Master Apprentice Archive Mortifere Quick search:

Mortifere

by MrsHamill and Ruth Gifford

Pairing: Q/O
Rating: R
Archive: MA and Mom's Kitchen at www.squidge.org/~foxsden
Category: Drama, POV, BDSM, angst
Warnings: Dark. Very dark. Grim. Nasty. Don't read if you're depressed. Depictions of consensual but terrible BDSM. Not one single sex scene either.
Summary: Obi-Wan has Issues with Qui-Gon's need for the Rite of Mortification.
Disclaimer: What, you think we own these guys? Do either of us even look like George Lucas? If this is not what you expected, please alter your expectations. No such thing as random coincidence. No such thing as too much lubricant. (Thank you, Mark Morford.)
Notes: This story took TWO YEARS to write. The story about the story alone could take up space, so I'll skip it, except to say Ruth, thank you SO much and I loves ya babe! Thanks must go to The Bird and Glory, for telling me not to give up on it; Bunny, for demanding an actual motivation (gasp!) for Obi-Wan; and Camille and Claude, for beta-work above and beyond the call. I have, as usual, messed with things after the beta, so any mistakes are mine, not even Ruth's!

I remember being very young the first time he went there, the first time he needed to. And I remember being confused, and upset, and hurt. "But, Master, I don't understand," I told him, and he laughed at me. No, he didn't laugh at me. Never at me. But he chuckled.

"You probably will, some day, Obi-Wan," he told me, distracted. "Although if it were in my power to prevent that, I would do so," he added, very quietly.

He was right.

"But..." I was trying desperately to understand this -- this need he had. This strange, terrible thing he did.

He sighed. "It's... difficult to explain to one so..." his voice trailed off and I filled in the pause -- bitterly, to my chagrin.

"Young," I said. That time, I was sixteen.

His smile was wry. "I was going to say 'inexperienced,' but young will do. Although they don't always go hand-in-hand, you know."

It was my turn to sigh. I was acting like a child and I knew it. "Yes, Master."

After another moment's pause, where he left off folding our freshly-laundered and repaired tunics and sat on the bed instead, he went on. "Jedi don't always succeed in their missions, Obi-Wan. You know this too."

I nodded; we had returned just three sleeps ago from one of those failed missions. It had been horrible, far more horrible than I could have ever expected or believed. The staggering number of men, women and children, dead, dismembered, left unburied for the scavengers to pick at -- it haunted my dreams, and would for years. But I also knew, deep down, soul deep, that it wasn't our fault that those children had died, and I said so.

"Of course not," he said, his voice sincere and resolute. He took my shoulder with one huge hand and shook me gently. "Of course it wasn't. And it isn't our place to assign blame, Obi-Wan. All the Jedi in the galaxy couldn't have saved those people. But I know how you felt about seeing it, about knowing you could not prevent it. You felt much as I did. You felt guilty." He shook me again, drawing me closer to stand between his long legs. "Didn't you."

It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway. I had felt guilty. I had felt guilty, enraged, impassioned, and had hated -- without question or hesitation -- those who had perpetrated the atrocity. In short, I had felt everything that Jedi must learn to sublimate and leave to the Force. And I had released those emotions -- well, most of them. Hadn't my master?

"But, Master," I insisted, trying to articulate my thoughts, "I've managed to release my emotions." At his shrewd and knowing look, I flushed. "Well, most of them. A lot of them, anyway. You know I have. And you have too, haven't you?"

"Yes, Obi-Wan," he assured me, reading my anxiety far better than I could have explained it. "I have managed to release my negative emotions to the Force -- through meditation, and by dint of my will. You are not the only one waking in the middle of the night with nightmares."

"Then why..."

