Master Apprentice Archive Te Tohungia o te Tane / The Mark of the Man Quick search:

Te Tohungia o te Tane / The Mark of the Man

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

1. (In which the weather on Coruscant is completely and utterly crap)

It was raining only by default, because Standard had no separate word for the weather that was currently enveloping the seventeenth southern district of Coruscant, and its hapless inhabitants. Stinging cold water sheeted almost horizontally through the air lanes and alleyways, leaving precious thin strings of air to breathe, fast, loud and yellow.

The planet's large orange sun had sunk below the hypothetical horizon long ago, and was now launching a surprise attack on the battered air, turning it the heavy sickly shade of yellow that the native Coruscanti knew by the name of 'underhanded light'. It appeared to come from nowhere, as if the air had suddenly been dyed yellow, and cast an eerie glow over the rain-flecked crags of the city planet's architecture.

But the air had not only been dyed yellow. It had also been sped up quite a bit.

And however sophisticated the Republican engineering committee's methods of controlling the planet's climate had become, however much Coruscant's usual aspect actually resembled the high-resolution, high-gloss images broadcast all over the galaxy for comfort and reassurance, there were still days when a single unscheduled transport's exhaust trail could tip the fragile balance, and all the engineers could do was throw up their hands and sit back and watch as the moisture built up into rain-sodden black clouds and the wind whipped itself into a frenzy, and the underhanded light soaked into the bottom of the clouds and drenched the air...

Sit back and warn the public, of course. Only the indispensable and the aquatic would be out in this kind of weather.

The tall figure in the brown robe was neither, but apparently also far too serene to care, making his way through the sheets of rain, thick brown fabric clinging to the contours of a body that was surely soaked to the skin. Unfazed, face covered by the deep hood of the traditional Jedi robe, he strode along a passageway that was fast turning into a small and grimy but alarmingly rapid river, leaving little islands of turbulence where his boots disturbed the quivering rippled surface. Walking with the wind, at the same pace as the clouds that were racing across the sky, the lone Jedi nearly blended in with the weather, dark, wet and forbidding, and utterly determined.

He did not stop when the sheet of bright red paper hit the back of his head with a thick wet slap. He did not stop when he heard the splish-splash of another pair of feet behind him, running. He did not stop when he felt a small hard hand grab the paper off him, the body it belonged to bumping quite rudely against his shoulder. He did not stop when he saw the feet and the body and the hand and the soaked sheet of red paper combining in his field of vision to reveal a short, stocky child holding the scrap, evidently the remnants of some supplementary newsprint, up by one corner and watching it flap desperately under the assault of the stinging rain. He did not stop when the kid frowned in disgust and balled the red paper up into a squishy lump.

He did stop when the little urchin threw the paper to the winds and stomped along his way.

"Do you have any idea what that is – that thing you just threw away?"

The voice was deep and slightly hoarse, cutting through the rush of the rain like a broad, nicked blade. The kid stopped, then shook his head at his own obedience and trooped on, not even glancing back over his shoulder.

"'s just rubbish, man. Nothin' to get worked up about, okay?"

"Exactly," the voice rumbled, now uncomfortably close. "And what would you say is that blue container half-sunk into the ground, just there against the wall, to your right?"

Involuntarily, the kid turned his head, then thought better of it and stared straight ahead. Who was this guy anyway, and what... he started for a second when a heavy hand dropped on to his shoulder from what felt like way up, then spun round and frowned into a broad, rain-glistening face, eyes as blue as the sky was not.

"Bin," he offered, in a small voice.

"See? And I am sure you know what to use one of them for," the robed man lectured, almost warmly, the soaked and bedraggled state of his clothing somehow not managing to distract from the dignity he exuded with every word.

The kid shrugged. "'Course I do."

"So," the man said, brightly, "care to show me?". And with that, he held out the hand that had gripped the kid's shoulder, and the sodden ball of red paper flew into it, up the street, against the roaring storm, and settled in the huge palm with a dirty splat. The kid gaped as he was offered the pathetic lump of paper as if on a silver platter, then took it gingerly, not quite sure if it might not be about to explode, and dropped it into the waste container set into the pavement against the near wall.

"There, that wasn't difficult, was it?" the man said, approvingly, and the kid was sure he heard a hint of a smirk in that uneven low voice. Shaking himself out of his stunned silence, the urchin gave the robed man an appraising look, then spat, "Stupid bloody Jedi," and ran away as fast as he could, not pursued in the least by the stupid bloody Jedi.

And of course the rain was just beginning to let up as said Jedi reached the fringes of the Temple complex, striding easily through courtyards and alleys usually thronged with all manner of life forms. A couple of water-dwelling creatures were out and about, paying him no heed at all, and even the Temple guards, usually a more than merry bunch of failed Padawans loitering on the broad stairs playing sabacc and looking menacing, had retreated to the safety of their guardhouse. They nodded at the soaked figure as he strode past, acknowledging their recognition with a quick lift of a hand.

He dropped the robe outside the entrance to his quarters, a near-black puddle of sodden fabric at the end of a wet trail he had dragged through half the Temple, dotted with greyish boot-prints. The boots would have to come off too. And the leggings, clinging to his thighs coldly and heavily. His skin prickled as he roughly yanked them off, and he shivered in the cool stale air of the corridor. Might as well take the tunics off, he thought, unbuckling his belt and peeling off several layers of soaked-through cream linen, revealing, in the end, a chest that was of a quite similar pale colour, a very faint and slightly pathetic dusting of dark hairs clouding between tight dusky nipples drawn up tiny and hard from the cold. A trickle of fresh wetness trailed down the damp skin from the end of a near-black braid sticking to the tall youth's chest. Running a hand down the length, the young Jedi squeezed a few more drops onto the shapeless pile of wet clothing on the floor, then ruffled his short dark hair, sending droplets of water everywhere. Ah, that felt better.

Rubbing his pale icy skin, the Padawan keyed the door open in nothing but his wrap, and slipped into the relative warmth of the windowless common room.

A greying head turned, a pair of long, brown-clad legs nonchalantly slid off the low table, and an aristocratic eyebrow quirked upwards. Then, a voice that was midnight velvet to the Padawan's soft broadcloth spoke calmly.

"Home at last, Padawan?"

"Yes, Master. I apologise for the delay, but..."

The Master grinned and rearranged himself in his chair to cast an appraising look at his near-naked shivering Padawan. He was certainly turning out to be a fine young man, already as tall as himself, if a bit on the thin side. And strong in the Force. And usually so modest that a glimpse of bare flesh was a rare sight indeed. The Master filed it away for future reference and smiled indulgently.

"Get yourself into a hot shower, Qui-Gon, and hurry."

"Certainly, Master." And he was gone too fast for Master Dooku to decide whether that hint of a smirk had sprung from the boy's pale lips or from his unnaturally blue eyes.

Still, it was not like he had to decide any time soon.

2. (In which Qui-Gon pays rather unexpected homage to his grand-Master)

"Master?"

Dooku looked up from his reading, a slow smile creeping across his face at the sight of his Padawan wrapped in a huge old towel which despite its size did not quite manage to conceal the young man's tall, gangly frame. His hair was a little lighter now that it was towel-dry, and closer to its usual brown than to the soaked black it had been when Qui-Gon had first dripped into the common room earlier that evening. And the lad's skin colour was closer to natural as well, a soft light olive tone that hinted at his unknown ancestry. For someone who had been delivered to the Temple as little more than transgalactic bulk freight with woefully incomplete papers, he was filling out into a very promising young Jedi. I'm surprised he hasn't had any offers yet, the Master mused idly. Or maybe he just had not told him... but then there was hardly anything imaginable in this universe more blankly honest than Padawan Jinn. Dooku wondered if the lad would receive more offers from boys or from girls, and unsuccessfully tried to picture his freshly-scrubbed, towel-wrapped young apprentice locked in a feverish tangle of limbs with either sex...

"Master?"

"Yes, Padawan?"

Force bless shielding.

"Would it be appropriate for me to absent myself from Temple tonight to celebrate Padawan Llipe's naming day? She's inviting a few friends over for a little party, and..."

"Padawan Llipe? Dear Force, time flies, doesn't it? How old did you say she was?"

"Well, eighteen last week. But she put off the celebrations until she's achieved her ascension to SPad – um, Senior Padawan, I mean. Which she managed yesterday."

"And so she's organised a little something, huh? Must be quite the party if it's had to be moved out of Temple..."

"Oh, nothing like that," Qui-Gon added hastily, a small blush colouring his cheeks. "But you know she's always been popular with people, and... well, one of her civilian friends agreed to lend her his flat. With him in it, of course, and a handful of other close friends... and Padawans."

"Ah. Well, I don't see why you shouldn't be able to survive such a little outing, my Padawan. As long as you steer well clear of the stronger intoxicants on offer – you know a roaring drunk Jedi is not exactly the sort of item we would want to crop up on the planetary gossip circuit."

