ARCHIVE: M_A if you want it, and
http://www.slashcity.com/ciceqi/Anchor.htm
PAIRING: Q/O slash
CATEGORY: First Time, Angst
RATING: NC-17 for m/m sex, violence
DISCLAIMER: Way down South in the land of Slashdom / The
leather and studs means they're slaves of fashion / Look away!
/ Look away! / Look awaaaaay / Lucas-man!
WARNINGS: Not-exactly-consensual sex, ouchified Jedi, strange
aliens, and General Ladonnaweirdness.
SPOILERS: None. Takes place preTPM.
NOTES: for Clarence's first line challenge. Thanks to Linda for
urging me to write faster!
SUMMARY: On the eve of joining the Republic, a new world's
secrets trap two Jedi.
FEEDBACK: yes, please!
Obi-Wan was very glad that his frequent lack of an erection
failed to bother his Master. There was only the huge, thick
cock spearing him, big hands canting his hips just so as his
Master's knees kept his own braced wide, the feathering of warm
breath against his nape and shoulders. Only the relentless
surge of his Master's body into his own, filling him,
possessing him, remaking his flesh around the steely length
that pierced him.
He was being opened up in ways he'd never dreamed, his body
relearning the meaning of touch, that a palm curling around the
back of his neck was command, not congratulation. The hands
that adjusted his position knew him from the inside out now,
and they were completely unconcerned with katas and fighting
forms. For him, those hands knew desire and need and little
else, which was strange when he considered how eloquent they
were... They were mute for him, hungry and rough, and that hurt
him, almost...when he forgot.
Another hard thrust caught his breath in his throat as
something like pleasure arced up his spine, and he let strong
arms twine around him, pulling him back into a hot, slick
chest, gasping as the cock inside him shifted. They were
sitting up in the wreck of their bed, Obi-Wan sitting in the
other's lap, wide eyes staring up into the featureless darkness
of the ceiling. His Master's hips flexed slowly, and Obi-Wan
couldn't choke off a groan in time as each deep stroke slid
across the treacherous place inside him that welcomed this
invasion, that could take pleasure in anything. A low growl
stuttered across his skin as his Master nuzzled at his throat,
his shoulders, his sweat-damp hair, tongue darting out before
teeth latched home.
Hissing in surprise, he felt his whole body constrict at the
bite, heard his Master's pleased growl as his inner muscles
tightened on the other's cock. The arms around his chest
tensed, and before he knew it, he was being shifted forward,
reaching out instinctively for the headboard and bracing
himself as his Master pounded into him with greater strength,
rocking him forward with each thrust. It didn't hurt
anymore...he'd gotten used to it days ago, but it frightened
him, that wildness, even when he knew...
"Master," he breathed, but the other's stroke never changed,
ignoring the meaningless babble of his voice.
"Please...Qui-Gon, if you can hear me..."
The large hands that gripped his hips, pulling him back into
this animal fuck, might have been Qui-Gon's, but the man who
had made Obi-Wan love them was gone. What lived there now was
something Obi-Wan didn't know how to fight, but even if he
did...with every day and night that passed, he was forced
towards a painful acceptance, one he didn't know how to deal
with. That Qui-Gon might have died in truth that night in the
circle of stones, and that this creature, this...spirit, was
all that was left to animate the body of the man Obi-Wan had
loved...
Jerking against the hands that held him, Obi-Wan tripped off
the edge of one of the low stone steps, the muscles in his
shoulders singing as the guards hauled him back. If they cursed
him, their words were lost in the cacophony of the crowd, a
deafening din that rose up from the tiered amphitheater to the
night sky above. Chanting, shouting, howling out rants and
encouragement made incomprehensible over the noise, the
Madageri rose from their seats as the Sanctor walked down the
long aisle of the amphitheater to the royal box, his guards and
Obi-Wan in tow.
No one spared Obi-Wan a second glance as he struggled, and his
attempts to get away became half-hearted at best. He knew he'd
never make it through the crowd, even if he did wrest free of
the guards who held him--but where was Qui-Gon? He'd expected
his Master to make this walk with him, or for them both to be
executed together... He didn't even know what they'd done, how
this mission had turned so wrong so quickly. Madager was
supposed to have joined the Republic tomorrow...he just didn't
understand.
Sanctor Bvaravi's private little corner of the amphitheater was
no different from the others--there was no excessive opulence
here and not a whit more comfort, not in a society so close to
its incredibly disciplined, warlike past. Nor did the man sit
high above the shadowed pit the theater circled, removed from
the immediacy of whatever went on below. Obi-Wan had seen
enough of gladiator-style combat, so-called "games," to know
what to expect from that grim circle beneath them.
He did think it strange that the floor of the pit was grassy
instead of filled with sand or hard-packed earth, and he
wondered if that meant they used this place rarely. The ring of
standing stones also gave him pause, looking totally out of
place to his jaded eye. There were nearly a score of them,
rough-hewn blocks of something black with a glossy sheen,
obsidian perhaps, but no mark of sword or chain marred their
sides--it was the tops that had been gouged and splintered,
deeply.
As if something heavy and vast had perched there, looking down
at the grassy space below. As if the Madageri called something
here from above, called it to feed.
//Force--Qui-Gon!// he tried to send, but the drug they
had given him was still taking its toll, leaving him able to
sense the Force but helpless to use it. He stumbled again when
the guards shoved him towards the standing Sanctor, but Bvaravi
caught him easily, pushing him down to sit at the man's side.
Obi-Wan sat down hard, but he'd grown used to the
rough-and-tumble treatment the Madageri gave each other, the
standoffish way they refused all contact with those they didn't
like, and it was strangely surreal to be treated so familiarly
when he was drugged and bound...
Raising his arms, Bvaravi commanded no silence from this crowd,
but the result was almost more ominous. As if a switch had been
thrown, the roared cacophony fell into synch, one fierce chant
rising from thousands upon thousands of voices. Dropping down
onto his own seat, Bvaravi pounded Obi-Wan on the back with a
grin as the Sanctor took up the chant himself, oblivious to the
way Obi-Wan stared at him in shock. What in the Sith
hells was going on here?