"Obi-Wan." Rather than shaking me, he drew me to him and enfolded me into a hug. I clung to him carefully, mindful of the bruises I knew were on his back and shoulders, drinking in the serenity he always blessed me with. "Do not question this any more, Padawan," he rumbled into my ear, and against my will I smiled and wiggled at the tickle of his beard and breath. "Merely accept and wait. Some day, you will understand more completely."

Drawing a deep breath into myself -- a breath laced with his own, dear scent -- I acquiesced. "Yes, Master." Deep down, I hoped that the question would never come up again.

I was wrong.

The Jouinda system had seventeen planets and moons; the three largest of them, inhabited. Jouinda Prime was nearly as urbanized as Coruscant, but that merely enhanced the contagion's spread. It was a terrible plague, one that could have been prevented by a simple inoculation that the Jouindians, for some strange religious reason, refused to take. Qui-Gon and I were not the only master-padawan pair to go to the system's aid, but we were the first to get there and the first to have to enforce the quarantine. Since the other two planets in the system went along with Prime's example and had not inoculated, no one from Prime would be allowed off-planet until the contagion ran its course.

It was a terrible, bloody mission.

The only recompense was that since we were the first on planet, we were the first allowed to leave. Qui-Gon and I spent most of the trip back to Coruscant either in meditation or in bed, making frantic, desperate love to each other, but I could feel the tension in him, mirrored as it was by my own. The day of our landing, he asked me if I would mind going on ahead to our quarters alone; he had someplace to go first.

"Master Po's?" I asked in a neutral voice. I did my best to suppress my frustration, but we were new lovers and I was only twenty-two, and I resented that he would have to seek solace in someone else's arms.

I must not have held back enough -- either that, or my lover was far too attuned to me. He stopped and turned, giving me an enigmatic look. "I'm sorry, Obi-Wan, but yes. I need to see if she'll make time for me -- today, hopefully."

We stood there, in the hallway, alone among many, bound up in our thoughts. Our hoods were up so no one bothered us. Finally, Qui-Gon sighed and reached out a hand, tipping my chin up to look at him. "It is customary that the Rite the Master of Suppliants performs can be -- sometimes must be -- observed. Shall I ask Master Po to accept you as an observer this time? Would that help?"

I frowned. Observe? Watch someone literally beat the shit out of my master, the man I loved; watch someone humiliate him, bloody him, and worse, watch either of them possibly get off on it? It didn't seem likely, and yet... I found myself nodding. "Good," Qui-Gon said, taking a deep breath. "I'll meet you back at our quarters, Padawan."

Not trusting myself to speak, I merely nodded again and walked away from him. I wasn't sure what I had gotten myself into. As I unpacked our clothes, made up a bundle for the laundry, wrote up a list of depleted items for replacement from the quartermaster's office, I thought about it. He came into our rooms during my chores, and immediately retired to the 'fresher, where I heard him draw a bath. I had a snack and went over my accumulated messages while he bathed.

I knew what he was doing, of course. While he hadn't enjoined the Rite of Mortifere often, he'd done it enough that I was cognizant of the preparations. He'd be cleaning himself, inside and out, thoroughly, brusquely. Unlike those times when we cleaned ourselves for love play, this cleaning would have no languid touches, no thrill of anticipation. Actually, I felt the need for a thorough cleaning myself; Jouinda had left a taint on my soul that would take a long time to fade.

Acknowledging that, I stood, then knelt in meditation on my mat. Yes, the last few weeks had been terrible. Yes, we had seen and done things that were far beyond painful. But as Jedi, we are taught there is no death, there is the Force. All the people who died -- whether in pain or mercifully without it -- were part of the Force, were part of the greater good. Swallowing, I deliberately called up the memory of our first official act upon reaching Jouinda Prime -- murder.

A small transport, carrying one of the planetary leaders, his entourage and family, tried to escape the plague. When they wouldn't return as we demanded, we were forced to destroy them. We only found out later that the transport also carried a few dozen children, orphans of the plague, included not through altruistic reasons, but as hostages -- the leader thought their presence would guarantee him safe passage.

