Summary: Obi-Wan is introduced to the life of an apprentice.
Series: Out of Darkness (What if the Sith had won...?)
Archive: SWAL, m_a, SPEB - If you want to, yes. ^_^ Anyone
else, just ask.
Feedback: PLEASE! It keeps me plunking away at my keyboard with
plump bunnies.
George is my god, I shall not want, for he maketh my bunnies to
graze in green pastures. <g>
WARNING: SQUICK ALERT! Underage suggestions of slashiness
between people you'd probably rather not see slashed, and
bordering on non-consensual! Squick at your own risk, and
assume that you've been warned that I'm trying to bend
your brain with this series. ^_^
Author note: I'm in a borrowing sort of mood, so as long as I
was borrowing from George I thought I'd borrow some
ideas/images from a few other sources as well. Anyone who can
spot them without help.... congratulations, your brain's as
twisted a mine. <g> For everyone else, a nod of the hat
goes to (in order of appearance):
the manga series Crying Freeman
the movies Pillowbook and Fight Club
Storm Constatine's book series "Wraeththu"
Out of Darkness: The Gift of Breath
Year of the Empire 1,457
Coruscant
by BlackRose
He was shivering with something more than cold, and he could no
more stop the trembling then he could cease the heavy pound of
his heart. Obi-Wan drew in a cold breath, feeling the chill air
seep through clenched teeth and trickle like ice water across
tongue and throat. His hands were numb against the hard rests
of the chair, his fingernails broken against the unpadded
surface from being dug against the hard metal.
He felt the light diminish upon his closed eyelids, fading the
world beneath their cover from bloody red to velvet black as
something came before his face. He had a moment to catch
another breath and hold it, tight against his clenched
diaphragm, before cool fingertips touched the heated flesh of
his cheek and the needle came again, tiny silent pricks that
spread hot flashes through his skin, painting lines of fire
across his face with painstaking slowness.
Obi-Wan shivered again, feeling the cold trickle of sweat
across the bare surface of his brow. The hands paused, matter
of factly wiping the droplets away before they could become
troublesome. The light returned and he heard the watery swish
of the needles being rinsed, the quick rustle of cloth and the
soft clatter of brush and inkpot as the points were loaded with
pigment once again. Then the dark descended, hands hovering
over him, and the fire returned to lick at him.
He was no stranger to it. Every year, on what he was told was
the anniversary of his birth, he had entered an identical room
and sat on the unforgiving lines of an identical chair. Every
year, since leaving the creche, he had sat, unmoving, without
noise, as the needles had traced forth the reminder of another
year upon his skin in blood red ink; a mark that welled real
blood as it was pricked into his flesh. But those, he
discovered, had been nigh unto nothing - quick things, easily
shrugged off, and not since the first year had he even thought
of crying.
Being an apprentice, he found, was something else entirely.
His initiate marks had been stripped away the day before -
harsh chemicals that burned to the touch and scorched each
breath, leaving him light headed, his eyes helplessly tearing.
But in their wake, feeling as though entire swaths of his skin
had been peeled back, he had looked into the tiny reflection
glass mounted on the wall of his new quarters and seen his own
face looking back - sickly pale and utterly unmarked, as he
could barely recall it from creche days. It had seemed strange
and despite the lingering pain he had been unable to keep from
brushing fingertips against the points where his years as an
initiate had been recorded.
One night, being neither one nor the other, reduced back to the
unmarked days of infancy. And now, today, he had entered once
again into the room, sat upon the chair, with no idea at all of
what he would find when he rose again. He would be marked as an
apprentice, a design chosen based upon his Master's rank and
personal preference. This one he would likely bear for the rest
of his life, forever marking him as a trained Sith.
Hours, it had been, until his entire face felt hot and swollen.
He had seen youths elevated to the elite guard before - had
seen them return with full marks tattooed across their skin,
demon masks in black and blood. But he had also seen them pale
and wane beneath those marks, flushed and damp with fever, skin
traced in tiny rivulets of their own dried blood where the
relentless tracks of the needles had drawn it forth.
Now, it seemed that every prick of the needle against his cheek
drove the fever into his flesh, made his bones shiver with cold
as his skin burned.
It had begun at the crest of his forehead, where already it
seemed he could feel the phantom itch of growing back stubble.