When they pushed his Master out into the pit, Obi-Wan leaped to
his feet at once, only to be dragged back down by Bvaravi's
hand fisting in the back of his robe. His sudden motion must
have alerted his Master, as Qui-Gon turned his face up, eyes
meeting Obi-Wan's in the crowd. //Master--// He tried reaching
Qui-Gon through the Force once again, but he felt nothing from
the other man in return. Only the latent echo of their bond
proved to him that this truly was Qui-Gon at all.
Someone down below must have snapped an order only Qui-Gon
could hear, because Qui-Gon's eyes dropped suddenly, leaving
Obi-Wan strangely bereft. Drawing himself up with a Jedi's
proud serenity, Qui-Gon walked out into the circle of stones
with an untroubled gait, his intention of facing whatever came
with dignity obvious to all. Glancing around him in horror,
Obi-Wan floundered when he saw the open smiles on the faces of
the Madageri around him, proud and approving. Were they
acknowledging a warrior's death or was it something more
innocent? If they meant no harm, why hadn't the Jedi been told?
From the lowest tier of the amphitheater, liveried soldiers
rose up at even intervals, all chanting, all raising thin
silver lances that glittered in the pale lights that
illuminated the gathering. "No!" Obi-Wan cried, jumping
to his feet again, but before Bvaravi could yank him back down,
the soldiers let fly, too many of them at once for Qui-Gon to
dodge them all. All Obi-Wan could do was stand there and watch
as his Master twisted and spun, streaks of silver hissing past
him until five found their marks in the space of a heartbeat.
Skewered shoulder and thigh and just above the hip, Qui-Gon
wavered and went down hard, dropping to his knees as Obi-Wan
screamed.
It took three guards to hold him as he watched his Master ease
one of the lances from his shoulder, his blood staining his
robes with startling speed. If Qui-Gon was cut off from his use
of the Force, then his Master wouldn't be able to heal
himself...did these animals mean for Qui-Gon to bleed to death
while Obi-Wan watched? "Let me go, damn you!" he snarled,
fighting against the hands that held him. The guards were still
chanting through gritted teeth as they wrestled with Obi-Wan,
no malice in their eyes despite the strength with which he
fought them. "You can't do this--let me go!"
Another lance fell from Qui-Gon's hands, and the sight of his
Master turning to the ones that pierced his thigh drove a spike
of agony through Obi-Wan's own gut as he railed against his
helplessness. He couldn't stand this--how could these people
sit there and watch this, and why had they chosen
Qui-Gon for their tortures? His Master was the most
gentle person Obi-Wan knew, the most compassionate, the most
beautiful... Qui-Gon didn't deserve this treatment at anyone's
hands, damn them...
"Don't," he whimpered unheard as Qui-Gon's hands went to the
lance that had grounded just above his hip, which must be
causing him unimaginable pain. Obi-Wan knew his Master should
wait for the healers, but there would be none, and Qui-Gon
pulled the slender spike out with steady hands, ignoring the
abrupt wash of blood that stained his robes. So very much
blood...
As the tenor of the crowd's chant altered, Qui-Gon's head
lifted suddenly, and Obi-Wan felt his blood run cold as the
shadows in the pit...shifted. A ripple of black circled the
stones like the shadow of a mer just beneath the water, fluid
and dangerous. A second shiver of darkness joined the first,
and then another, two more--
--and though Obi-Wan had expected these grim watchers to fall
from the sky, it was up from the earth they rose, wisps of ebon
that unfurled like tattered cloth in a breeze, climbing up the
sides of the bleak, shining stones. Frozen, Obi-Wan stared
helplessly as they took on form and mass, spreading huge,
leathery wings and snapping at each other as they jostled for
room, swordlike claws grinding deep into the rock. They sported
doglike heads on serpentine necks, proudly-maned and with the
startling grins of a pack of rogues, their eyes horribly human,
searing blue. Their bodies were vaguely feline, but the pads of
their forepaws spread out into long fingers, spurred and
clawed, and their snakelike tails wrapped around their perches
or snapped out to tangle in their fellows'. The hissing growls
that rose from the pack rivaled the chant of the Madageri as
they tussled amongst themselves, but it was Qui-Gon they
watched, their eyes never quite leaving his kneeling form.
Staring up at them silently, Qui-Gon remained motionless, his
red hands still covering the terrible wound in his side. "No,"
Obi-Wan breathed, but no one heard him, no one cared. As he
stood transfixed by his horror, one of the black creatures
suddenly let go of its rock, tail unspiraling from the stone as
it launched itself towards Qui-Gon with the speed of a hunting
hawk.
"No!" Obi-Wan screamed, his voice lost in the roar of
the crowd, but before the thing could strike, another one set
upon its fellow without respect for heritage or species,
tearing into the first with the viciousness of a wild dog. As
if a signal had been given, the rest of the pack leaped into
the fray, claws and teeth rending as great wings pummeled the
air, keeping their fight airborne as Qui-Gon knelt precariously
below. Where the long tails lashed the earth, great furrows of
turf were ripped up, scarring the ground as the tops of the
stones had been scarred, but no blood fell from the terrible
wounds they inflicted upon each other. As Obi-Wan watched, one
was cast down as if dying, but the massive form never reached
the grass, shredding like black cobwebs as it fell.
Only one of the creatures refused the fight, and it was at this
one that Qui-Gon stared as his life leaked away, the faces of
the crowd around Obi-Wan strained with breathless anticipation.
Half-spreading its wings before folding them again, the
creature's long neck snaked up and back, curving to the side
with a touch of coquettishness, regarding Qui-Gon sideways with
a smile. A real smile, its doglike muzzle no impediment as its
human eyes narrowed, not unkindly. Its claws flexed once as it
shook its luxuriant mane, preening, not disagreeing--
--and then its eyes lifted to its fellows, narrowing above a
bloody grin, and it dove into the battle with a deafening,
joyous shriek.