He had been wrong.

Qui-Gon finally emerged from the 'fresher, his skin pinked by heat and scrubbing. He strode into the main room, gloriously nude, and sank down on his own mat opposite me. His hair was still damp. I fought off the arousal his body always sparked in me, especially since we became lovers, and found the center I had precariously won during my meditation. Qui-Gon's eyes were hooded as he stared at me.

"I need to meditate for a time," he said, his voice a harsh rumble. "A short time only; my appointment with Master Po is at tenth hour." It was already half-past ninth, I knew. "There are a few things you must know before," he continued.

"Once I come out of meditation, I am forbidden to speak to anyone except Master Po until the Rite is over. While you are observing, you are forbidden to speak -- indeed, you are abjured to complete silence. Check your shielding; you cannot interfere in any way, lest you break her concentration, which may cause permanent damage to either or both of us. Can you abide by those strictures?"

My eyes narrowed. "Yes," I replied simply.

"Do you have any questions before I meditate?" he asked.

Questions? I had millions of them. Any I could articulate? No. I clenched my jaw and took a deep breath, willing the frustration away from me, and shook my head sharply.

"No questions, but many statements," Qui-Gon murmured. "I'm pleased that you will be witnessing today, Obi-Wan. Perhaps this will help you understand better."

"I doubt that!" My harshly spoken words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them, and his eyes flashed.

"Padawan," he growled.

"What can she give you that I can't?" I demanded hotly. Now that the dam had been broken, it seemed the flood was nigh. "I fail to see the benefit of having some stranger whale away at you when your lover can grant you all the comfort--"

"ENOUGH!" he roared, and I blinked, taken aback. He was angry. I could see it, the rage bubbled beneath the surface of his eyes like lava beneath a crust of stone. His shielding was as tight as it ever was -- not even a trickle broke through -- but his eyes were windows to a painful fury which could move the world were it to be unleashed. Trembling, he took and held a deep breath, then released it slowly. "Comfort is not what I seek, Padawan," he said, his voice once again soft. "I will meditate now."

I said nothing else as I waited for him.

When he finished, he rose, pulled his robe on and left our rooms, knowing I would follow him. We moved deep into the Temple to a nondescript door which opened to Qui-Gon's touch.

Master Po was Drahnian, from Eastern Drah according to the pattern of fine scales that covered her. She wore full master's robes, having trained up two padawans. This much I knew from her records. I spared a thought as to what it must be like to be her padawan, glad once again for the circumstances that had led me to Qui-Gon. She smiled slightly at me as I followed Qui-Gon into the room and I hoped she hadn't discerned my thoughts.

"Welcome, Padawan Kenobi. Your masster hass mentioned you to me. He ssayss you wish to undersstand the Mortifere." For a Drahnian, she had her hiss well controlled. I nodded, remembering that I had promised my silence.

"Very well," she said, and gestured to a low padded bench to one side of the room. "There are often witnesssess, sso I am accusstomed to it. Make yoursself comfortable." I bowed, first to her and then to my master, before settling myself in to watch.

I don't know what I had expected, a dungeon out of some horror vid, or a sterile interrogation room such as Qui-Gon and I had seen on more than one mission. The room was actually quite similar to the Council's meditation chamber, comfortable, well shielded and attractive. The only incongruity, for a room which I knew had no outside wall, was a full-length curtain covering one wall.

Master Po turned to Qui-Gon, who bowed his head and remained silent. It troubled me to see him so humble; I wanted to reach out and hold him, comfort him. He doesn't want comfort, I reminded myself. Or at least he doesn't want it now. I pushed the anger at that thought away and reminded myself I was there to observe.

"What dosst thou sseek here, Jedi?" She used Old Basic, and it seemed somehow in keeping with her role. This was the Master of Suppliants, and although she was much shorter than my master, she seemed to tower over him.