"Master!" Qui-Gon blushed slightly deeper, and Dooku found himself quite enjoying embarrassing the half-naked boy. "You know me well – I would never go near anything I cannot cope with. Besides, I do not require intoxicants to enjoy myself. With Llipe there, and Depa and Gesarinn and his brother..."

"Ah," the Master interrupted. "The merry bunch of Padawans. Of course, I forgot that intellectual pleasures and their enjoyment have not entirely died out among the younger generation of Jedi." He winked at Qui-Gon, who lightened noticeably at his Master's good humour. "I take it there'll be exotic food and interesting conversation, and board games and the like?"

Qui-Gon grinned involuntarily. "Well, if Llipe has anything to do with the cooking, I'm sure it'll be exotic food eventually. She tends to be of the school of stick it all in a pot and see what happens. Oh, and she said there would be music and maybe dancing, but..."

"Just how big is that friend's flat, do you reckon?"

"Exactly, Master. It's in mid-seventeenth, so it's probably one of these column-block affairs. And if the intimidating number of Jedi present won't keep the dancers in check, then I'm sure the downstairs neighbours will!"

Master Dooku smirked. "All right then, Qui-Gon. I can see you're not on a mission to besmirch the reputation of the Order, and I don't see why experimental food and dealing with intoxicated civilians shouldn't be part of your regular training regime anyway. Enjoy yourself, and make sure you're back by dawn. You know Yoda's beginning to turn from an early riser to a nocturnal creature in his old age, and I'd hate to have to answer prising questions about his latest grand-Padawan, all right?"

"Thanks, Master!" That rare smile lit up the broad face, and Qui-Gon dashed off into his chamber to get ready for the evening's revelries.

"Whoa, Qui. Nearly didn't recognise you!" Before he even had time to reply, Qui-Gon found himself with an armful of very merry Zabrak, straining to plant a wet kiss on the tall boy's chin and grinning all over her chocolate-brown face. "Let's have a look at you, hm? Didn't know you had any gear that isn't standard Jedi stuff..." The girl took a step backwards, raking admiring light yellow eyes up Qui-Gon's form, dressed as he was in rather baggy black trousers that concealed his boots almost completely, and a tight black short-sleeved thing over a tight green long-sleeved thing. "You look cool," the tiny Zabrak declared in a voice that sounded much older and more lived-in than her eighteen standard years.

"Happy naming day, Llipe. Oh, and congratulations on your ascension as well – I see you've adopted the traditional bead, um, rather enthusiastically?"

Llipe grinned and ran a small brown hand through the mop of shiny short black hair on her head. In addition to the stubby ivory horns sticking out of it at regular intervals, she now sported a dazzling assortment of beads of all shapes and materials dangling from the ends of little braids, caught in elaborate loops of hair, or simply clipped into the slightly outgrown Padawan crop. "Yeah, Ril went a bit overenthusiastic this afternoon... but hey, he says it's traditional where he comes from, and who am I to complain? It's not like Master can see me here, y'know?"

Both grinned at the thought of Llipe's good-natured but appallingly conservative Master, a portly human female of undoubted pedagogic talents, but with little in the way of imagination.

"Sorry I haven't brought you anything, but you know I've been busy lately..."

"Aw, Qui. You know you probably wouldn't even manage to fit a gift on top of the pile of stuff my other mates have brought... and, you know," she winked conspiratorially up at him, "those old astromech exam questions you managed to track down were quite inestimable, you know?"

Qui-Gon blushed slightly, and told himself it was the warmth in what he assumed was Ril's flat. The place was quite lively already, about two dozen people lounging on assorted items of furniture as well as on boxes, piles of clothes, and simply on the floor, eating, laughing, and being noisy. He didn't recognise a single one of them.

"Come through here, Qui – the kitchen's where the real party is after all." Smirking, she dragged him by the wrist into an even warmer room that was even more cluttered, rickety shelves along the walls piled high with paper books, broken machinery of all kinds, empty bottles, full bottles, and a surprising number of potted plants doing reasonably well despite the sticky, smoke-wreathed atmosphere of the room.

The smells were dazzling, rising from two large pots of something on the cooker (after one look under the lids, Qui-Gon decided it was two different instances of Llipe's standard recipe of throwing everything you can find in a given time together into one pot in a strictly made-up order. They had turned out different colours, and one smelled rather mouth-wateringly savoury) as well as from a huge bunch of slightly mangy trumpet flowers on the floor, several small incense burners scattered around various surfaces, various smoking implements in the mouths of various occupants of the room, and a veritable carnage of foodstuffs on the kitchen table. Standing around the table were a number of people either busy turning the carnage into something that resembled edible food, or busy eating it in its current state.

"Qui-Gon! Nice to see you, mate. So your Master let you go free, huh?" Qui-Gon grinned a little dumbly, trying to bite back an obvious comment about how odd Depa looked in her native culture's short loose dress, wielding a large knife and reeking of red onions. Quite appealing actually.

"Uh, yeah. He figured I could defend myself from people like you all right." He patted the other Padawan on the cheek and was rewarded with the point of the kitchen knife dragging across the smooth fabric of his shirt. "Make yourself comfortable or make yourself useful, Jinn. At any rate, have fun, and that's an order."

Llipe's laugh rang out from the other end of the kitchen. "Give poor Qui a break, will ya? It's a tough and trying job being the perfect Padawan at all times, Deep... and look, he made the effort to come here, so I don't see why he wouldn't want to enjoy himself. If you want, Qui, you can help us with the biscuits here..."

"Oi, let a poor Padawan get a drink first, eh Llipe? I'm sure the lad is parched from the long and trying journey here, and would be more than happy to sample a nice large tumbler of Rillikmi's Special... wouldn't you, Qui?"

Qui-Gon grinned uncertainly at the genuinely large tumbler of translucent orange liquid, in the process of turning a deeper red as its creator dumped a handful of silverish sparkling ice cubes into the glass. "Oh, that, by the way, is our gracious host for tonight," Llipe interjected merrily, wriggling through the increasingly dense crowd in the kitchen to formally introduce the drink-bearer and the still-nonplussed Padawan. "Rillikmi, this is Qui-Gon Jinn, my agemate and invaluable fount of all knowledge. And much more fun than people say, so forget all you think you know about him, right? And Qui, shut up and have a drink."

Obediently, Qui-Gon closed his mouth and carefully sniffed the now blood-red drink, then took a cautious sip. It burned along his throat, leaving behind a pleasantly acidic tingle and a heavy fruit-scented warmth. It would do, certainly if he managed to spread the dose over the whole evening. Qui-Gon turned around gingerly, looking for a safe place to put his glass down, then decided that since he didn't know anyone but Depa and Llipe here, he might as well be where Llipe was, which was kneeling on the floor hunched over a large cardboard box covered with a waterproof tablecloth, engaged in esoteric cooking.

At least that's what Qui-Gon assumed it was. She was heating oil in a large spoon over a candle flame while kneading a small lump of something green in her other hand. Qui-Gon assumed that the tip of her tongue was sticking out of her mouth in concentration, but found himself proven wrong when she shot a very well-aimed droplet of spittle into the heated oil. It hissed angrily, and Llipe nodded, pleased with the result.

"Can you hold that for a moment, Qui? Thanks."

She handed him the spoon, motioning for him to hold it low over the candle flame, then rolled the deep green lump into a thin string between her fingers and slowly lowered it into the hissing oil. It dissolved immediately, leaving a clear emerald green liquid.

"Perfect." She took the spoon from Qui-Gon's hand and tipped the contents into a bowl of what looked like ordinary biscuit dough to him, flour, spices, an inordinate number of tiny chilla eggs and the like. The green oil soaked into the flour immediately, turning the whole mixture green as Llipe vigorously beat the dough into submission. After a while, a larger and lighter version of the original little green lump sat in the bowl, and Llipe proudly dumped it on to the boy's waxcloth-covered surface.

"Ooo-kay, biccie time!" she yelled rather unexpectedly, and minutes later an expectant crow had gathered around the makeshift work surface, taking turns in fashioning the most outlandish shapes from the smooth green dough.

"Waitaminute, only one each – Ril, no cheating. I know you made that one, mate. Nobody else would _eat_ a sirhorn... Qui, what about you? Anything small and green spring to mind... Padawan?"

Qui-Gon blushed deeply as his portion of light green dough dropped into his palm from Llipe's smaller one. "C'mon, it's not like he can see things..."

That provoked an unprompted giggle from the bystanders, incomplete lines and jokes about seeing things that Qui-Gon didn't quite manage to catch as he worked on the piece of dough. I'm sure that's not quite the innocent silliness Master was thinking about, he thought to himself as he presented, with as much dignity as he could muster given the silliness of the task, a flat biscuit-dough likeness of the venerable Master Yoda.