The others didn't stand a chance. The creature Qui-Gon had
communed with ripped into the pack with a gleeful disregard for
its own person, scattering the screeching, terrified creatures
with wicked swipes of its claws, cobra-swift strikes of its
glittering fangs. Its lethal head darted in time and time
again, strong jaws latching onto any surface it could find,
crushing before its neck twisted savagely and rent
suddenly-insubstantial flesh. Keening wildly, the pack tried to
flee their master, but it was everywhere, slaughtering
everything in its path until it had the circle to itself,
hovering above Qui-Gon with a steely grin. It was so real now,
so present, the wind from its wings whipped through the
amphitheater, tangling Qui-Gon's hair, carrying a scent of cold
midnight to Obi-Wan that chilled him to the bone. //Oh
Force...not him...//
With a final shriek, the thing dove for Qui-Gon with clawed
hands outstretched, head curving back as if to strike, and
Obi-Wan's scream was silent as his breath froze in his chest,
the triumphant howl of the crowd meaningless in his ears.
Qui-Gon had enough time to tilt his face up to meet his death
before the creature was on him...
A howling spiral of wind tore through the circle of stones as
the creature shredded into shadows once more, wrapping around
Qui-Gon's kneeling form and disappearing like a dream. As
Obi-Wan watched, his Master fell back to the scarred ground,
his whole body straining until his spine left the grass
completely, fingers digging into the gouged dirt. Lunging
against the hands that held him, Obi-Wan barely noticed the
Sanctor nodding once to his guards, only dimly felt the sting
when one of the men behind him cut his bonds and his struggles
made the dagger slice into his arm as well. The instant they
let him go, Obi-Wan was off like a shot, single-mindedly
tearing through the rows of seats and down the aisle, shoving
aside one of the lancers to leap the railing and drop to the
grass below.
Unable to use the Force to slow his descent, his landing made
his knees sing uncomfortably, dropping him forward onto his
hands. Ignoring his discomfort, he raced to Qui-Gon's side and
took his thrashing Master into his arms, babbling at Qui-Gon to
stay with him, relax, he was here, it would be all right...
All at once, Qui-Gon went limp in his arms, sightless eyes
staring up at him without recognition, with nothing of his
Master behind them. "Master," he whimpered, shaking the
unresponsive body gently. "Master please...Qui-Gon..."
Unresisting, Qui-Gon's head lolled terribly in Obi-Wan's lap,
and it was all Obi-Wan could do to trap the anguished howl he
felt building inside him. //Oh Force no...not like this,
please...Qui-Gon!//
Crouching over his Master's limp form, Obi-Wan pulled the body
closer to him, angrily flinging out the arm that had been
wounded by Bvaravi's guards as the ticklish flow of blood
distracted him from his grief. //Damn them,// he growled as a
glittering arc of red shimmered in the air before striking the
grass. //Why didn't they take me? Why did it have to be you?//
Raking the side of his arm against his robes, he dropped his
cheek to his Master's hair, too soon to see the faint curl of
smoke that rose where his blood had landed, calling forth the
shadows once more.
His first clue that something was wrong was the convulsion of
Qui-Gon's body in his arms, blue eyes fixing on him intently as
he raised his head in shock. Above them, the crowd was
muttering in stunned dismay, but the first flush of panic
Obi-Wan felt as he saw the black shadows converging again was
forestalled by the sinuous writhing of his Master, wriggling
out of his grasp to take hold of his wounded arm. Dragging it
out straight and baring his blood-streaked skin from the folds
of his sleeve, Qui-Gon hissed at the circle of darkness
before dipping his head, murderous eyes fixed on the
abruptly-hesitant shadows as his tongue flicked out, sliding up
Obi-Wan's arm in determined, challenging strokes.
Shivering, Obi-Wan watched his Master lick the blood from his
arm in a daze, unable to look away from the sight of that proud
head bowed over his wrist, mesmerized by the warm wetness of
Qui-Gon's tongue smoothing over his skin. It wasn't like
Qui-Gon at all...his Master had never touched him like this,
had never even looked at him in such a way, though
Obi-Wan had guiltily dreamed... And Qui-Gon was growling deep
in his throat as the shadows ebbed cautiously away from them,
twining around their rocks as if afraid to face him in the
open. As if Qui-Gon and the creature that had bested them were
one.
"Oh Force..." Obi-Wan breathed, and though Qui-Gon's face
turned minutely towards him, his Master never took his eyes off
the black stones, tongue playing more sensuously over Obi-Wan's
flesh as the danger retreated.
"Kitishoq," the crowd was chanting, over and over again, and
when Qui-Gon raised his head at last, it was to stare up at
them with wide, unblinking eyes, the tension of a hunting
animal in his expression. When he rose suddenly to his feet,
towering over Obi-Wan and still holding onto his wrist, the man
wavered on his feet for a moment, weaving in place like a
snake. The clang of an iron gate opening in the wall to their
right was just close enough that Obi-Wan could hear it over the
crowd, and as he watched, Qui-Gon's head snapped around
suddenly, eyes regarding it sideways like a bird.
Without warning, Qui-Gon stalked suddenly towards the opening
where a band of white-cloaked warriors stood, and Obi-Wan
stumbled painfully on his knees as Qui-Gon dragged him along
heedlessly, struggling to get his feet under him. There was
something very, very wrong here, but he didn't want to admit
what it was. His Master couldn't have been possessed by
that...thing. Not Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon was far too strong for that,
even without...the Force. Surely...
//They left him open for it,// he shuddered furiously as the
white warriors bowed deferentially to his Master, making no
move to stop him as they fell in behind him, ignoring the
Padawan Qui-Gon dragged behind him. His Master seemed to know
exactly where he was going, as if he'd been here before. Many
times. //They cut him off from the Force and made him bleed and
left him there like bait...//
It wouldn't work. As soon as Qui-Gon could sense the Force
again--as soon as he could--they'd win free of this
thing and this place and never look back.
Tugged up a low flight of stairs, Obi-Wan blinked when they
came out in a softly-lit room, a bath steaming in the center
while unarmed boys stood ready with fresh clothing, pure white
robes in the Madageri style. "Kitishoq," an old man in priestly
garb murmured, bowing low, and Obi-Wan cast a look behind him
as the honor guard bowed and melted away, shutting the door
behind them.