When he spoke, my master's tone was equally formal. "I seek surcease from sorrow, from the agony of remembrance, from my unpardonable anger, from my helplessness, and from the guilt of living."

"Dosst thou give up thysself to me, wholly and without resservation?"

"I do. Do thou what thou will."

"Make obeissansse."

Qui-Gon removed his robe and fell to his knees, bringing his forehead to the floor like a padawan abasing himself for some major infraction. If it weren't for the strong pulse of the Force that told me this was right, I would have rushed forward to pull him up and take him in my arms. How could this man look so vulnerable and how could anyone ask it of him? The answer to my question was painful. He had asked it of himself; no Jedi went to Master Po or any of the other Masters of Suppliants unless they requested a session.

Master Po looked at him for a long moment and then nodded. "Thou felt helplesss, Jedi. And yet, thou knowesst we are often helplesss in life."

"Yes, Master."

"Come then."

She gestured and the curtain opened to reveal a wall, decorated with nothing but a set of rings hanging on chains. Wrist manacles. I swallowed hard and forced myself to calmness.

"Wilt thou feel helplesssnesss again, Jedi?"

"Yes, Master."

Qui-Gon rose to his feet and walked to the wall, placing his hands above his head. The cuffs locked themselves around his wrists and to my surprise he shuddered slightly. I caught a faint wave of discomfort from him; he once again felt helpless and this time it was at his own instigation.

"Let uss begin."

"Yes, Master."

Master Po went to a rack of things that had been hidden by the curtain. "Thou felt anger, Jedi. And yet, thou hasst been taught that anger iss unbecoming to a Jedi." She took up a whip, nine strands of braided black leather, each strand ending in a knot.

"Yes, Master."

"I allow thy anger, Jedi."

She raised her hand and I watched in helpless fascination as she shook the strands of the whip out carefully. "Have I thy permisssion?"

"Yes, Master."

The whip made a whooshing noise as she let it fly. She held nothing of her considerable strength back and I could hear the harsh slap as each strand landed across my master's back. He made no sound, merely absorbing the blow with his usual equanimity. I felt no pain through the bond. In fact I felt nothing at all, which disturbed me. If he was here to feel, to let go, then shouldn't something be coming over the bond?

The whip landed again and again, each blow placed precisely on his long back and broad shoulders. His fair skin began to redden and welts rose from the knotted ends of the whip strands. It had to hurt; my own back was starting to ache in sympathy and once again I struggled to understand. I couldn't see that this was doing any good, and it was taking every ounce of self-control I had earned from over twenty years as a Jedi not to stand and throw myself over my master -- my lover -- to stop it.

Master Po paused at that moment, and I watched as she removed her robe and chose a heavier whip from the rack. "Thou musst not cling to thiss anger, Jedi."

I felt Qui-Gon's shields tremble a little as he answered calmly. "Yes, Master."

Once more, she shook the whip and let its heavy blades fall on already tender skin. My master grunted slightly and I clenched my hands on the edge of the bench. Master Po hefted the whip slightly and threw her arm out again, obviously giving it all she had. Concentrating on her -- I could hardly bear to watch where the whip was falling -- I could see her thick muscles bunching, even under the sleeves of her tunic. The sound of the whip landing was a loud thud this time and once more Qui-Gon grunted. I could feel his shields waver even further.

I found myself remembering a time when we had stood on the steppes of Misth'ian and faced a coming storm, the heavy feel of the air weighing us down. Dear gods, dear gods, would it ever be over?

The whip kept falling and I found myself holding my breath and biting the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. Master Po was now covering skin she'd already hit and more welts were coming to the surface. She caught one with the tips of the whip and suddenly Qui-Gon yelled, making me jump and bringing tears to my eyes. His sudden surprised pain rolled around the room. I could tell that Master Po felt it as well; my master's shields were beginning to thin.