It would be months before the delapidorys wore away and his
hair would begin to grow again - he could not properly recall
what color it was, though he thought it might be a lighter
shade. The needle had traced a slow line down the center of his
forehead, coming to rest between his brows and making his eyes
ache with the effort not to turn his gaze inward to that point.
Then it had turned to his eyes themselves, pricking at the
tender flesh beneath them until he was uncertain he could open
his eyes even if he wished to. From there to his cheeks,
picking out a design his mind had lost track of, each pass of
the hands and their needle only adding to the burning.
Rinse, dry, ink, prick. The sounds had blurred in his ears, a
repetition that he had lost count of. The illusion of respite
between each laboriously drawn mark was just that - illusion.
Enough to take a breath, indulge a shivering tremble, and then
freeze once more as the needle returned.
He had begun to think that hours had, in truth, become days
when the scrape of a chair being pushed back roused his
drifting mind. Obi-Wan froze, anticipating the muted clatter of
movement as positions were changed, another vantage found to
complete some portion of the design. Instead, to his surprise,
the warm light above his eyes was moved away, leaving him in
cooler darkness. "It's done," a crisp voice declared.
"Good." Low and gravely, the voice of an old man, rasped deep
within the throat. Obi-Wan started; he had been unaware of the
presence of anyone but the tattooist. Forcing open eyes
encrusted with unshed tears, puffed and swollen from the
attention of the needle, he peered in the direction of the
voice.
The black robe fell in soft folds from the crown of the drawn
down hood to sweep against the floor, concealing all features
of the wearer. Obi-Wan shivered - rarely had he been so close
to a Sith Master. Taking a deep breath, he forced strength into
numb hands, sitting up from the tilted chair. The world spun
for a moment and he wavered, drawing in a slow breath to combat
the sparks behind his eyes.
A firm hand pressed his shoulder, steadying him even as it held
him implacably still, yet when he looked up there was nothing
and no one touching him. The grey suited tattooist stepped
back, bowing slightly as the Sith Master strode forward, silent
but for the soft brush of his robes.
Thin fingers, joints knotted with age and rough nails yellowed,
stretched out and caught the boy's chin. Obi-Wan could not
suppress a shiver, but struggled to still it as the grasp
turned his face up towards the light, twisting him to one side
and the other as the Master surveyed the tattooist's work with
a critical eye.
"It's well done," the man said at last, releasing Obi-Wan. "I
will sign and seal your work. You may leave us."
Obi-Wan released a breath he hadn't been aware of holding -
this, then, was to be his Master. "I have given you a Master,"
the Emperor had said, and at the time Obi-Wan had thought he
had heard some hint of favor - now, looking at the baleful
yellow gaze of the eyes which peered down at him from a heavily
lined face, he was not so sure.
The tattooist bowed again and left in silence, the heavy doors
sliding shut behind the man. Obi-Wan tried to take a breath, to
let it out with all of the jumbling nerves inside of him,
releasing it outwards and remaining calm. But every motion of
his new Master broke that semblance, every slight gesture from
breath to the slide of the narrowed eyes making his heart leap
anew in skittering fear.
Thin lips curved upwards in what might have been a smile. The
Sith Master reached up, laying back the hood of his cloak. "You
may call me Sidious."
Obi-Wan swallowed, feeling the dryness of tongue and throat.
"Darth Sidious," he repeated respectfully, his voice cracking
embarrassingly in the tight echoes of the room.
The man was ancient, the lined flesh of his face paper thin and
yellow tinged beneath the harsh lights. Sparse white tufts of
hair lay against the desiccated curve of scull, skin stretched
across skeletal lines of bone and sinew. The yellow of his eyes
was rimmed in red, giving the orbs the sharp look of a
predator.
Ancient, but the cool darkness of the Force fairly bathed him,
surrounding him like a presence that Obi-Wan could feel. It
stirred at his every gesture, swirling idylly around his hands,
breathed in and out with every motion of his lungs. A Sith
Master, and now, Force help him, his Master. The one who
placed the rank of apprentice before him; who would, in time,
give him the stepping point that would take him beyond that.
His Master. Obi-Wan raised his chin, meeting the man's
disconcerting gaze fully. His path to his future. "Master," he
said evenly. The old man cackled, the sound harsh.
"You're quick," he approved, voice wheezing softly. "Good. Most
of them spend months cowering in fear before they realize the
truth... if they ever do." One skeletal hand shifted slightly
and Obi-Wan gasped, pain flaring like flash fire through his
nerves in a sharp burst that faded slowly. Sidious' grip caught
his chin, jerking his head up painfully. "Don't," the Master
hissed softly, "let it make you foolish."