"Here's to the next eight hundred years, Llipe," Ril crowed and poured half his drink over his tunic, giggling uncontrollably. "Force biscuits, my... you Jedi are more wickeder than you'd think, huh?"

Qui-Gon still felt decidedly unwicked, but joined in the general enthusiastic toasting. Nobody stared at him disapprovingly for not pouring anything down his tunic, so he reckoned he would be all right. The evening might even turn out to be fun after all...

3. (In which the concept of music is trying hard to be redefined)

"Iiiiih, Fargren, what the hell are you..." The rest of the girl's shout drowned in tumultuous cheering and applause as she stood blazing in the middle of the crowded room, her elaborate hairdo illuminated by stray sparks from a handful of electric sparklers which a thin and weedy-looking Regati had stuck on top of the savagely regal array of deep red curls. Erratic tiny fires sizzled on and off in their prison of hair, showering the frightened girl with small shooting stars.

"Never mind her... she likes the attention, you know?" Qui-Gon started at the voice in his ear and whirled round to find that the slender Regati had suddenly materialised next to him. Nodding curtly and attempting what he hoped was an amused smile, he was acutely grateful for the relatively full state of his glass. Just in case anyone's idea of fun was setting fire to Padawan braids. That is, he thought, if Rillikmi's Special is actually weak enough not to catch fire itself. Considering his current situation, he decided to abandon that train of thought. He was here to have fun, after all, and it certainly looked like everyone else was doing so... the recently-incensed girl was just at this moment flinging herself at a gaggle of younger humans of both sexes, ostensibly to have her hair rearranged. But it was evident, and not just to Qui-Gon, he suspected, that there were only so many hands that would fit onto a human head, however elaborate the hairstyle... and the other hands would just have to go somewhere else. Not that the girl seemed to mind, wriggling and giggling with obvious amusement.

A loud parping noise pierced the general babble of voices, then died pathetically, followed by what Qui-Gon assumed to be a fierce curse in some language he had never heard in his life. Hardly anybody turned their heads to see, which seemed to enrage the originator of that noise greatly, perched as he was on a wobbly green stool in front of an ancient computer terminal that looked like it had been taken apart, scrapped, fossilised, excavated, stuffed and mounted, exhibited and finally sold for scrap by the museum several times over. On its flickering grey screen an improbable-looking tower of blocks in garish colours stood in silence. Which was more than could be said for the boy in front of the machine who was cussing a blue streak while simultaneously trying to elicit noises from both the computer terminal and an outlandish wind instrument moulded so perfectly to the contours of his face and upper body that it made movement rather difficult. Swearing, apparently, was not impeded by the mouthpiece, Qui-Gon thought amusedly.

It was only when the boy unplugged himself from his instrument (for want of a better word), letting his voice carry across the crowded room with all is natural force, that Qui-Gon realised it was Rillikmi himself. Shaking his head, the Padawan looked down into his drink. He could have sworn that Rillikmi had had pale yellow skin and extremely short hair when he'd first seen him an hour or so ago... and surely no amount of garish screen glare could turn that into mottled orange and long snaky braids? But the voice was unmistakably their host's, clamouring for Llipe in his bell-like tenor, the bell more than a little cracked from what Qui-Gon assumed must be a few too many of his very own Specials.

Shaking his head, attempting to dislodge the faint air of illogic buzzing behind his eyes like a tiny fly, Qui-Gon decided to involve himself into the party a little more, if only to keep himself from standing on the sidelines with nothing to do but sip this apparently slightly dangerous concoction Ril had so graciously served him. For a while, he attempted to involve himself in a heated discussion on the pros and cons of gorily killing off holovid heroes in conjunction with the utter beauty of a passing freighter's red position lights, but found himself distracted by the calm insistent way in which one of the participants kept winding a shimmering strip of light grey gauze around his finger, wrapping, unwrapping, wrapping, unwrapping, eyes distant, mouth arguing on autopilot, the crumb of a lime green biscuit balanced on one knee.

Unbound on the young man's shoulder lay the end of a Padawan braid.

Before Qui-Gon could properly rack his brain for the identity of this complete stranger, the parping noise commenced again, dying just as quickly, albeit this time without the attached string of swear-words. Rillikmi was still at the ancient terminal, but he'd grown taller... no, he was sitting on someone's lap, eagerly explaining to said someone, a girl in a short... dress... Depa. Padawan Depa. Explaining to her how to manipulate the computer terminal into making the sounds he was so keen on. And batting away an occasional stray hand. Depa? Frowning into his drink, Qui-Gon watched as Ril wriggled closer to the Padawan until they were very nearly one four-armed and four-legged body perched precariously on the stool, two light brown arms manipulating the keypad on the terminal while two deep orange ones disappeared into the workings of the instrument. Seconds later, all hell broke loose, and went completely unnoticed by any of those present.

Stunned, and in a state of almost physical pain from the combined din, Qui-Gon fought his way out of the room, nearly colliding with a half-undressed Padawan Llipe.

"Quiiii! I'd been looking for you high and low!" She giggled. "Wouldn't have thought someone as tall as you could so easily hide... go on, spill it. Who've you been inside?"

"Llipe!" Qui-Gon blushed furiously, causing even more amusement in his fellow Padawan. "What on Coruscant is this hellish din your fried is trying to produce, with eager assistance, I might add, from Padawan Billaba?"

Llipe took one step back, blinking a few times as if to bring Qui-Gon back into focus. Her tiny black brows drawn together, she seemed to think intensely for a while, then abruptly grabbed the tall Padawan by his belt and dragged him along behind her.

"We've forgotten something rather essential, Qui," she squeaked, winding her way through the thick throng of partying life forms in what used to be the kitchen. Qui-Gon could have sworn he recognised faces here and there, but they flickered in and out of vision too fast for him to focus. Damn that drink, he thought faintly, then authoritatively poured it over one of the plants perched on the shelves around the room, earning a quiet giggle from a Calamarian lying underneath it. He absently watched the orange liquid soaking into the creature's thirsty skin, then followed the sharp tug on his wrist. Llipe was getting impatient, it seemed.

"C'mon, old fuzzyhead. Of course you can't truly appreciate the wonders of Ril's late-night serhorn serenades if you're not in the right state of mind... or body." With nimble fingers, she scooped up the last green biscuit from a tray that was miraculously free of crumbs and lifted it to his lips.

It was Yoda-shaped.

"Llipe!" Qui-Gon took a step back, or attempted to, and found himself poked in the ribs by somebody spiny. He decided it would not be a clever move to turn around and look, seeing as his composure was more than frayed already. "If you're offering me drugs, I must inform you that I have no intention to ingest any whatsoever." He shook his head as if to clear it. "I can't believe you're –"

"Everyone's having them, sweetie," Llipe laughed as she slid the biscuit between Qui-Gon's protesting lips, "including all the good Padawans. Look, it's not like it's anything dangerous. Just a bit of a boost to the senses, that's all. Proven to be completely safe, no side effects, no late reactions... you would trust me, would you?"

"What...," Qui-Gon sputtered as he tried to spit the biscuit out without spraying his blissfully smiling friend with crumbs, then gave in and swallowed, if only for the sake of having his mouth free to talk, "what the hell is that green stuff?"

"Oh, it's called teehace. Force knows where Ril gets it from, but really... half the Temple uses it. Don't tell me you've never come across it? Qui, really... I must work on your education some time."

"Llipe, I-"

Reaching up, she put her small brown hand over his mouth, pushing the last of the biscuit in. "Relax, Qui. This stuff is proven to be much weaker than the concoction Ril offers his guests for a drink, and look how valiantly you put that one away, eh? I swear...," she thought for a while, a cute frown on her face, "...sexual favour of your choice, eh Qui? If you notice anything as much as a hangover. Besides, the stuff is," she hiccuped squeakily, "...all hhhhherbal," accentuating the word with a wriggle of her small body as if to illustrate the concept of the Padawan as a creeping vine, "so no residues. Your precious Master won't notice ennathing in the morning. And now go on and enjoy yourself, Jinn. And that is an order."

She made as if to dance away from him, but Qui-Gon was far from satisfied with her explanation. "Llipe." He grabbed her by the braid, cursing himself inwardly for such rudeness, then remembering that he appeared to be the only one who wasn't currently groping somebody anyway. "What exactly will this do to me?"

The tiny Zabrak giggled. "My, aren't you worried, Jinn-boy. 'snothing much, really. You might not even feel it the first time round. All it does is heighten the senses a bit, you know, make the colours a bit brighter and a bit more... a bit more everywhere." She shrugged her shoulders. "And it makes that din of Ril's one damn sight more attractive." With that, she left a nonplussed Qui-Gon standing in the kitchen, wondering what was going to happen to him.

He hated that feeling of not being in control of his body. Even though strictly speaking, he still was. Closing his eyes, he turned his senses inward, trying to detect the workings of the mystery drug in his system, but could not find anything. Cautiously, he let his senses bleed outward again, half-afraid to admit he was scared of what he might experience.