Qui-Gon released him just as suddenly as Obi-Wan had been
pulled after the man, stalking around the room like a wolf in a
cage. The fierce glance was everywhere, growling at the boys,
the priest, the pale lights set into the wall. When he
approached Obi-Wan again, the growl faded, and Obi-Wan held his
breath as his Master bent his head, nuzzling the air beside
Obi-Wan's cheek and breathing deep, the snarl turning into a
purr. Gruffly, his Master bumped Obi-Wan's jaw with his chin,
and as Obi-Wan turned his face hesitantly away, Qui-Gon set his
teeth in Obi-Wan's neck, lightly, marking him.
"Thy will," the old priest murmured, and the boys faded back,
standing along the walls as Qui-Gon drew away. "You should help
him undress, Jedi," the priest said quietly as Qui-Gon glared
down at his body, upper lip curving as his fingers twitched.
"He isn't used to your robes..."
Sure enough, Qui-Gon began to simply tear at the sash that
wrapped around his hips, impatient to be rid of it. Uncertain,
expecting to be rebuffed, Obi-Wan reached out for Qui-Gon's
hands and swallowed his relief when they stilled at once,
letting him take over the task of undressing his Master. The
sash, the belt that should have held the man's saber, the
bloodstained robes...
Qui-Gon shrugged out of his tunic without Obi-Wan's help as
Obi-Wan stood motionless in shock, staring at unblemished skin
where there should have been wounds, healing scars at the
least. Instead, there wasn't a mark on Qui-Gon's skin to show
where the lances had struck, as if it had all been a terrible
illusion. So...the thing could heal as well as possess...
No one spoke as he finished his task, glancing covertly at his
own arm and finding it healed as well. Naked, Qui-Gon stood
proud and unashamed before the priest and bath servants,
regarding the old man with an intense stare Obi-Wan couldn't
interpret until Qui-Gon's large hands flicked out, tracing
gracefully through the air. Bowing once more, the priest
motioned for the boys to lay aside the robes they carried, and
they all filed out as one as Qui-Gon turned back to the bath,
certain his orders would be obeyed.
Which left Obi-Wan alone with the man, suddenly nervous, and
shaking, and wondering just where his Master was and whether he
would ever get him back again.
Slipping slowly into the steaming water, Qui-Gon sighed with
slitted eyes, animal pleasure in his relaxing
expression...until his lashes lifted deliberately, and he
growled a summons even Obi-Wan could interpret, knees spreading
wide in the bath. Swallowing, Obi-Wan stood torn for a long
heartbeat, floundering in the strangeness of his situation,
longing for one word that would let him know his Master was
still in there, still alive...
If he was, and Obi-Wan angered this...spirit, made the creature
hurt him or kill him, it would be his Master that felt the
guilt of it. He couldn't risk that, not for anything.
Before he could be summoned a second time, Obi-Wan took a
hesitant step forward, his fingers falling to his own sash.
'Kitishoq,' they called him, and deferred to him like a king or
a god. Perhaps he was a god...what was inside his
Master, Obi-Wan knew, was the creature they hailed him
as, the strange and hungry spirit that had fought to claim
Qui-Gon in the circle of stones. Obi-Wan didn't know--the
histories didn't speak of the creature's origins, nor of its
purpose beyond the fact that it kept Madager safe. It was as
old as Madager, perhaps--older than the Sanctors and the
Madageri tradition of war and self-sacrifice, older than
written memory. It had taken many bodies over the years, was no
longer a stranger to walking on two legs, to human senses and
human needs, but it was impossible to forget that it was not
human and never would be.
And it never, ever spoke, not with a voice, not beyond a growl
or a purr or a soft, menacing hiss. Instead, it spoke with its
hands, with serene, drifting motions or abrupt slashes,
building pictures in the air as rapidly as its audience could
understand. Obi-Wan knew the thing could read their
thoughts, and perhaps the hypnotic flow of its hands was its
way of focusing an unobtrusive telepathy, because he never had
any trouble understanding what it wanted or meant. This was not
some savage phenomenon to be exploited by a ruthless
priesthood, 'interpreted' for their benefit, but a shrewd and
frighteningly intelligent force to be reckoned with.
Not that it ever had much to say to him. It would snarl and
stalk for hours in the Sanctor's chambers, sending the
priesthood and the Sanctor's own guards to do its bidding,
hungrily collecting information on the galaxy beyond its reach.
Only the fact that it seemed no more interested in weapons and
warfare than in culture and trade kept Obi-Wan from attempting
action against the thing. He'd already tried and failed to send
a message back to the Council, but the creature never let him
out of its sight, not so much out of distrust as from an
unreasoning possessiveness. It could have asked him all it
wanted to know about the Republic at large, but it went to its
own people for that, and Obi-Wan couldn't entirely blame it.
They would know what interested it better than he would, after
all...
What it wanted him for was much simpler. At any time, its
notice might suddenly gravitate back to him, and then he would
find himself stalked, regardless of who was near or where they
were at the time. People tended to fade away from them then,
but after the first time he'd resisted being taken in public,
it had made it a habit to simply drag him off somewhere,
thankfully uninterested in a fight. It always seemed to know
just how far it could push him, but it was testing his
boundaries constantly, both physically and emotionally. No one
seemed to be able to tell him why it had fixated on him
like this, but he rarely got a chance to ask. Each time he
tried to speak with someone, it would appear suddenly by his
side, hissing at the unfortunate soul who'd gained his
attention and marking him as claimed. The spirit's reaction had
nothing to do with keeping him in the dark and everything to do
with keeping him to itself.
Sitting forlorn at the bottom of the steps that led to the
Sanctor's dais, Obi-Wan watched the powerful figure of his
Master stalk the marble floor, Madageri robes billowing in his
wake. They were looser than Jedi robes, but lighter, and it was
easy to make out the form beneath, the sharply-defined muscles
and broad chest, narrow hips, the heavy weight of his sex.