"No, my Master," Obi-Wan choked out. The Sith Master's eyes
seemed to burn him before the man at last released him.
"The tunic," Sidious snapped briskly. "Get to your feet, boy,
and remove it."
Obi-Wan slid from the chair to his feet, nearly stumbling in
his haste. The Force still crackled ominously at the Master's
voice, lending speed to his fumbling fingers as he unfastened
his belt and slid his tunic off, letting it fall to the chair
behind him. The room was cold, the air sparking chill bumps
across his skin.
The ragged edge of Sidious' fingernail touched the hollow of
his throat, trailing a shivering touch down the line of his
breastbone nearly to his navel. The Sith Master watched his
reaction, eyes narrowed, a smile touching his lips at the
shiver the boy could not quite contain. "Turn," he commanded,
voice almost gentle. When Obi-Wan didn't comply quickly enough
the hand grasped his shoulder roughly, shoving him around, the
rough voice snapping out to lash at him. "Turn around."
Shivering harder, Obi-Wan stood where he was put, all too aware
of the hard gaze of the man on his naked back. It slipped down
the length of his spine, oily and cold. He struggled to banish
his fear and found he could not - it settled within every cell,
like hard, tight knots of ice.
Dry fingertips brushed his back, just above the band of his
trousers. A chill hand settled there, cupped to the warmth of
his skin in the small of his back, and it was all he could do
to stop the audible tremble of his jaw. The hand slid slowly up
his spine, a hard caress, the pressure growing in silent
command. Biting the inside of his lip, Obi-Wan leaned forward
until his forearms rested on the chair's seat, his waist bent
across the arm rest.
"Good," Sidious crooned softly. The hand slid against the nape
of his neck, cupping the bare curve of his skull as it pressed
his head down. It left him there, only the lightest tap of a
fingertip between his shoulder blades remaining. "Do not move,
boy. If you can do that, then you are truly a Sith apprentice."
"Yes, my Mas..." Obi-Wan replied reflexively, but his voice
trailed away in an indrawn gasp as he felt his Master step
forward, leaning down across his back. The man's robe draped
across his naked skin, surprisingly soft and warm. He felt the
press of another body across his own, pushing him down, and the
faintly warm brush of the man's breath against the nape of his
neck.
"My sign, boy," Sidious whispered, the words tickling across
Obi-Wan's skin. Lips touched him, the man's mouth pressing down
in a moist circle just above the tiny piercing of his service
record. Obi-Wan bit down harder, trying not to flinch.
Sidious drew away slowly, breathing out against the moisture
left behind by his lips. It was an icy touch, tingling, making
Obi-Wan clench his muscles almost painfully tight to keep from
trembling. The Master's hand returned to his back, pressing
firmly, a warning touch. "Do not move," he reminded the boy
quietly.
In the space of two breaths Obi-Wan knew why. Tingling became
burning, creeping through his flesh, and then burning became
searing pain. The cry burst from his lungs by surprise,
strangled in his throat. A white hot brand was touched to his
neck, touched and held there, pressing through layers of skin
as it burned them, peeling back flesh. He could almost imagine
the smell of burnt flesh, the hiss of the iron. Muscles tensed
and arched without thought, writhing, trying to escape the pain
that opened to encompass him.
Sidious' hand tightened against his back. Sobbing, Obi-Wan
pressed himself to the chair, fingernails scraping against the
surface as he twisted, desperately trying to draw breath
against the pain. He hissed through his teeth, panting, the
sobs coming harder.
"Feel the pain," Sidious whispered, the words twining on Force
driven fingers to echo through the boy's skull. "Let it flow
through you. Know it, boy. It is your strength. If you
overcome it, you can draw from it."
The pain was pressing him down, squeezing him. He couldn't draw
air into lungs that spasmed with each sob torn from his chest.
"M.... Mas... ter..." The syllables died in his throat, falling
broken from his lips. Sidious' hand tightened against his back,
nails raking him, the sensation almost a relief from the pain.