The scent... no, it was still the same messy mix of incense and food, slightly burnt now that the pots were getting emptier, and with a faint undertone of sweat as the room was hot from the stoves and the close proximity of so many bodies. The noise was still the same – terrible, in fact. Qui-Gon breathed a huge sigh of relief and opened his eyes, only to find the pointy face of a pink-haired girl level with his, about a breath away. She did not flinch, so Qui-Gon did.

She sneered. "Trying not to enjoy yourself, Jedi? Purging the stuff out of your system? I trust that makes Ril's music sound like torture, huh? Pity you've wasted the last of your biccie on Force-shoving it out of you... others could have had sooo much fun with it." She tapped his chest with a long metal smoking implement, but made no move to go away.

Qui-Gon fidgeted, uneasy despite the fact that she was obviously the deluded one here. "If I may inform you, this Force-shove is largely a myth." He cleared his throat, trying to put a little more confidence in his voice. "We Jedi are just as subject to the limitations of physiology as any other creature, and that includes inebriation –"

"Inebriaaaation!" The girl squealed with mirth. "He said inebriaaay-shun! Someone get this Padawan a drink... or tongs! Tooongs... to get that stick out of his cuuute little arse!"

Qui-Gon shifted uncomfortably, not sure whether it was just the pink-haired smoking girl's little hand currently poking and stroking his backside. Or maybe a couple more. He flushed intensely, wishing for his enveloping robes, or at least wishing... no, not his robes. He stood out enough as it was, tall as a lighthouse and probably flushed just as bright, pink as the nameless girl's hair as she twined a skinny arm around his waist and drawled into his shoulder, "Let's daaance, Padawwwawn."

Taking a deep breath, Qui-Gon collected all his senses, finding them surprisingly complete, and tried his best to distil a rhythm from the discordant noise Rillikmi's serhorn was making on top of the computer's monotonous tinkle. Here in the kitchen, the noise level was just about bearable, and maybe dancing was the only way to get some space to himself... if it helps, Qui-Gon thought with an inward shrug, focused for a moment, and let himself sink into the rhythm.

4. (In which a handful of stoned Padawans discuss the space-time continuum)

"You'd have to ask him yourself, Whane-darling. If he ever gets out of that trance of his again." A whisper, then a giggle as Llipe rubbed one of her pale horns against the pink-haired girl's sweaty neck. "I told you he's hard to keep up with once he gets out of his shell. All I can safely say is I'm sure he's not dating anyone at Temple... and I'm pretty sure he's too strait-laced to seek adventures elsewhere..."

"Adventure... he'd be worth an aaaadventurrrrre...," Whane purred, scraping sweat off the back of her neck with the stem of her pipe. "Look at him... I mean, he...," her voice trailed off into a murmur as she watched, transfixed like the rest of the room, as the young Jedi danced.

Danced – well, moved anyway, translating the ragged strains of Ril's serhorn into fiercely proud moves, the strut of a warrior paired with the fluid grace of a flame, throwing himself to the air and floating, eyes closed, no more than a faint sheen of sweat on his proud forehead, liquid elegance as his booted feet spun soundlessly on the stained carpet.

The kitchen crowd had backed away towards the walls and into the doorways, met eagerly by the people from the other room keen on finding out what was causing everyone else to be so quiet all of a sudden. It was only when Rillikmi himself found himself rudely dumped on the floor as his human cushion Depa joined the ranks of the voyeurs that the music stopped, and Qui-Gon's dance came to a quiet, measured end as he stood in the middle of the kitchen, breathing heavily, and opened his eyes.

And found Whane an inch away from his face. Again.

"My, you are a hot one... if you haven't noticed yet." She wriggled playfully, rubbing her prominent nipples against his chest. "I bet there's a version of this one for... twooo partners, ah?"

Qui-Gon raised his eyebrows, then shook his head. Still sorting through his brain for a polite yet clear reply, he took one step back to try and put some distance between himself and his obviously drunk admirer. That little distance was quite enough to accommodate her hissed words, loud enough for everyone to hear now that the music had stopped.

"Cold fish, huh?"

"Now now now, Whane... be nice to our dear Jedi. Guardians of the peace and all, you know? Besides," Rillikmi grinned wickedly, "he'd be right zonked if he were."

"What-?" Qui-Gon's half-uttered question drowned in uproarious laughter from the crowd, and he wasn't sure whether to be relieved when he found himself flanked by Llipe and Depa and the Padawan with the gauze strip, ready to defend him against the assembled civilians. And Rillikmi was there, reading the unspoken question from Qui-Gon's lips.

"Some species with a certain genetic make-up get really weird side-effects from this stuff, you know? Like, fish... or Wookiees, I'm told... though I've never yet been able to make sense of anything a Wookiee says, whether he's stoned or not!" Uproarious laughter.

Qui-Gon leaned down to whisper into Llipe's ear, "You never told me about this..."

"Qui," she purred, soothingly, "relax. It's perfectly safe for humans. Look at Depa... and she's taken it sooo many times. And Ril, he's human too, and do you see him sprouting a third, sorry second, head? You don't have any fish in your ancestry, do you? There, thought not." She gave Qui-Gon's bottom an affectionate little squeeze before joining the general conversation again.

The gauze-strip boy had launched into a lengthy explanation to one of the room's potted plants. The Calamarian underneath listened intently, as did most of the other bystanders.

"...certain sequence in their codes. Doesn't do anything, you know, not like the people who can't see no red and no green, like, ever..."

"I'll bet you seventwelfty credits that this 'ere Jedi doesn't ever see red, like, ever, either!" somebody crowed from the doorway, much to everyone's amusement.

Qui-Gon cast a quick glance at the dishevelled figure, then murmured quietly but sharply, "The whites of your eyes are quite crimson enough, thank you very much," causing Llipe and Depa to snort in amusement. All the while, the half-unbraided Padawan was lecturing the potted plant.

"...or like these people who don't see what they see, or not just see it anyway, like they also hear it, and they smell what they hear, and then there's the ones that don't like milk because there's this stray sequence in their genes that tells them they don't do milk, or like the Asss... ass... asunthar, the, they..."

"Wait a tic," Depa interrupted the Padawan's tirade, "you've never met an Asun-Tihaar in your life, Tuinne."

The braided youth stopped short for a moment, as if to assure himself of everyone's, and especially the potted plant's, attention, then continued in a forceful drone, "... but I've heard stories, yes I have, from people who've been there, and they, like, they go see their gods like that, they smoke the stuff and bang, it takes them out of their tiny little minds, y'see because they can't take it, and they go crazy for a week or so and come back talking about fantastic journeys and how they've met their gods and sometimes they come back with bits missing, like, memory, and wounds like they've really been travelling you know. Aaaand it doesn't even take much you know, just a tiny grain up in smoke and they're gone – up in smoke..." He trailed off into giggles, then caught himself, remembering to finish the sentence. "Like, it blurs their focus, and your f-focus..."

"Determine your reality, your focus does!" half a dozen Padawans crowed from all corners of the room, breaking into uncontrolled laughter. Tuinne blinked, then continued unabated.

"Thank you, Masters Yodas... and so as I was saying, the Assunthar... tar... really go out of their mind on teehace, like, travelling into their own version of time, and of space, and they swear stone and bone and... thingy that they've been like on a different planet and, well they've been away because they haven't been home all that time either but you know the Assss... you know them people don't even have space transport of their own... and, and... they don't have no fish either." Satisfied, Tuinne took a deep breath, obviously expecting an answer from the potted plant.

"Llipe... if you'd please excuse me. I'm... feeling a little tired after all this dancing."

"Qui? We haven't managed to scare you, have we, Qui? Look, I doubt you could dance like that if you were in any way susceptible to teehace. In any way other than the way we all are," she added gaily. "Or is Master waiting up for you?" A wink.

"Look, Llipe, I'm just feeling a little sleepy, nothing to do with your mystery drug. I don't sense anything, if that's what you're driving at, and I'm quite glad I'm not. But I'd really rather like to go home now before I fall asleep on your floor... nothing against your floor, but..." he gestured at the assemblage of fruit peel, gift wraps, trumpet flowers, and drunk Calamarian on the carpet, "I'll see you in the morning? And Llipe, it was a wonderful party. Very enlightening."

"I'll see you to the door, Qui. Great of you to come. You need a bit of a change of air sometimes... oh, and shall I tell Whane to write to you?" She winked, and Qui-Gon winced. "All right then. I think she got your message anyway. Force with ya, mate."

"And you." With a last hug, Qui-Gon backed out of Ril's flat, trying to make as little noise on the dark stairs as possible. He seemed to still be in possession of his sense of balance. That was good.

In truth, he didn't feel anything much, except perhaps a slight drowsiness, and that could easily have been due to the appalling quality of the air inside that room... but something was needling him in the back of his mind, something that drove him home as quickly as his feet would carry him.