Obi-Wan had admired his Master for as long as he could
remember, had bathed and tended that body when it was wounded,
had watched it demonstrate countless forms as they moved in
slow tandem, their sabers humming in their hands, joy in the
learning. He would never be able to see it now without this
terrible new knowledge: what it looked like crouched over him,
the feel of it pushing deeper into his own body, the shameful
pleasure of being trapped beneath it, and small, and possessed.
//I wanted it to be you...// Swallowing, he closed his eyes,
still unable to look at that familiar figure and not see
his Master, even though he knew it was the spirit, Kitishoq,
within. As terrible as it seemed, it was easier to bear,
somehow, if he could pretend that his Master wasn't wholly
gone, though that gave his nights an entirely new element of
torture. It wasn't that the spirit set out to hurt him--far
from it--but it had little grasp of his desires, no
comprehension of how terrible it was for him to accept his
Master's body and not be given his Master's heart.
Or perhaps it knew his desires all too well, and the arrogance
of its fuck was a gift...a strange gift, but a gift
nevertheless. He didn't want to be aroused by this
impostor in his Master's body, and its seeming unconcern for
his own pleasure was often a relief to him. All he could think
of was that if Qui-Gon was still in there, trapped
inside his mind as the spirit took control of his body, at
least Obi-Wan could spare his Master that much--at least
he could refrain from using Qui-Gon as the spirit did,
for his own pleasure. He couldn't help trying to reach his
Master at those moments, but he thought Qui-Gon would
understand...and surely the thing was distracted then, the time
ripe for Qui-Gon's return.
//If only.// He'd wanted his Master for years, a
half-distracted attraction blossoming suddenly into a deep and
abiding love for the man that had only a fraction to do with
sex. Yes, the man drove him crazy with his indiscriminate
rescue of pathetic strays, his cheerful blindness to the
dangers of aggravating the Council and his incredible
stubbornness about the most foolish things. He was also the
most generous, compassionate, understanding, and incorruptible
man Obi-Wan knew, his dedication to the Light unquestioned by
anyone. His methods might be unorthodox in the extreme, but no
one could doubt his goodwill, even when they wanted to strangle
him for it.
Obi-Wan missed that. He believed his Master when Qui-Gon said
he'd taken his last Padawan, and not out of any false pride on
his own part, wanting to be the success Qui-Gon rested on. More
tempting than that was his own cherished dream, something he'd
hinted of in subtle questions, wondering if a Knight could
elect to stay with his Master if the team proved sound. All
he'd ever wanted was to be by Qui-Gon's side for the rest of
their lives, even if they remained no more than friends.
Qui-Gon had seemed...pleased by that as well, the smile in his
eyes as he answered Obi-Wan's questions proving he wasn't
fooled, that he knew exactly what was on his Padawan's mind.
And though Qui-Gon had been careful not to ask nor make any
demands, Obi-Wan knew what the answer would be if he
ever asked as Knight to Master.
And now he missed his Master with an ache that
threatened to devour him, and a part of him wished Kitishoq
hadn't frightened away the shadows when they came at the call
of Obi-Wan's blood, if only the one that would have taken him
could have kept his own heart at bay. This world was supposed
to have joined the Republic today--Qui-Gon should have stood
tall and proud before the masses as he made the speech of
acceptance, Obi-Wan watching from below. He would give
anything, anything to hear that monotonous speech now, to hear
a single word from his Master's lips...
A swirl of white robe made him lift his head abruptly, just in
time to see Kitishoq crouch down before him, staring into his
eyes with feral intensity. The soft growl it uttered was
interrogatory, not anger or desire, but Obi-Wan couldn't stand
it today. Scrambling up, he tried to walk past it, ignoring the
surprised looks of the Madageri around him--did they really
think he liked playing the whore to this lie of his
Master? He only made it a few steps before the spirit grabbed
his elbow, spinning him around.
Yanking his arm out of its grip, Obi-Wan took a single step
backwards, glaring into Kitishoq's eyes in perfect silence,
having learned days since that language was futile. It didn't
listen to him, not like it did its own people, as if his
words were simply noise. It watched him, constantly, and it
reacted to what it saw, but never what it heard. Very well. Let
it react to this.
Turning again, he tried to stalk from the hall, painfully aware
of the footsteps following hard on his own, Kitishoq so close
behind him, Obi-Wan could feel the heat of the body it wore,
the warm puff of breath on the back of his neck. It spun him
around again near the doors, but this time Obi-Wan was pressed
against their cool solidity as his mouth was captured in a
searing kiss, something it had never done before. For a moment,
his resolve weakened as his breath quickened, wanting nothing
more than to sink into the intimacy thus offered and pretend,
just for a little while, that it was his Master he held...
Instead, he pushed it back and growled, growled at it
with eyes snapping, only to be drawn up short by the pleased
look of fierce interest on its face. Ignoring his protests, it
held him to the door with one hand, immensely strong between
Qui-Gon's own powerful form and its peculiar use of the
Force--a Force that Obi-Wan still couldn't tap into, though he
had yet to find the source of the drug they must yet be giving
him. Part of him knew he would be too wary of hurting Qui-Gon
to truly struggle against the spirit that held him, but perhaps
he wouldn't feel so damned helpless...
It didn't try to kiss him this time. Instead, it leaned close
the way it had that first evening, breathing deeply of his
scent, bringing their mouths almost together as it sampled his
breath, then dipped its head to taste the hollow of his throat.
Confused and curious, Obi-Wan stayed still for it, though he
was still thrumming with tension and on the edge of doing
something foolish, anything to escape the eyes on him and these
too-familiar hands.
He felt it when the thing turned its power on him, both
hands stroking over his body and seeming to draw something
out of him, through his pores, the nervous sweat that
beaded his lip, through his breath. Like someone unwinding a
gauzy veil from his eyes, he could suddenly touch the Force
once more, feeling as if life was returning to a dead limb.
Whatever drug they'd given him, it was no match for Kitishoq's
determined assault...
That interrogatory growl came again, but when Obi-Wan murmured,
"What?" the spirit tossed its head, humming at him impatiently.
//What?// he sent instead and watched it smile, purring a
pleased note that made Obi-Wan shiver.
