauty. And both had impressed Te Roa'ama greatly, back when he had been a young warrior of nondescript ancestry, risen to some measure of fame through fearless deeds in battle, and sheer size. And his blue eyes.

He still suspected it had been his blue eyes that had impressed her more than any of his deeds in the field. And when Te Matangi, the senior rangatira of the Ngati Wainui, had abdicated his rank as battle leader of the tribe and handed worldly power to the young blue-eyed upstart, he had suddenly found himself the most desirable bachelor in all of Aotearoa. With a rather ardent admirer already. She who had spotted his blue eyes first.

And she came with all the graces of the Ngati Mura. Fiery, haughty, and quite beautiful. Stubborn, though there wasn't much outstubborning to do once the man she had designs on had been elevated overnight to ariki of a minor but nevertheless rising tribe. Her parents had assented, Te Matangi had nodded wisely, and she had fixed her sparkly dark brown eyes on him and not let go.

At least not until she found that staying married to Te Roa'ama was not as much fun as getting married to Te Roa'ama.

The taste in his mouth was awful, a wretched bitterness that stung deep in his throat. Screwing his eyes shut, Qui-Gon concentrated on working up some spit to get rid of it, and winced when the drop of spittle hit his painfully aroused flesh.

What on whatever this planet was called had happened to him?

What... whatever had just made him think that? Planet? Spinning around... His head was spinning rather faster than he would have liked, and he was dimly certain that it would have fallen off long ago if it wasn't tethered to the tree by the coarse rope around his neck.

Oh. Tree. Rope. Lots of rope, artlessly criss-crossed all over his body and the tree's trunk. He writhed experimentally to see if it would get him anywhere, and moaned as all it got him was that frayed end swinging across his nipple once more, setting the little nub on fire. This would feel so... good... if he wasn't tied up. Actually, he thought more than a shade hazily, this might even feel good if I was tied up, as long as it was by someone.

Someone. Just a hand, just a fingertip. He felt his skin thirsting for touch, squirmed against the bonds some more. Good... if only...

He stared down at his right hand numbly. It was almost free to move around, held only by a pair of long ropes leading outside his immediate field of vision. The only problem was that it couldn't actually move anywhere useful. Like, to another piece of rope to tug on it. Or to a knot to untie it. Or to his throbbing hardness to... touch it... he squirmed some more, telling himself it was just to get a feel of how best to get free of these bonds, to work some slack into these graceless unyielding ropes that held him tighter than any lover had... tighter and harder than... his... hands...

Letting his eyes slide shut, Qui-Gon gave in to the flood of sensations his overheated skin and addled mind were pumping into him. His hands, his wondrous savage lover's big rough hands, hands he longed to feel all over him, holding him down for a rough delicious taking, touching, groping, scratching all over as he was pounded into a screaming quivering pulp, barely catching his breath before whimpering for more, more of these rough touches, more of this hard wild love, more, just more, more...

It was his own hoarse scream that jerked him back to reality, a dirty reality. A reality that had bitter saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth, cloudy semen dripping from the tip of his still angry-red cock, and smudged black dye running from a painful spot on his hip. A reality that had no hands in it, at least none that could do anything useful. A reality that hurt, and that was full of holes.

Breathe, Padawan, he told himself. You do not have his hands. You do not have your own hands. You have the marks of someone else's hands on you. But they are obviously not around, or else your scream would have roused them. You are alone.

Carefully, he bent his head as far forward as the rope around his neck would allow, and eyed the wound on his hip. The streaks of black dye that he had seen running all the way down to his knee were mingled with blood further up, blood that was still seeping from a series of random deep smooth-edged cuts that looked much deeper than they had felt. He could see the surprising whiteness of his own flesh in the depths of the cuts, there where the blood had already drained and the black dye hadn't penetrated. The wounds stung, but the pain was bearable, the cuts too clean to cause the agony he had come to associate with being wounded (had he been wounded before? He filed the thought away for future reference, attaching the thread of stray thought to the white ends of the cuts in his skin).

Almost as if he had been cut not to wound, but to mark. And marked he would be, even if the scars would be barely visible. They would be black.

Ketoa. The thought struck him out of the blue, out of the white and red and black of his skin, at skin-level, before his mind had even caught up with why he was where he was. Ketoa. The tattoo-master. Master. He snorted at the thought, remembering with unbidden clarity that the word used to be reserved for someone he would have treated with respect, a sober grey-haired man.

Master? His master was Te Roa'ama, wasn't he? His master, his chief, his lover. His beautiful savage lover... Qui-Gon fought down another wave of arousal as his treacherous body responded to the mere thought of the man's big hard body and his greedy warm mouth and... think, Qui. Think.

Te Roa'ama. At least think at him if you can't bloody free yourself, Padawan. Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, willing his nipples not to register the coarse touch of the rope, he concentrated on his master's name, on the sound of his voice as he had said it, on the fact that Qui still had not the faintest idea what the name meant. Te Roa'ama. Te Roa'ama. Te Roa'ama.

It wormed itself into his mind like a corkscrew mantra, going deeper than he had dared hope. On some level, he felt the connection working, felt the tiny seed of something living in him, something that was not his mind but another's. Te Roa'ama's, he hoped. Master's mind. Just as before... just like when he had been... the word eluded him. But the implications did not.

Focusing his faltering, chanting mind on the bindings around his right wrist, Qui-Gon tentatively brought the Force to bear on the knots.

Reluctantly, they began to unravel.