Setting off at a run, Padawan Jinn made for the Jedi Temple.

Fingers trembling, he squatted in front of the portable terminal on the floor of his bedroom, hidden behind the bed's high headboard just in case his Master chanced to come in. At four-and-a-half at night, but one never knew. And what he was about to do was not exactly moral.

Not that access to the personal files was in any way restricted – he could get anything he wanted, provided he asked his Master. He would have asked Master Dooku in the morning, and he would have been sure to have his wish granted with that jovial smile... but tomorrow morning was too late. He had to know now. Hence his immoral act, behind the headboard.

Keying in his Master's access code, he waited for the screen to change, then, as quietly as possible, typed his Master's password. Really, it was not his fault he had overheard his Master repeatedly typing a string of characters one day, muttering to himself about passwords and the like, and it was not his fault his eyes and ears had picked up the unmistakable combination of numbers and letters Dooku was most likely to use... and he would never have appropriated his Master's password anyway except in cases of dire need... of which this was one.

Jinn, Qui-Gon. Estimated date of birth. Estimated. Date of arrival at Temple. Circumstances of arrival. Nothing new here – Master had told him all this when he'd asked. You're the best bulk freight ever to have hit the Temple, he was wont to say, and Qui-Gon had come to be proud of that. But now, it was the other information that made him bite his lip, scrolling down the file. Eye colour. Blood group. Midichlorian count. He whistled through his teeth. No wonder they don't tell the Padawans their count. Further down. Test results for various diseases and medical conditions. Negative, negative, negative. Positive. Ah, chafra factor. Inconsequential unless he wanted to have children. Negative, negative, negative. Species. Human, yes he knew that. Subspecies. A link to his genetic chart, chains of letters snipped out of his bloodstream. A text box at the bottom, filled in by a Temple healer, dated three days after his arrival at Coruscant.

Subspecies: Tihaaroth, probably mixed-race.

Qui-Gon drew a deep breath. Tihaar. Asun-Tihaar. Who else was there on that blasted little planet to mix with? Probably mixed-race? Probably? Hells, was he feeling anything or wasn't he? A flash of terror coursed through him, and he forced himself to calm, shutting off the terminal with its small accusing text box. Probably mixed-race.

Never had he wished more fervently for that supposed Jedi ability to purge something out of one's system. Still... he didn't feel anything, did he? Calming his wildly thumping heart, he settled down on the floor to collect his senses.

No. He didn't feel anything. Nothing beyond the usual, and his grasp on the Force was still there too. He floated the porta-terminal experimentally, and it obeyed his mental command. And all the others had been on the floor laughing from the same dose, and admiring the position lights of the freighters, and adoring Ril's horrid music. And talking to potted plants about the supposed effects of this drug on a race they had never met.

He had. Well, he was one of them, and he didn't feel anything. Surely that was worth more?

Pleased with his reasoning, Qui-Gon slowly uncurled his legs and began to undress for bed. And besides, he thought, Llipe said something about it not working first time round sometimes. Well, you can be sure I'm not going to give it a second try... I wish I could ask someone to assure me, he thought, but I can't really rouse a Healer at this ungodly hour. Much less my own Master. And surely the stuff must have reached his bloodstream by now, after all he had exerted himself quite a bit, dancing much more than all the others, and they had all been on the floor giggling... he noticed his thoughts were going round in circles and shook his head. No, he didn't sense anything.

Pulling on his sleep pants, Qui-Gon decided that taking a shower now would only awaken his Master. There would be enough time for that in the morning, and he was not entirely sure he wouldn't fall asleep under the spray anyway. At least all that dancing has made me sleepy, he thought fuzzily, as he hit the bed and fell, quite literally fell, asleep.

He was almost sure it was fern tickling his cheek before the soft black velvet enveloped his senses.

5. (In which the ground misbehaves, and reality fails to go away)

Qui-Gon awoke quite a while before his mind actually noticed ­ an ache, there was an achy shoulder from lying in one place, in one position too long... Groaning, he burrowed deeper into the covers, trying to get back to sleep, back to that soft red glow behind his closed lids that told him it was daylight outside, and it would be green as always when he opened them, and cold...

Something dripped, and Qui-Gon twitched and pulled the covers tighter around himself.

Something else dripped, and then another something. Cool pinpricks of sensation, insistent. Water... the bed was damp? Fuzzily, Qui-Gon opened his eyes.

Daylight was green.

Green and... veined. Struggling to focus as the green daylight burned into his eye sockets and sliced through his brain, Qui-Gon tried to raise his head. A cold green hand slapped him in the face, wetly and with a strange gentleness. The Padawan blinked, trying to get some of that cool moisture into his dry eyes. Fingers, flat fingers... leaves. Nodding feather-like leaves. Fern, tall as all heaven. The fern was the sky, and the sky was green, a murky translucent green from which rain was falling in occasional cool drops.

Qui-Gon shook his head, trying to dispel the repetitive images of green veins, tarnished daylight and nodding fern. Surely he must be dreaming... but surely dreams weren't meant to be this... well, wet.

He opened his eyes again. The fern had most definitely not gone away, and neither had the crippling headache that had arrived with the daylight. I should go back to sleep, he thought, I am dreaming.

Forlornly, he looked down at his brown leggings, the only thing he was wearing, stained almost black where the raindrops had hit, spreading islands of cool black...

It was a while before he remembered to think again. What was I thinking, he thought. Thinking... hard. Ah, sleep. Of course. Too real for a dream, even though it couldn't be... but too wet to sleep in, even in a dream. There must be... dry place.

Sighing, Qui-Gon surveyed his slack legs in their slowly darkening leggings. Walk, wasn't that what they were for? Stand, maybe? His head hurt unbelievably. I will get Llipe for this, some little voice in his head said, while the rest of him was trying to remember what Llipe was and why it would be a good thing to get.

Stand.

Those legs felt like old wood, old wood was a good idea, a tree maybe to hide under... so heavy. This... this me-thing can balance? And what is that taste in my mouth? Struggling against the thick cumbersome weight of his own legs while trying to hold his head together with his hands, Qui-Gon pushed himself up, through the cover of fern, into...

Wet. Brown. Flat. No, he had fallen... hadn't he? Closing his eyes, Qui-Gon tried to sort his senses. Something was pounding behind his eyes, in a highly irregular rhythm, mocking him. Sleep? With this din going on? They were cries, quiet little titters and loud squawks that sounded like they were directly above him... if the wet part was below him. Breathe, he thought desperately, breathe. Shut it all out. There is you. There is gravity, and moisture and light. Light can stay away for the time being. There is headache, so there is head. There is sound. Focus on sound. Uneven carpet of song... bird, animal noises. There is smell of thick earth and rotting fern. There is that below. And there is... above.

Keeping his eyes closed, he pulled his legs up, then rolled to his knees. Steady. There is quite a lot of 'up' here. Sway. Birdsong in and out of focus. Nausea, don't faint, not now. Focus on the cold at his fingertips. Crawl. Crawl under the fern, hide. What was that thought he'd had? Oh, back to sleep. That was it. Sleep. Crawl into the fern. Crawl under... eyes closed, focus on fingertips, wet, cold, earth. Into.

Out ­ out of ground, scream, own voice tasting dirty, headlong, headfirst, down. Fall. I've fallen. Sith it's dark, it's... maybe asleep?

Blackout.

It was voices that woke him, and voices were good. He remembered voices. Llipe was a voice, and a face, and it was faces he saw in his mind's eye. Good. The light on the inside of his eyes was still red, but the rain had abated, and the warmth of his bed was back... no more raindrops. Wrapped tightly in sheets, harsh starched sheets that chafed, and voices were there too, voices...

He would get up soon. What were all these people doing in his bedroom? Talking, shouting. Trying to throw him out of bed, rocking him, tugging. He reached out to bat them away, there where the voices were coming from, and found his body did not obey him.

His eyes snapped open, followed by a dagger of pale light and a groan, his own.

He saw sky, fern and jerking sky as he tumbled upwards towards the voices, away from the earth, the earth he could see now, and the voices he could hear now, and they were not birdsong. And he wasn't going to try and rise again, not after last time, and still he found himself rising up and up and towards the ground, more ground, higher this time, oh yes he had fallen. A pit, his mind supplied, and a net. That was why the rest of his body wasn't moving. It was... around him and up, and everywhere.

...rerehanawhiritarangauputitikohanetanekehawaringakoatangatatangatatangata. ..

The voices were not birdsong, though they could have been, chattering rough voices, excited, syllables raining down on his ears and he stared at them for a while before staring at the faces.

They were staring back at him, and they were still staring inside him as the ground kissed him roughly and he felt himself dragged along, in the rough embrace of that net, those voices in his head, earth under his head, stone, merciful thud that took away the headache...

Faces, dark fern-veined faces behind his eyelids as he fell again, into darker darkness.

