Backhand

by Tem-ve H'syan

Title: Backhand

Author: Tem-ve H'syan tem-ve@gmx.de

Pairing: Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Striking down a king is hard enough. Even harder when the king expects it. And a task of almost inhumane proportion when all of Babylon expects it.

Notes: Inspired by a National Geographic article; the first few paragraphs were scribbled down during Gloriana's flashslash exercise at Con*Strict. For those of you who were there, here's the whole sordid truth now - or, well, sordid fiction since that ritual was, as far as I can tell, never documented in such detail. Sin-leqi's notes must have gotten lost :)

Disclaimer: George Lucas created these boys; I merely added UST and ancient Babylon. Written for pure enjoyment and historical geekery. Not a penny made nor intended to be made on this.

Warnings: Descriptions of ritual violence - nothing you wouldn't see on TV though. Well... page me when they show a naked-Qui Babylonian king being beaten on TV ;)

There was a reason they, the priesthood of Marduk of the heavens, kept away from the houses of the flesh; it had been academic at first, a commandment learnt by rote at age seven, rebelled against at age fourteen, and now, at age twenty-one, slowly and inexorably understood.

The men who came to his temple for help, advice, or absolution would often bear the scars from her temple on their bodies, histories, and souls. Ishtar, mother of the great city of Babylon, took no prisoners, and neither did her haughty servants who offered their ravenous bodies for the worshippers' delight. Mere mortals were unfit to receive the seed of the divine, and in Ob-inannu's admittedly untainted opinion, should not aspire to do so.

Marduk provided; the great upholder of heaven and earth, who guided man's hand in wall-building and warfare, ensured that none of his came to harm. And Ob-inannu was definitely one of his.

At the age of twenty-one and barely half a year, he found himself the recipient of the one thing his master, the high priest of the Temple of Marduk, had left behind when he crumpled out of this life. To others, it was a gold chain of office that rivalled the regalia of the King of all Babylon. To Ob-inannu, it was mostly a weight on his shoulders. Earth-work, that was his duty. Wall-building and upholding, his purpose in this temple, this city, this world.

Well, it had been.

That had been the way in which he'd gone into the five-day festival of Renewal, as he had done the year before and the one before that and the one before that. He was officiating this year; not too daunting a task, since he had assisted and observed the year before and the one before that and the one before that. All was well-ordained and well-prescribed by ritual, and he had no reason to assume that the king would not act admirably as he had done the year before and the one before that and the one before that.

He was a king to be proud of, and one that the great city was justified in glorying in, one who rose from the enforced humiliation of the renewal ritual just as powerful and impressive, if not more, than he had come into it. No, Ob-inannu had nothing to worry about where the king was concerned. He was a good king in a good place, and he would serve his purpose in the ritual and swallow his pride, for the glory of Marduk and the greater good of the city.

It had all gone well and exactly as it had the year before and the year before that and the one before that. The king had entered the small sanctum of the Temple, already divested of his name and entourage, and nodded at Ob-inannu to begin. Ob-inannu, squashing the faint tickle of nerves at his first Renewal, nodded at Sin-leqi, the only other person in the room, silently fulfilling his scribal duty and recording the divestment and renewal of the king of all Babylon on a clay tablet on his lap.

Sin-leqi commenced writing, and Ob-inannu straightened himself to his full modest height. He was almost a head shorter than the king, as was proper of course; and yet, within mere moments, he would be towering over him. As Marduk desired.

Taking a deep breath, Ob-inannu commenced the divestment. The crown first, a wide gold band decorated to symbolise the rays of the sun; as it was lifted from the king's head, Ob-inannu thought for a moment he'd seen the reflected gold in the king's hair and beard turn to grey.

The sceptre and amulets followed, given up willingly to be placed on the stone bench next to where Sin-leqi was stoically noting down each item, received as was proper.

The fine linens and wools came next; of course Ob-inannu's hands were practiced at the movements and gestures and the order in which they would have to be unwrapped from the king's statue-still body, folded and laid aside. Still, the close-up view was a little disconcerting. Under the crimson wools and whisper-soft linens, the king's skin was the same coarse skin as any man's. Tended well and oiled regularly, but still - under the cloak and blessings lay shoulders and ribs and thighs, great long muscles and hairy bits and scars like on any other man.

Well, not any other man. Those scars had been hard-earned in battle, and the king's nose spoke prominently of his derring-do aboard the chariots in his youth but still... Ob-inannu had to force himself to focus.

The rings on the king's fingers were the last thing to be stripped from him, and Ob-inannu had to swallow a little at the size of those paws, offered up unresistingly for him to pull the gold and agate jewels off. Sin-leqi dispassionately inventoried those as well, and Ob-inannu reached for the staff.

Before him stood, naked and silent, the man who was the king of all Babylon every day of the year save this one. And it was his duty to ensure he would be made so again. But before, he would have to be reminded of how he was merely a man, bearer of the burden of kingship by the grace of Marduk.

The first blow struck without a trace. Not a flinch, not a grunt from the man. Not enough. Ob-inannu knew the precepts, knew what was necessary for the unmaking and remaking of the king, and though it had pained him to remember it in his private moments, now it was his duty, and he threw himself into it.

In a rhythm that was as unerring as it was hypnotic, Ob-inannu brought the staff down time and time again, hard wood hitting unprotected flesh, every limb on each side, as was prescribed. He had no reason to be concerned about the king's endurance, even at his advanced age, and still he caught himself flinching as he laid the staff aside and caught a glimpse of the bruises already beginning to form. The king stood rigidly upright, his face closed, his breath heavy and tense, and yet no sound escaped his lips.

Then, he opened his eyes, and Ob-inannu closed his in reflex. Willing himself to do what he was needed for, he raised his hand nevertheless. The last limb, the chiefest of them all, the king's head, would be struck by human hand alone.

Three strikes of Ob-inannu's fist to the mighty skull, and he doubted the king could be in any more pain than his fist was, whether or not the hair was softening the blows. Which left the last side, again the chiefest of them all, and he took a gulping breath before lunging into what he knew he was expected to do and yet could not imagine himself doing.

His body did it for him, with rather less balance and more force than he had intended. With all his weight, Obi-inannu backhanded the king across the face.

He heard the sound beside him, took a dazed second to realise he'd swung around with the force of his own blow, and slowly turned to see the king struggling upright from where he'd fallen.

For a moment, Ob-inannu had had the upper hand, towering over the king, as the rites demanded. The rush of relieved breath leaving his mouth caused an echo in the other man's face, a snort of - what? Amusement? Derision? Pride?

Ob-inannu looked up into the standing man's face, searched it for answers. Saw the tear tracks, the smear of blood on his upper lip, saw the unflinching gaze that was darker and harder and more durable than the walls even of the great city herself.

Yes, this man was doubtless worthy of receiving Marduk's blessing for another year. As Ob-inannu prepared to say the holy words, he found himself spellbound by how that blood-smeared mouth flickered into the tiniest of smiles, so vulnerable, so powerful that it made something inside him want to burst and fall at the man's - the king's - feet. Or at the very least chant very very loudly to Marduk that he'd picked the right man.

As he spoke the words, something tickled his peripheral vision. Something not prescribed by ritual, something... other. And right.

As he felt the king's warm hand on his own cheek, Ob-inannu suddenly and indisputably knew what it was like to be touched by a god.