Another thump against his skin and another full-throated yell. Anger was coiling around us and for a moment I feared for my master. Master Po actually glanced at me -- she could, undoubtedly, sense my distress -- and I found something comforting in the combined look of reassurance and relief in her amber eyes. She leaned into the next blow and Master cried out again, pulling his wrists against the manacles. He was still fighting the experience and I could see how hard this was for him. It wasn't the pain, I suddenly realized, it was the loss of control eating at him. This revelation did not make it any easier for me to watch him being beaten, however.

"Art thou angry, Jedi?" Master Po asked as she paused and pulled another whip from the rack.

"I try not to be, Master." His voice was raw and harsh from his yelling, barely controlled.

She did not reply, backing off and bringing up the new whip. This one was different, a single long strand of braided leather that made my skin twitch just looking at it. It cracked and hissed when she sent it flying through the air to land on Qui-Gon's back, digging in and raising a thin red line. I lifted one clenched fist to my mouth and bit my knuckles, hard.

He twisted then and bellowed, more of his anger gathering.

"That'ss it, Qui-Gon," Master Po urged. "Let it go."

Yes, Master, I felt myself thinking. Let it go, please. I was careful to keep my thoughts to myself, not wanting to upset the careful balance of this rite, but I truly did not know how much longer I would be able to keep silent. I felt something thick and bitter drip from the knuckles I still bit.

The whip moved again, another line springing up where it landed. Again, with Master Po's muscles once more bunching in her sleeves. And again, and again.... Finally something in my master gave. With a scream such as I had never heard from him, he broke, his shields falling and swamping the room, Master Po and I with a powerful wave of fury.

The whip fell again and he screamed again. This time Master Po paused and I heard his voice, sounding faintly hoarse.

"They wouldn't...."

Another blow and another scream.

"... save themselves."

Again.

"How could they...."

And again.

"... condemn their children?"

"Give thy anger to the Forsse, Jedi." In contrast to my master, Master Po was calm, her voice smooth as she threw the whip again.

She pulled scream after scream out of him. I found myself wondering if it would ever end, if my master would ever find release from his fury with the mission. How could he have held all this in? His control must be even greater than I had ever imagined, than I could possibly believe. Finally he began to slump against the smooth wall, his cries lessening as Master Po's whip became slower and gentler. At last, the anger was gone, replaced by fatigue and a vague sense of release.

"And art thou sstill angry, Jedi?" Master Po asked as she finally let the whip fall to her side.

"My anger has gone into the Force, Master."

She gestured and the cuffs released my master's wrists. She caught him by the arms as he slumped, her look freezing me to my seat even as I would have leapt forward to help him. I sank back, watching as she led Qui-Gon to a padded bench much like the one I sat on. This one was in the middle of the room and I watched in stunned amazement as she guided my Master to his knees before it. There was more?

"Thou felt guilt, Jedi. And yet, thou knowsst that guilt accomplishess nothing."

"Yes, Master."

"And thy ssorrow remainss ass well."

"Yes, Master."

"Have I thy permisssion?"

"Yes, Master." Qui-Gon bent over the bench and I stared. I'd seen him in a similar position, of course, but never had the sight made me fear for him. What more, how much more, could he stand? How much more could I stand?

Master Po removed one more item from the rack, a slim rod of some translucent material that gleamed. It was clear and green, the same color as my master's saber blade. She tapped it lightly against her hand and drew a deep breath.

"Thou wilt be sstill. I have no wish to damage thee."

"Yes, Master."

She raised the rod and brought it down on his rear. A deep welt immediately appeared and Qui-Gon cried out. It was a different sound than he had made before, sharp and almost shocked, as if nothing could have prepared him for this pain. The rod fell again and then again, Master Po keeping to some strict rhythm as she carefully placed each blow. This had to hurt more than the whipping had; Master Po was not putting her full strength into it and yet bright lines were coming up on my master's skin with each stroke. I couldn't remember him being marked there before and I wondered: was it the severity of our mission that called for this? My head was aching, my eyes burning as I watched the abuse heaped upon my beloved. It was almost more than I could bear -- no, it was more than I could bear. Much, much more. Had the situation not changed, I don't know what I would have done.