The ground was much clearer the next time he awoke, much smoother and more plain to see. It was quieter too. And his head hurt less, though he decided to keep his eyes closed for the time being. Body, he had to take stock of his body. It was still not a bed he was in... but this was his body all right, his legs stretched out easily on the floor, his stomach he was lying on, his braid tickling the side of his neck, still wet. These were his arms... this was not his... cutting into his upper arms, pulling his shoulders back. Damn. But only there. One bond to hold him? It made no sense... he moved his legs experimentally, and yes, they moved.

Rolling on to his side clumsily, he tried to sit up ­ and immediately had what felt suspiciously like a sharp stick against his throat. At the other end of the stick was a face, a very real face, and one of these voices... so they had been real. Qui-Gon bit his lip, trying to focus. The face was human, dark and marked all over with severe cuts and swirls of black. A pair of dark eyes glittered at him and a harsh voice spoke in clipped syllables, like a rivulet of speech tripping over pebbles, stopping every time Qui-Gon had reminded himself that this was a language he should make an effort at understanding.

As it was, the spear spoke clearly enough. If indeed it was a spear. Qui-Gon dared not look down at the bit closest to his neck, but trusted his senses as far as the sharpness was concerned. The shaft was long and somewhat ornate at the other end, matching the markings on the young man's face. He was scowling, wide-eyed, had stopped speaking now. Fearful, maybe? Qui-Gon reached out, out beyond his mind ­ the Force, that was it... and had to clench all his muscles to keep from falling forward into that spear-point...

His inner hand slipped through fog, and landed on wet ground, as his body had done only a while ago. The Force was elsewhere, behind, beyond the fern... not here. Here was the voice, and the spear-point, and the single bond cutting into his upper arms, and the silhouette of another man against a rectangle of light. A door. He was in a house, and judging from the impatient gesture the armed man was making with his head, he was to leave the house as quickly as possible.

Staggering, Qui-Gon rose to his feet, taking a step back to avoid the weapon still pointed at him, collecting his senses, or what was left of them. Well, standing worked. Going back to sleep probably wouldn't. The hand on his shoulder felt very real, urging him forward towards the other man silhouetted against the bright light.

The man brought darkness, but not the velvet darkness of sleep. It was a very real blindfold that settled over Qui-Gon's eyes and was knotted tightly with a few curt words. The spear-point was nowhere to be seen, and the hand took over, clasping one of his bound arms and urging him to go, in the unmistakable language of the body.

Daylight didn't touch him, but walk he could. He wasn't sure whether to call that an improvement yet... but whoever they were, they were apparently not too keen on eating him, and they... well, they spoke. Not anything he could make sense of, but they were speaking, clothed, armed humans. That was a start. Of course things would be easier if he had his commlink, or his lightsabre, or some of his Sithdamned Force sense... but this was beginning to look more like the sort of dream he would survive. If indeed it was ­

He felt himself abruptly pushed to his knees. The voice of the man with the spear spoke up again, softly, the rivulet of syllables now rhythmical, almost singing. And it wasn't speaking to him. The answer came in the slow measured tones of a deep male voice, slightly cracked, roughened but full. And it sounded like it came from very far above.

The other voices again, quiet, more like birdsong again now. Taking their leave in flight. Where the other voices were like agitated birds, that new voice was... no earthquakes didn't have voices. But something like that anyway. Something ancient, and smouldering, and heavy with threat, anticipation and power. If only I could understand what he's saying, Qui-Gon thought helplessly. If only I could see the face, to read it at least. Read why I am here, and if I am here at all.

Taking a deep breath and tilting his blindfolded face up, Qui-Gon opened his mouth to speak to the invisible man. His words died on his tongue, breath forgotten.

The hard warm hand grabbing his chin felt real. _Very_ real.

6. (In which Qui-Gon attempts to drown on dry land)

I wish I could at least see him, Qui-Gon thought miserably. Must be a big man... the hand on my chin feels massive...

Knees spread wide on the uneven hard floor, he tried his best to stay upright as the man slowly and deliberately tilted Qui-Gon's face upwards until his neck was straining, hands curled into fists behind his back, his whole body taut as a bowstring, thighs trembling, trying to keep himself upright while the hard warm hand slid a little higher, releasing his chin to rub against his lips, pulling the tender flesh this way and that as if seeking something. A thick finger invaded his mouth, then a second, and the hand kept pushing back, kept him bent backwards, throat exposed, mouth full of the earthy salty flavour of the man's skin. Qui-Gon swallowed noisily, desperately trying not to bite down.

The fingers withdrew. A quiet noise that could have been a snort, could have been a chuckle. If only he could see the man's face. Slowly, he let his head drop to his chest again, anticipating the next assault, listening for the man's breaths. Slow, heavy, measured breaths barely audible over the rush of his own blood in his ears, half-covered as they were by the blindfold.

A hard, punishing grip on his upper arm, and he couldn't help the surprised whimper that escaped his mouth. The hand gripped him stronger, squeezing the youth's slender arm, making the thin thread cut more deeply into his flesh where his arms were bound behind him. Painful, this was bruising strength, and Qui-Gon bit his lip reining in a grunt of pain, drawing a shaky deep breath, bracing himself for being yanked upright or tossed to the ground. Like a piece of flesh, he thought, he's assessing me like some animal, teeth, muscles, suppleness...

He did yelp in surprise when he felt his pants being tugged down roughly, the abused string breaking and leaving him rudely exposed, fabric pooling around his knees. He turned his head, as if averting his eyes would help, as if those eyes would help at all. As if he knew whose gaze he was trying to avoid, and where that gaze was. His head swam, and his mouth was dry and still full of the taste of the strange man and he wished desperately for a touch of the Force, not the damp misty distance he had felt the last time he had opened himself and nearly fallen... if he had the Force, he could maybe see a little, read a little of that man that was all roughness and strength, and absence and calm, maddening calm, slow and thoughtful in his humiliation... distant...

Casting his aching mind out into the fog, Qui-Gon reeled at the undertow that took hold of him, dragging him away from himself, fast, thirsty and floating, needing... he gasped as he fell forward, wincing as a hand fisted in his short hair, keeping him upright while the other tore the blindfold off, then settled around his throat, hard and possessive, forcing him to look up, up into the face of his captor.

The man was huge.

Not just in size – although he was easily Qui-Gon's height, and massively built at that. The sheer bruising strength in those hands was easily believable at the sight of the wide chest and the broad muscular shoulders barely covered by a cloak of some sort that hung haphazardly down to the man's knees, framing his dark bronze skin in thin wispy feathers of an even darker brown.

His hair was long, tangled in the feathers of the cloak at the tips, thick and ragged, dirty black, greying and unkempt, spilling over the shoulders, framing the proud column of his neck. Part of it was gathered in a knot at the top of his head, held there by some kind of wooden ornament. Or by tangles and time.

Tangles and time. The man's face was lined, but not by age. Lined by artful scars swirling and snaking over his skin, shallow black grooves where the thin daylight caught in them, spirals eddying across his cheeks, trailing off into elegant harsh lines surrounding his mouth, a pair of perfectly black lips curled into the faintest sneer of disgust. Or were they? The face was so hard to read under all that... writing, I suppose it's writing, Qui-Gon thought helplessly. Carving, even. A perfectly symmetrical frown echoing thick dark eyebrows and furrowing the wide forehead in hard black lines, accentuating the long nose, nostrils flared under smaller spirals, no square inch of skin uncovered by the tangled webwork of tattoo, jagged curls of ornamental scarring flowing into jagged curls of greying hair framing the face, the cruel symphony of black and brown broken only by the long polished shape of a pale green stone pendant hanging from one ear.

And by the man's eyes.

Almost small, under the thick brows, and bright amid the savaged skin. And blue, a cool greyish blue totally out of touch with the rest of the man's face. Eyes that were... Qui-Gon fidgeted as if to steady himself, only to be reminded that his hair and throat were in the firm grip of hands he had almost forgotten about. The yearning was there again, the elusive current of the Force, the thirst for a sea that was these eyes, and the wish for a drop of the cool blue water, for a deep draught of the Living Force. His mouth was so dry... and this man was so water and yet so far... he swallowed against the tightness in his throat, his aching mind casting about for something to read in those eyes, longing to sink, to fall, to swim, and before he knew it the words were spilling from his lips, a low desperate stream of yearning, voice breaking the dam that tears would not...

He saw the scarred face distantly but did not hear the words the black mouth formed. Helpless, he watched the symmetrical frown deepen and the growl of the man's voice rise, and still he could not stop himself, mindless words of longing and stomach-curling need, of trying to will the sea in those eyes to slake the thirst he felt, of trying to will the Force to make him whole, to make him understand, to make him wake.