Chapter 16: In which Qui-Gon goes in search of Te Roa'ama, and Te Roa'ama finds...

"Coming home to rest, husband mine?" The smirk on Ketoa's smooth face was quite enough to make Te Roa'ama turn away in disgust. Without a word, he turned and walked out into the wilderness again.

The damp dark forest that had lured and mocked him all day with the scent of his Kuai would shelter him for another night, he was certain. And the ferns felt more welcoming than the icy smile of his husband.

He awoke long before dawn, the cold damp in his hair reminding him of his age, and the bitter taste in his mouth reminding him that he probably hadn't eaten all day yesterday. In the dim grey light of the moon, with the sun still struggling his way up through Maui's net far off to the east, he felt old indeed, and a little foolish, his search futile. Maybe the boy had run away, had feigned all his love and trust so that he could escape in one of his many unguarded moments?

Te Roa'ama closed his eyes. And there, in the warm red behind his eyelids, was the boy's face. Smooth, pale. That pink mouth, and impossibly blue eyes. No. These eyes could not be deceitful. They just weren't. He saw it, behind his eyelids, and he heard it where words had no meaning. And he kept on hearing it, at the edge of his mind. Kuai was alive. He was not running. Where would the boy run to?

He would run to him. Rubbing his eyes until the dancing bright patterns outshone the dim pre-dawn light, Te Roa'ama concentrated on the sounds at the edge of his inner eye. It didn't make sense, but it made sensation. Glimpses of the boy running, running towards him.

"Tae mai, Kuai, tae mai." As much a reminder to himself as a prayer, the words seeped into the dawn chorus of the awakening wilderness.

Qui-Gon's neck ached slightly from having slept on his back all night. It was just past dawn, and something had woken him up. Sitting up gingerly, he listened for anything unusual beyond the din of cicadas and birds that was already filling every available space in the canopy overhead.

Carefully, he peeled away the wilted leaf from where he had draped it over his wound. Well, at least it hadn't become infected. Yet. There was no way of telling what would happen if he did turn in his sleep one night and came into contact with the ground though. The ground looked very much alive here.

He stretched his arms and shoulders, working out the kinks, then rose to relieve himself against a convenient bush. At least the arousal had faded, he noted with a degree of satisfaction. Not that he minded arousal as such, but... this had clearly been the after-effect of whatever he had been dosed with before he had been brought here. And having a clear mind was a definite advantage when stranded in an alien wilderness with little sense of direction beyond 'up' and 'down'.

First things first. Picking up the coil of rope he had salvaged from his unravelled bonds, Qui-Gon carefully wrapped one around his waist like a belt, tying it in front, then a shorter one around the top of his thigh, tight enough to stay in place, but loose enough not to impede him. Another pair of large leaves threaded underneath these two ropes served to cover his still-oozing wound while he was walking. And walking was what he would be doing, regardless of the fact that he had no idea which way to go.

From some point onwards, keeping going was more important than going anywhere, and Qui-Gon was sure that he was at or past that point. He was also sure he was thirsty, and could not remember when he had last eaten. Walking was what he would be doing.

Slowly, as if to make sure his wound wasn't about to erupt into agony and his head wasn't about to erupt into another spontaneous faint, he followed his own feet.

Te Roa'ama, he thought as the rhythm of his overly long legs took possession of his body. Te Roa'ama, Te Roa'ama, Te Roa'ama.

He ate in passing, berries and hard, unripe fruit, like a thief, like an outcast. Like the unarmed wanderer that he was, eating only because his memory told him he should. If his enemies could see him now, he would be done for. Hells, if his own tribesmen could see him now, they would doubt his sanity.

He could not find it in himself to care for his enemies, or his tribesmen. Nor for his sanity. He knew where his sanity lay. It lay somewhere in this forest, in the body of a thin tall pale boy. Alive. It taunted him, dragged him on, deeper into the bush, further up the hills. This was Ngati Mura land, he was fairly sure. He had not been here for years. He had had no reason to. Hunting was not good here.

Hunting, now, was the best thing he had.

The water was cool and refreshing, loud in Qui-Gon's ears and bright on his hands, washing away the grime that a day's worth of holding on had left on his skin. Holding on to steady himself on the treacherous ground, holding on to hope and the song of something at the back of his mind. It was darker again than he would have liked, the sun was disappearing behind the slope he had been wandering along for the best part of the day already, and he felt exhausted. No, he felt sleepy. His body was worn into comfortable heavy-limbed tiredness, but his mind refused to give in. Something nagged him on, and it was not the growl in his stomach.

It did not nag him on in any particular direction though, just... on. Forward, ahead. Into tomorrow. Tomorrow felt right, felt as clear as the older yesterdays felt hazy.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow could be reached very, very easily. Tearing off some of the thick fern fronds in the failing light, Qui-Gon let himself drop into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

Te Roa'ama had set off long before dawn again, following his sense of... scent, he supposed, again. The scent that was beyond his nostrils, deeper in his head, where Kuai sat. Not the memory of Kuai. He was still very much there in his head.

The tail end of the night was the best time to go in search of something. No light to dazzle the eye, no noise to fill the ear. And, he had to admit to himself, sleep was not coming easily anyway. Not now that the forest smelled of Kuai, pulsed with something soft and dull under his skin the higher he climbed. If anything, he would see the sunrise from the ridge of the hills, as he had not done for years.

He did not get that far.

Curled up in a nest of ruffled fern, the faintly awkward white curve of Kuai's sleeping form made his heart leap.

continue to Part Three