It didn't bother with its hands when it replied. Smoothing its
cheek along his own, Qui-Gon's beard scratching ticklishly
against his skin, the spirit flooded him with images, feelings
without words, naming him and questioning him in a
kaleidoscopic sending.
Mate, altar and chalice, the cherished one, and not blind,
not blind after all, I will punish the ones that crippled you,
your wings are free, the pulse of your blood is beautiful,
beautiful, and I would make you happy, your sadness is a wound,
only tell, tell this sorrow, tell...
//Where is my Master?// Obi-Wan sent back desperately, blind to
everything but the spirit before him, past caring that it was
the only thing holding him up, bracing him against the door and
pressed skin-tight against him. //Where is Qui-Gon Jinn?//
It looked honestly puzzled as its sending unfolded again,
weaving pictures and feelings together in a tapestry that
tangled Obi-Wan's mind with its. Who is this one? I am this
one, thought and memory, one heart, one will. Who is this one?
Who do you see?
//You are not my Master!// Obi-Wan flung at it angrily, showing
it an image of Qui-Gon tying off the end of Obi-Wan's own
braid, his memory of tattered shadows and vast wings above
black rocks.
But we touch, it insisted, insubstantial hands plucking
the training bond that still resonated between Obi-Wan and this
usurped form, making him gasp at the sudden pulse of strength
between them. I felt you, even when I could not hear you,
felt this bond, this cherished touch, felt your heart.
//Qui-Gon,// Obi-Wan tried again, fighting back tears of
frustration. //Qui-Gon.//
There is no Qui-Gon. I am Qui-Gon.
"No," he breathed aloud and slipped from its grasp, pulling
open the chamber door and fleeing from the nightmare behind
him.
No. It was not his Master. Never.
He didn't dare eat anything. Now that he had his command of the
Force back, he couldn't bear to lose it again, not so soon.
Kitishoq had left him alone when he'd run, but he hadn't been
able to find a single communicator that could carry a
transmission off-planet, and he couldn't get to his ship
through the ring of droids that surrounded it, not without his
'saber. The only other thing he could think of to do was try
and find some information on this thing, something he could
understand.
He knew where the High Priest could be found most afternoons,
and he crept through the halls like a thief, wary of being
discovered and sent back to the spirit he had fled. If not for
his returned abilities with the Force, it would have been
impossible--the Madageri were a gregarious sort, and where one
could be found, there were often five more in attendance,
laughing and debating and sparring. When he finally slipped
into the Sanctor's private chapel, it took a judicious
application of the Force to convince the acolytes he wasn't
there, but the old priest knew at once.
"Greetings," the old man smiled as Obi-Wan stalked up to him,
and gestured towards a side exit without having to be asked.
"We can talk privately here."
Feeling no sign of deception from the priest, Obi-Wan followed
him reluctantly, casting nervous eyes behind him at the great
doors. If the Sanctor's guards arrived, he might be able to win
free if he could wrest a weapon from one of them...if he had
to. Did he really want to leave Qui-Gon's body in the care of
that thing without him there to protect his Master from what he
could? The answer to that was all-too obvious. No. No he did
not.
"Now," the old man smiled at him as he shut the door, gesturing
Obi-Wan down a short hall that led to a comfortable office.
"What can I do for you?"
"You can tell me how to get my Master back," Obi-Wan snapped,
glaring at the priest as they entered the man's office and
refusing to take a seat. "If he's dead, just...just tell
me, damn you...but I can't live like this. That thing is not
him!"
"No," the priest agreed mildly, "Kitishoq is the Eldest, and
his brethren are the keepers of the First Gate. A very long
time ago, young Kenobi, there was more chaos on this world than
you could imagine, and it stemmed from that circle of stones
the Vorai now guard. It is a gateway, and beyond that gate is
another gate, and beyond that a third, which holds back
unimaginable power, enough to remake a universe or destroy it
at will. Each gate has its own set of guardians, but the Vorai
are the closest linked to this world, and for good reason. If
they did not care," he said slowly, holding Obi-Wan's eyes
without flinching, "what happened to us, they could leave that
gate to the mercies of anyone who wanted to cross it. And once
you've crossed a single gate, the others fall far easier than
they should."
"So you give them bodies," Obi-Wan growled through gritted
teeth, not appeased in the slightest. "Did it ever occur to you
to ask if my Master wanted this--this honor?
Couldn't you have found a single of your own people to do the
job?"
"Of course we could," the high priest scoffed, unimpressed with
his anger. "But we were joining your Republic, Jedi. We
learned the warrior's discipline after the gates were erected,
and we are a strong people, matchless fighters," he shrugged
without pride, stating a simple fact as he saw it. "But we
would rather have allies than fight alone against pirates and
the greed of the Hutts, and so we came to you. We don't trust
your Senate," he added calmly, "not with the kind of power we
live to protect, but we believe we can trust the Jedi."
"You won't have a chance to trust the Jedi," Obi-Wan
snarled, trying to contain his fury without success. "You can't
kill a Jedi ambassador and expect to be welcomed with open
arms, not by the Council or the Republic!"
"But he's not dead," the old man shook his head patiently.
"Kitishoq has subsumed him, yes, but he's still present, merely
a part of the whole. Through him, the Eldest feels--a
connection to all his host holds dear, a commitment to stand
ready against all invaders. Your Master was chosen because his
dedication is to the Republic, an entity Kitishoq neither knew
nor trusted before this, and if the Eldest opposed our joining,
we would have had no choice but to obey."
He couldn't deal with this right now--he needed to meditate,
needed time to think about what he'd learned, even though the
Force was a whisper in the back of his mind, telling him it was
true, all of it. "And what part do I play in all this?" he
scowled, wanting only to step back from his emotions before
asking the priest one more time, in the simplest language of
all, where his Master was and if he would return.
"Ah," the priest nodded once, and Obi-Wan felt a rush of panic
at the man's hesitation, certain only that he wouldn't enjoy
the answer. "We always try to find hosts with bonds to
another," the old man shrugged with a trace of apology. "That
way, when Kitishoq chooses to leave--"
"Leave?" Obi-Wan pounced on the word with an electric
shiver of hope.