A hard hand clamped his mouth shut, and then he was upon him with all his weight and brute strength, flinging the struggling boy to the ground, covering him, possessing him, enveloping him in the heavy earthy smell that was so unlike the glassy sea he thought he craved, but so good nevertheless, so near, so –

Qui-Gon reared up, horrified. Dreaming, you must be dreaming... the after-effects... this cannot be happening... cannot want this to be happening... want the hard body covering you, struggling fruitlessly, want the hand holding my mouth, my face in his hand, holding hard, the more I struggle the harder he holds and his voice gets darker like a stormy sea all those rolling words full of wind and dizziness and... Force, I want out, and I want in, to dive in deeper... hand... that hand... there... aaah...

The young pale body squirmed on the ground, pinned down by the older man's sheer physical strength. One large bronzed hand covered the captive's mouth, muffling the ever more urgent sobs and cries, while the other squeezed the hardening cock roughly, bringing it to a deep pink matching the shameful excited blush on the boy's cheeks. Qui-Gon twisted in his captor's rough grip, desperate to get out, desperate for more, more of he knew not what, helpless to escape or even to scream as he felt the roughness of the big man's kilt give way to insistent hardness stabbing the small of his back, the heat of friction unbearable, so tight, so cruel and close, that rumbling cracked voice spilling fractured words over his struggling body, deep guttural laughter at the blushing shameful craving that mounted with each thrust, his cock being jerked and pulled by a rough hand in time with the hard thrusts as the other man's throbbing hardness raked along the crease between his buttocks, pumping, taking, possessing, spilling thick liquid heat between their burning bodies, spilling a thick harsh roar from the black lips...

Leaving Qui-Gon on the ground, shattered, stained, craving. Leaving him still unsatisfied, needing, needing a touch, needing a shake of his head to clear his mind... needing a word.

Words he got. A harsh growl of speech over the small rustle of the big man straightening his kilt and cloak. Curt words, syllables rolling around his ears like waves while he lay on the dry ground gasping for breath. The hand in his hair again, pulling him up, the thick finger rubbing against his lips. Oh Force he smells of me now, Qui-Gon thought, head spinning, head dropping to the hard floor as the hands let go and the words never stopped, the angry rumble of that sea-deep voice that just went on and on until it ran aground in a frustrated grunt.

Dirty toes nudged the prone boy's bound arms. The man shook his head and left.

Qui-Gon could no longer tell what the taste of salt on his lips was.

7. (In which Qui-Gon acquires a new name)

He wasn't entirely sure what he had been expecting the first time he was allowed to set foot outside the house again. He had tried his best to wipe the dirt and tears off his face, he had even tried to belt his badly abused leggings with what was left of the thin strand of rope he had been bound with, but had found it too short for the purpose. Holding them up by the waistband with one hand, running the other through his short hair as if to rake out the last lingering traces of headache, Qui-Gon blinked into daylight.

Daylight blinked back.

Eyes, pairs of large, curious brown eyes blinked up at him from under tiny brows knit in a frown of concentration or raised in speechless amazement. Before he knew it, he was the centre of a ring of children of various ages and in various states of undress, gazing, staring, murmuring, whispering and nudging each other while jostling to stay at a respectable distance lest the stranger lash out at them with whatever outlandish appendages or weapons he might have. The smallest of the children hid behind the kilts of their elder siblings, peeking out occasionally to make sure nobody had been eaten yet. The older boys and girls just stared, gesturing and whispering at each other as if to give the impression they had seen all this before... all this... bone-white man. And the funny plain cloth covering him, and look, he was holding it up with his hand as if he had never seen a belt in his life. And the funny braid, have you seen the braid, it's not around his neck, it goes all the way down his chest, and it's made of his hair, isn't it? His face is so pale, so big like a man's and yet so empty, and he's got eyes like the ariki, pale blue eyes, just like Te-... shut up, silly. Can't you see he's a poor plainface – to compare him to the chief in any respect, honestly...

The voices got a little bolder with the arrival of the women, and knowing that their mothers were guarding their backs, some of the boys got bolder, pointing fingers, inching closer, never taking their eyes off the tall pale stranger. Qui-Gon attempted a smile, and the murmur of strange voices died down as if he'd dropped a bomb. Taking a deep breath, he extended his smile to all assembled, then raised his free hand to his chest, resting it there.

"Jinn."

Incredulous eyes at the sound of his voice. Tiny rows of teeth bared in an attempt to recreate the sound, questioning looks in the direction of the mothers, the murmur of voices rising again. Qui-Gon forced another smile, grateful that he had not attempted to give his full name, and repeated, quietly, "Jinn."

"Hine!!" piped up a small voice, crowing with delight, "ko Hine!", and within seconds the whole gathering broke into laughter, pointing and giggling, the older children nodding benignly at the originator of what Qui-Gon surmised was his new nickname, and a very funny one at that. The little boy gloried in his invention, chanting 'Hine, Hine' and grinning at Qui-Gon. The grin was savage though, and his eyes weren't laughing along with his mouth. Qui-Gon felt slightly uneasy but decided to bear it gracefully, at least until he'd get a chance to find out what the name meant. For now, it would have to do as an approximation at 'Jinn'... and frankly, after the events of the morning he was glad they were willing to call him anything.

Not that the owner of the heavy hand falling on his shoulder did.

They didn't have to call him anything, nor even speak to him. They set him to labour at tasks so plain and simple they required no words, only the strength and stubbornness of an animal. An animal, Qui-Gon thought as he beat the roots of a red-skinned yellowish tuber into a pulp with a stone pestle, that is all they see me for. And having witnessed the hardening of the spear points in the fires, and the skinning of the quarry, he had little doubt they would hunt him down like one if he tried to escape.

Never once did they let him out of their sight, especially not now that he had a heavy stone in his hands. The old man sitting wrapped in his cloak, leaning against the side of the hut, had an elaborate axe to his name, and even through the tangle of his facial tattoo he looked quite fierce enough to use it, should the slave make the slightest attempt at disobedience.

Oh, he could have run, probably. Could have run at some point while digging the cooking-pit, could have run while hefting the rocks on top of the fireplace, could certainly have run while picking the large flat leaves they had sent him in search of, always within sight of the rest of the party, but what did that mean in a forest as dense as the one that surrounded the village... yes, he could have run.

But where to? He had nothing but his leggings to his name, and while his strength and skill would probably enable him to survive in the savage forest, he still hadn't got the faintest inkling of where he was. Or how he had got here. He remembered bits, shards of clear memory in the fog that was his past. His name for one thing. The Force, though what it was supposed to do eluded him. As it was, it didn't do anything useful... and he resolutely refused to think of how it had let him down, dragged him under and left him gasping on the shore, kicked and shouted at by the barbarian who claimed him as his property. No, best not to think of him. What he had seen in the man's eyes... no, it was wrong. Best not to think of him.

Best to keep his eyes and ears open, to try and gather information on where and what this place was, to try and make a start at understanding the language the people were speaking, even though hardly any of it was ever directed at him. They addressed him with little slaps and tugs, like a stubborn animal, dragging him along by an arm and setting him to work by showing him what he was supposed to do and swatting him on the back to make him start.

They had become quite taken with the way his skin coloured when beaten, marvelling at the thin red chafe mark the bonds had made on his upper arms and at the bruises the chief had left when he had grabbed him, the imprints of the man's rude fingers slowly fading from purple to yellow. Yet although they admired the strangeness of his skin and general physical appearance, there was nothing of admiration in their demeanour. Not disgust either, not exactly... it was more like indifference, as if he was of no consequence at all, something to be used and discarded at will. Only the children seemed to treat him as their special pet, occasionally sneaking away from their parents' watchful gaze to steal one from the pile of reddish tuber roots and make the big pale man come after them, knowing full well he would not dare do them any harm. Or they would creep close while he was labouring away, to get a sneaky feel of the unfamiliar fabric of his leggings, soft and stained, or of his skin, soft and stained, skin that was the colour of fresh bones and darkened to a dirty purple where the ariki's hands had touched him.

He could see the little girl out of the corner of his eyes right now, pleased with how his senses were improving again. Not that his present task was in any way enough to occupy his mind, however fogged parts of it may still be. If anything, the sight of a fern-stalk the size of a small child creeping along the little path that led up to the house would have been enough to arouse suspicion. She probably thought she was quite well-camouflaged, the ruddy colour of her short kilt melting into the dead leaves at the bottom of the fern, the wide green completely hiding her upper body while allowing her to peek through the feathery leaves. After all, how was the stupid slave supposed to know ferns did not come with little brown legs at the bottom?

"E Hine!" The little giggle had of course given her away long before Qui-Gon could make a creditable effort at appearing surprised, but he did his best anyway, dropping the stone pestle into the mush, sending mashed root splashing on his knees and on her feet as she stood looming over him. With an imperious expression on her small face, she motioned for him to crouch down, and Qui-Gon acquiesced, continuing to pound at the roots lest the watchful old man should think he was neglecting his duties.