Struggling, Obi-Wan opened himself to the Force, but the pain
ripped away his control of it. It flooded him, too much, too
fast, pain layered atop pain as the icy oil of it whirled
around and through him. He cried out with the pain, gave it
voice and tongue, felt the fear and searing crest and reach out
with the Force as its fingers. Dimly he heard the clatter and
crash as the tattooist's instruments were flung to the corners
of the room, heard the shriek of the Force driven wind as it
whipped through the confined space. Sidious laughed as tiny
pale crackles of lightning climbed the folds of his robes,
delighted.
Clawed fingers closed around his shoulders and drew him bodily
up into the embrace of black robed arms, with more strength
then seemed possibly in the man's ancient frame. Sidious
ignored his flailing struggles, bending to press his lips once
more to the burning source of Obi-Wan's pain. The Sith Master's
tongue licked across the searing point, unbearably harsh
against damaged nerves, but in the wake of it the pain receded.
Obi-Wan went limp in the Master's grasp, his breath coming in
harsh sobs. Around them, denied the source of its direction,
the Force winds hissed and died away. Shudders spasmed through
the boy's body, phantom aftershocks of pain arcing through
abused nerves. Sidious' hand was surprisingly gentle against
his back, a soothing touch that washed away the lingering hurt.
Only when one fingertip traced the point where his lips had
touched did the pain return, but it was the simple physical
pain of a burn, easily dismissed in the ready memory of the
agony it had been.
Sidious chuckled softly, a pleased sound. "Good," he said
firmly. "Well done indeed, my young apprentice."
"Master," Obi-Wan gasped.
"Yes," Sidious hissed softly, turning the boy in his arms and
setting him once more upon the chair, where Obi-Wan grasped the
surface to remain upright, still softly panting. "Precisely."
The old man hesitated, eyes narrowing as he regarded the boy,
the withered line of his mouth pinching.
Decision came swiftly and, reaching out, he cupped Obi-Wan's
cheeks between his hands, thumbs resting against the swollen
points of new tattoos. A step forward close the small distance
between them, the Master's cloak falling to drape Obi-Wan as
well, until the boy could feel the thin limbs beneath it. No
control could stop his reflexive flinch as Sidious' lips
brushed his forehead, but the touch was simply that - a touch -
with no searing pain in its wake.
The Master's words were warm against his cheeks, a shivering
caress against the marks which bound him to the man. "The gift
of breath, my apprentice," Sidious whispered, and then the thin
line of the man's mouth closed across his own, tongue tip
snaking through parted lips to brush flesh in an intimate
touch.
Obi-Wan gasped, drawing in a reflexive breath. Spice and the
bittersweet taste of metal filled his mouth and throat, sinking
down deep into his lungs. It was the taste of the stillness at
the center of the maze, the dappled light of the last dregs of
a bloody sunset, the musky taste of death and the sweet, sweet
taste of power. He breathed it in, let it suffuse him, a heady
mix that steadied his shaken nerves and bolstered his failing
strength.
His Master chuckled softly as he drew away, but the sound was
no longer the harsh cackle of an ancient. Obi-Wan opened his
eyes, his pulse hard in his chest, already half knowing what he
would find. The truth of it lingered on his tongue, a taste he
now knew intimately.
The hair was still silvery, but it dusted full across a scalp
flushed with health. Dark eyes regarded him from the face of a
man in the later half of his prime, the lines strong but
subdued, a man one might almost look past if his visage were
not as well know as it was. Obi-Wan stared, not daring to draw
breath for fear of shattering the illusion.
Palpatine laughed softly, patting the boy's cheek with one
slim, manicured hand before drawing away. "No illusion, young
Kenobi," he said quietly, answering the unspoken thought. "Not
now."
"Master," Obi-Wan breathed, the enormity of what was before him
only beginning to surface.
"Yes." The Emperor stepped back, drawing up the hood of is
cloak. As he did the Force around him shivered and dimly, like
a shadow, Obi-Wan saw the withered visage of Sidious reappear
about the man. He could see it from the corner of his eye, like
a glimmering after thought, but before his direct gaze the
Emperor remained, dark gaze fixed to him. Palpatine smiled
faintly, nodding. "Keep your secrets, my apprentice. They are
your best defense, and your best weapon... but only so long as
they remain yours alone."
Obi-Wan nodded, breathless. "Yes, my Master," he affirmed,
feeling the promise burn across his tongue. Palpatine nodded,
satisfied, and gestured. Sliding from the chair, Obi-Wan
gathered up his discarded tunic, falling into place behind the
man as they strode from the room.
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