"Yes--Kitishoq leads the Vorai; without him, they tend to
be...overexcitable," the old priest said at last, a tiny
half-smile curving his lips. "If someone is there to anchor the
spirit of the host, then the leavetaking goes smoothly more
times than not--but if the host has no one to anchor him, then
it's entirely possible he'll be pulled along with Kitishoq when
he returns to the gate, part of the Eldest forever. Most often,
the anchor is a lover..."
"He was my Master," Obi-Wan heard himself object from a vast
distance, sinking slowly into the nearest chair as the reality
of his situation hit home. If the old priest was correct, not
only was Qui-Gon still there, but a part of him was
aware through everything the spirit possessing him
did...every moment of it.
"It's...very unusual," the old man said slowly, "for Kitishoq
to mistake something like that. I don't need to ask whether you
loved your Master," he added, and Obi-Wan's head jerked up
sharply, a flush staining his cheeks, "but perhaps you might
question how your Master felt towards you."
Swallowing, Obi-Wan tried to look away and couldn't, too many
conflicting emotions swirling within him at once. "How often is
unusual?" he tried to lighten the knowledge with a joke,
needing to be alone to think, and quickly.
Raising his brows as he made a show of consideration, the
priest shrugged one shoulder and offered, "Never?"
"Oh Force," Obi-Wan breathed, dropping his head in his hands.
This was all a huge mess...it was beyond him, but at least he
had hope, hope that his Master would be returned to him...
But for how long? How would Qui-Gon react to what had happened
between them, what would he say, what would he do? Would he
push Obi-Wan away with his guilt, or would he find Obi-Wan's
meek submission of necessity to the creature distasteful, a
reminder of something spoiled between them? And could Obi-Wan
learn to forget if that was what it took to keep his Master?
He felt a thin, strong hand settle briefly on his shoulder, and
then the priest was gone, shutting the door behind him and
leaving Obi-Wan alone with his thoughts.
When the creature found him again, he was in the rooms they had
been given, sitting quietly at the foot of the bed and wrapped
in what peace he'd been able to find. If his Master sent him
away when Kitishoq left him, at least Qui-Gon would be alive.
Obi-Wan would make certain of that, anchoring the man against
anything Kitishoq's leaving could do to him. Nothing mattered
but Qui-Gon's safety. Nothing.
It stalked him, as always, its gait tense and predatory and
dangerous, but there was something hesitant in it as well, a
trace of sadness on the familiar face. Instead of pushing him
to the mattress, it knelt at his feet, staring up into his face
with a silence Obi-Wan now knew was wrong, strange. //What is
it?// he sent wearily, willing to meet the spirit halfway this
time, and it pushed its torso between his knees, laying its
head--Qui-Gon's head--on his thigh.
Unhappy, you are bleeding inside, it hurts, it hurts me to
hurt you, it is wrong, it is an evil, this pain.
//I'm worried for my Master,// Obi-Wan sent grudgingly, one
hand lifting of its own volition to stroke the greying hair,
watching long lashes dip over sad blue eyes. //I can't feel him
in you, and that scares me. I don't want anything to happen to
him. And...we weren't lovers...Kitishoq,// he added quietly,
stumbling over the name of his greatest fear. //He might send
me away for this...and I don't want him to hate me. Or
himself.//
But we love you, it blinked up at him mildly, its
wildness curbed for him, because it hated his fear. Or maybe
that was Qui-Gon, trying his best to reassure his Padawan,
though Obi-Wan didn't dare to dream.
Closing his eyes, Obi-Wan bowed his head, giving up on trying
to argue or reason with the thing. Kitishoq understood what it
understood, and it wasn't like a human man would. There was
either love or there was not, and it felt as if it had done
right, regardless of any consequences.
'Never,' the old priest repeated in the back of Obi-Wan's mind,
and he held that promise to him as his fingers untangled from
his Master's mane, stroking the warm skin above Qui-Gon's
temple and down to the furred jaw.
Purring, the spirit leaned into the touch, nuzzling at his
thigh when Obi-Wan's hand shifted, kneading his Master's nape
and the tense, knotted shoulders. Like a cat, the spirit arched
into his ministrations, so Obi-Wan continued, petting him like
some huge feline come in from the hunt to twine around his
feet. This time when Kitishoq crawled up his body, Obi-Wan
scooted back on the bed of his own will, spreading his legs for
it to rest between them. He knew of no other way to tell his
Master that he was loved and wanted than this, holding his body
and mind open, determined to be ready when an anchor was
needed.
Still growling softly, the spirit slid slow and gentle against
him, thrusting their hips together until Obi-Wan's breath
turned erratic, far kinder than it had ever touched him before.
Perhaps it was because he wanted it this time or because
it could feel how he wished to be touched, but he could tell
himself it was because his Master was losing his fear, daring
to take control this time with Obi-Wan's tacit permission.
Whatever the reason, the creature's hands were gentle on him
this time, and it let him strip them without becoming impatient
or ripping the offending garments away, let each movement and
touch flow smoothly into the next as if this were truly done in
love.
Obi-Wan's groan when it bent to taste his neck made it purr
against his skin, the scratch of Qui-Gon's beard and the
softness of the man's lips unbearably erotic. Obi-Wan's hands
were tracking over the broad planes of his Master's back
without thought, wrapping his legs around lean hips to pull
them closer as he threw his head back, baring his neck to the
faintest hint of teeth. "Qui-Gon," he breathed and felt the
other's hips buck against his, the heat of a thick arousal
sliding like silk against his own. It soothed him, that instant
reaction, even as the spirit was easing out of his hold,
slinking down his body and leaving a fiery path behind with
tongue and lips and teeth. His Master was in there, it
was no lie...
His spine arched helplessly at the first hot flick of a tongue
against his pebbled nipples, circling one and then the other,
nipping lightly until he buried his hands in the long, thick
hair and tugged, thrashing against sensation. It only sent the
mouth exploring further down his chest, tickling his ribs,
tasting the hard muscles of his stomach, tongue dipping
ticklishly into his navel. He was aroused this time as he'd
tried not to be before, and the heavy silk of his Master's soft
hair against his erection, the teasing brush of Qui-Gon's beard
against the head of his cock, dragged breathless pleas from his
throat, his Master's name, over and over.