He heard the rip of the fern being stripped of its green by a determined little hand, then felt the little feathery leaves raining down on his bent back as the girl singsonged a few words in what sounded like a pleased, awed tone. Green, Qui-Gon thought, green is probably the only colour they haven't seen on my skin yet. The girl seemed satisfied, judging from the earnest look on her face as she brushed the leaves off his back, leaving it as pristine and bone-white as it had been.

He had turned back to his work and missed her second of thoughtful consideration of the bare fern-stalk. It caught him completely by surprise as it came down on his back, the flexible tip curling around his ribs and leaving a deep pink mark. The girl cooed in delight, running small fingers over the stinging skin, feeling the redness and warmth, like a tiny ornament of fire. Proud of her discovery, she took a deep breath, then a step back, and launched back into her little song.

The song did not end until the fern-stalk broke in two and the little one lost interest, having turned the pale man's back into a satisfyingly decorated area. Giggling, she ran for the house to pick up her well-deserved praise from the old man with the axe.

Qui-Gon did not look, head bent to his work. He had no desire for an even deeper shade of red to be inflicted on his skin at this point in time.

8. (In which another plainface explains nothing)

In a way, the days inside the house were better, and yet worse, Qui-Gon mused. Better because the work involved was less hard, and the children wouldn't dare come in and taunt him in the sanctuary of the chief's house. Better because the big man would actually remember to feed him now and then, or to have food dropped off at the house when he was away. Better because sitting cross-legged on the floor mending a feathered cloak was a better way to keep warm than crouching on the wet grass of some clearing scraping the dirt off fern roots with his fingernails.

And yet worse. The chief did not call him 'Hine'. He did not call him anything, had never even made an attempt at revealing his own name. He commanded Qui-Gon with his hands, strong callused hands touching him unashamedly, wrapping around his wrists and guiding his slave's hands to their task. His slave, that was what he was in the days inside the house, more and more frequent these days. His... body slave. And Qui-Gon did not even want to think about how that made him feel.

The feathers on the cloak were ragged and brown, thin wispy stringy affairs that must have looked quite unimpressive on whichever bird had originally sported them. Near the top, the thick cover of hairy brown feathers was offset against a wide strip of dirty green ones, rather more feather-like in appearance, shimmering faintly and possessed of a thick wad of white down at the bottom, there where each feather disappeared under the next one, creating a pocket of hidden softness under the unappealing exterior. He had seen finer cloaks than this one, woven with red threads in elaborate patterns, or decorated with wide fringes of thin black twine, or embroidered in a bold pattern of white and pale purple squares picked out in feather tips. All finer and more worthy of a chief than the one currently draped over his knees as he fiddled with threading the length of flax through the holes in the frayed hem.

And yet the man would rather go out cloakless, in just his kilt and his thick hair warming his shoulders, than wear any cloak but this one, almost as if it meant something more to him than a large square of woven flax, softened with age and wear and embellished with a thick covering of dirt-brown feathers, rugged and savage like the man himself. And warm.

No. The feathers were warm, the cloak was, making his task of mending a very comfortable one... the man was not. Not warm. Unbidden, Qui-Gon's thoughts strayed to the chief's hands, large callused paws hard as iron and yet... warm. He has a fire in him, must have, how else would he go without a cloak in the grey early-autumn drizzle. All right, so he was warm, his body was at least. But these feathers were soft, and he was not, he was hard and rude and untouchable, not soft and gentle like these feathers he so liked to wear.

Untouchable. Qui-Gon wished this were so. In fact, he was mighty touchable, and demanded to be touched on a regular basis. Tending the man's hair was all right really (though yes, the thick greying mane was indeed soft as the feathers), and he allowed himself the small delight of burying his hands in the tangled strands, working them into a dark shiny mass with the aid of patience and oil, tying off the topknot and affixing the plain wooden comb he always wore. No, doing the hair was fine, almost a meditation. The beard was worse.

Because, you see, the chief had no beard, or at least no desire to have one, judging from the impatient way in which he had motioned for his inexperienced body slave to commence pulling out the individual hairs on his cheeks and chin by the root, with the aid of a pair of remarkably sharp mussel shells. It wasn't that he feared giving his master pain – after all, he had asked for it, and did not wince in the slightest at the laborious procedure. It was the closeness that bothered him more than anything here. And he had to get close, really close, to see the black hairs against the black-blue-tinted skin of the tattoo. He had given up in the end and resorted to feeling his way, running his fingertips over the spiral-scarred landscape of the big man's face, feeling for resistance. He had got to know the face intimately that way, scoped out the tiny asymmetries in the scrollwork low on each cheek, found to his amazement that the finer the web of tinted scars the less hair would grow on them. And that the man's lips, in all their savage blue-black glory, were full and quite... soft.

In moments like that he was earnestly afraid for his sanity, as if the desperate unslakeable thirst he had felt when he had first opened himself to the man's Force aura could wash over him again any minute, this time to destroy him completely, break him and leave him shattered on the floor, at a mere blink from the strange horrid man who owned him.

He tried his best to avoid the man's eyes at least, uncertain of when it would be safe to look into these incongruous grey-blue depths without being overtaken by a yearning that was stronger than he was, a yearning that had nothing to do with his will and everything to do with a need he could neither explain nor fulfil. Thinking back to the last time still made him feel faintly sick, and he truly did not know what the man would be capable of doing the next time. There had better not be a next time. Not until I've got this Force under control, he thought, helplessly.

That was why he preferred attending to the man's hair. No eye contact. No need to run his fingertips over the elaborately scarred face in what must not be a caress, only because he couldn't see the bloody stubble against the tattooed skin. Not that it was the man's only tattoo, far from it. He'd seen his thighs through the loose strands of the kilt, the bronzed skin almost entirely blackened by artful cutwork, leaving his natural skin colour as an ornament, elongated triangles and curls like budding fern leaves. To the unsuspecting observer, he would have appeared to be wearing rather tight embroidered shorts, Qui-Gon thought.

All that skin, and the aching memory of how terrifyingly good it had felt rubbing against his, before it had all gone to ground hard and painful and he'd been left alone with his need, a need that went so much deeper than the mere physical abuse. No, he did not want to relive this. Not until he had a clearer mind, and the Force was back with him. And when he would tentatively reach out the next time, it would most definitely not be to this man...

He dreaded the day the chief would demand a massage.

And he was torn between relief and an inexplicable, annoying sense of loss every time he was sent outside.

He would usually be sent outside when Ketoa came. Ketoa, if that was his name, at least it was the word that the big man greeted him with, enthusiastically. He had never seen nor been given any idea of what it was that Ketoa came for, but from the two men's demeanour afterwards it was perfectly believable that Ketoa shared the greying chief's bed. Based on that suspicion, Qui-Gon had once endeavoured to sneak past the master's house during one of these afternoons when he was banned from it. He had come to listen for lustful grunts and moans... and thinking back, he _had_ heard them. Moans, deep growls, little helpless cries of pleasure in what would have been Ketoa's voice... if he remembered correctly. The sheer outburst of Force had sent him reeling and running for the woods, clutching his head. No, it was not time for that yet, not yet...

Seen with a sober eye, Ketoa was quite unlike his lover. About twenty years younger for a start, perhaps a few years older than Qui-Gon himself, it was hard to tell from the man's compact elegant physique. Slender but strong, his cloak decorated with wide bands of decorative weaving and featherwork, his bearing proud, almost arrogant. He looked just as regal as the chief himself, for all he was almost a foot shorter. And his face was pure as the dark washed river sands, smooth skin touched only by a pair of birthmarks, small dark spots, one in the middle of his forehead, the other high on his right cheekbone. Only a small shallowly-cut swirl of tattoo rested gracefully above his right eyebrow, tapering to two points that seemed to anchor it to the twin birthmarks. Other than that, his skin was smooth and unmarked, the chin with its small cleft aristocratic and elegant, his lips a soft bronze, pouting in that expression of faint disgust that the other men achieved by tattooing. His eyes were of the darkest brown, very clear and sharp, narrowed under sweeping brows black as his short-cropped hair. The man was beautiful in the most disconcerting way possible, and positively radiated superiority and arrogance. He had never once called him 'Hine', or indeed touched him. He had cast his hand in Qui-Gon's general direction while talking to the chief, never even sparing the slave a glance. The word that had accompanied the careless gesture had sounded like 'mokai', and whatever that meant, it was probably not a term of endearment.

And yet Ketoa was held in high esteem by all and sundry when he walked about the village, whether in the company of his regal lover or on his own. Women would greet him with choicest friendliness, asking his opinion on some piece of handiwork, men would nod their heads at him slowly in deference and get up from their seats to speak with him in quiet earnest voices. He was probably the only person in the village, except for the imposing chief himself, who was immune to the children's playful teasing. For all his barely decorated face and apparent haughtiness, Ketoa was evidently treated with awe by everybody.

And Qui-Gon would soon find out why.

continue to Part Two