Kitishoq didn't seem to mind what Obi-Wan called it. Before
Obi-Wan could shame himself by begging, his cock was enveloped
in wet heat, tongue spiraling around the head before slipping
down his shaft, curving and flicking as he was swallowed whole.
Trying not to thrust, he was drowned in a feeling of welcome,
of permission, and he reached out instinctively for more of
that closeness, desperate for it after the last few days of
blindness. The minute he caught hold of the other's thoughts,
soothingly familiar despite their alien cast, he felt something
snapping into place, a bone popping back into joint, a bolt
sliding home, more perfect than finding one's center in the
Force. They were moving together then, the rocking of his hips
finding a perfect home in the wet velvet of a beloved mouth,
and it didn't seem wrong at all to take this pleasure in it, to
reach out for love even now...
When he came, he felt a moment of vertigo, as if something were
pulling at him, drawing him onward, but he shook it off
impatiently. Opening his eyes, he stared down at his Master's,
which were fixed on him in unbearable intensity. Slowly,
teasingly, his cock was released, but it was his own semen that
slicked the fingers that were pressed inside him, and he pulled
his legs up in silent consent. Feeling himself opened by that
careful touch, he couldn't keep still, rocking up into the
fingers that probed him, wanting more for the first time since
he'd joined the creature in the bath. He wanted to insist that
he was ready, that he wanted it now, but all he could do
was bite his lip and groan unintelligible encouragement,
half-lidded eyes transfixed by a brilliant blue stare.
"Please," he forced himself to whisper at last, hips bucking as
long fingers caressed that perfect place inside him, his own
cock painfully hard once more. //Qui-Gon...//
Surging up over him, the other's powerful body covered him,
hands pulling his knees up and back as he reached down and
guided the long, thick cock inside him, groaning wordlessly as
he was filled. Force, it was perfect this time, his body
craving more of this incredible sensation rather than fighting
it off, giving himself over to the moment and the promise of
his Master's love. Even if the priest was wrong and Qui-Gon
never forgave him, at least there would be this memory to see
him though...if only he could believe it wasn't a lie...
Love he was sent and he opened his heart to send it
back, thrusting up into the powerful stroke that rocked him so
mindfully. A second wave of vertigo washed over him, but this
time he held fast, unwilling to lose a second of this moment,
whatever the cost. Staring up into his Master's warm eyes, he
could almost trust that the love was real, and meant for him,
from the only person he wanted.
A shuddering breath was torn from the figure above him, and his
Master's head dropped, cheek pressed against his. "Obi-Wan..."
whispered faintly across his ear, and his hands tightened
convulsively on the broad back, a white-hot flicker of hope
searing through him.
"Master?" Obi-Wan breathed, holding the big body close, and
Qui-Gon's stroke faltered as he raised his face, staring down
at Obi-Wan with love and trepidation mingled in his eyes.
Beyond words, Obi-Wan pulled Qui-Gon's head down, sealing their
mouths together for a desperate kiss that held all his relief
and devotion, his love and fear and his need. Still
tightly-connected, Obi-Wan felt the last of Qui-Gon's shields
crumble under the warmth of his welcome, pulling them together
even closer than before. The vast alien presence of Kitishoq
was gone like a dream, only the strange moments of dizziness
Obi-Wan had fought against giving any indication of the
struggle to separate the Eldest from its host.
//We were too connected for it to pose a problem,// Qui-Gon
said hesitantly into Obi-Wan's thoughts, resting motionless
above his Padawan and stroking Obi-Wan's smooth cheek,
marveling that he was allowed to do so. Obi-Wan could feel it.
He could feel everything between them, so clearly it almost
hurt, but it was beautiful, so beautiful...
//Good,// Obi-Wan smiled up at the other man, drawing him down
for another kiss, one far gentler and with all the sweetness he
could muster. So much love, so much perfection...and they could
have this always.
//Always,// Qui-Gon agreed, and Obi-Wan pressed his hips up
into the other man, distracting him for good.
The speech was just as boring as ever, Obi-Wan thought with a
private grin as he listened to his Master welcome the Madageri
into the Republic, a packed amphitheater staring perfectly
silent at the four figures in the circle of stones below. There
was no blood this time to call the Vorai, but it had given
Obi-Wan a shiver nevertheless as they stepped out onto the
grass, him a half-step behind his Master, who walked before
both the Sanctor and the High Priest. It was early evening, the
sky still a faint blue at the western horizon, and the only
wind was a cool, fragrant breeze, billowing their robes, both
Jedi and Madageri, in artful folds.
Obi-Wan had been almost outraged when his Master had said he
still wished to induct the Madageri into the Republic, holding
no grudges against his treatment at their hands. Qui-Gon had
not been pleased at how his Padawan had fared and had
made it abundantly clear, but Obi-Wan had found he could
forgive that much, seeing as it had brought them to this. And
neither one of them wanted pirates or anyone less scrupulous
than the Madageri to gain control of the First Gate, not after
what Qui-Gon had gleaned from Kitishoq's thoughts and shared
with Obi-Wan. Madager was entering the Republic on the
condition that a Jedi Temple be built as near to this spot as
possible, a condition the Madageri approved heartily. Matchless
warriors or not, they were no fools, and allying themselves
with the Jedi had been their aim all along.
When Qui-Gon made his final bow, echoed by Obi-Wan and Sanctor
Bvaravi, the High Priest stepped forward and raised his arms,
the people taking up a new chant as one. Whatever the language
was, it was so old and so far removed from modern Madageri
speech, their translators were simply silent, unable to make a
guess at the meanings. It was a brave sound, now that he could
listen to it without fear for his Master's life, and Qui-Gon
smiled down at him, picking up on the thought effortlessly.
//My anchor,// Qui-Gon sent fondly, as intimate as a kiss or a
clasped hand in the dark, and Obi-Wan twined his heart around
his Master's spirit with a smile.
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