It started so softly; Qui-Gon wasn't flinching from the rod as it continued to fall, but his shoulders were shaking faintly, almost as if he were.... And then I heard it, faintly at first and then growing in strength. He was crying, the harsh sobs of someone utterly unaccustomed to tears.

The rod dropped to the floor and Master Po moved to kneel before him. "Thy ssorrow iss great, Jedi."

"Yes ... Master," Qui-Gon sobbed. He slid off the bench to curl up on the floor.

"Let it flow, Qui-Gon," Master Po said, her voice finally gentle.

For a time the room was silent except for the soft hitching sobs of my master. I desperately wanted to move to his side, but I felt -- I sensed -- that if he saw me, he would feel the need to be again the perfectly controlled Jedi who was my master. So I remained where I was, utterly desolate and completely horrified by what I had seen, but also feeling the lessening of the tension in the room, as if some sort of fog were lifting. My time to comfort him would come, I knew. I resolved to take him back to our rooms and love him gently and with great mindfulness.

Finally he stilled and I felt his shields return, no longer stony and inviolate, but faintly permeable as they usually were. He remained on his side for a little while longer and then rose to his knees. Master Po rose to her feet and picked up his robe, helping him back into it. He bowed, once more touching his head to the floor.

"Thank you, Master."

"Thou art mosst welcome."

As he knelt up, she took his hands and helped him rise to his feet. Then, to my surprise, she knelt before him performing the same ritual obeisance he had.

"Have I thy forgivenesss, Masster Jinn?"

He bent and placed his hand on her head ridge. "You do, most assuredly, Master Po. May the Force be with you."

As he raised her to her feet, she replied, "And with you."

Qui-Gon headed to the door and I moved to follow him. Master Po touched my arm, halting me. "If you have quesstionss and wish to sspeak with me, I will be available."

I bowed. "Thank you Master Po."

As I left that room in the wake of my slow-moving master, I felt her eyes upon me. Suddenly, I realized she was expecting to see me back soon, perhaps to undergo the Rite myself.

She was both wrong and right.

I was silent as we made our way back to our rooms. Qui-Gon walked steadily, if much slower than was his wont, down the familiar corridors; his hood was up, his head was bowed. I shuddered behind my adamantine shields at the thought of how the rough cloth of his robe must feel to the horribly ripped skin of his back and buttocks.

We finally reached our rooms. Qui-Gon stood just inside the door and swayed slightly as he looked around blankly. I carefully, gently removed his robe and hung it on the coat tree by the door, trying not to look at his wounds as I did so. "Master?" I said softly, coming around to stand before him. "Let me help you."

A small smile from his generous lips was my reward for speaking, though his eyes were still dull from pain. "Padawan, have I ever told you how beautiful I find your voice?" he asked, and I frowned in some confusion.

"Yes, Master," I replied softly, taking his hand and tugging him gently towards our bedroom and the 'fresher. "You've said that before."

"It is a balm to my soul to know you are here, and that you love me," Qui-Gon said, letting me lead him. "Thank you for witnessing the Rite. I know how uncomfortable it must have made you."

Uncomfortable? That was an incredible understatement, even coming from him, the king of understatements. I had loathed it -- even now, now that it was over and I could see the beneficent effects it'd had on Qui-Gon, I still found myself shuddering in anger and struggling with bile at the thought of his beautiful skin so cruelly marked.

I shoved all those thoughts down, though, pushed them behind my shields. Now was not the time, since Qui-Gon needed me to be there for him. "Your wounds need tending, Master," I said quietly, still tugging him towards the 'fresher. Once I got him in the bath, I could use a numbing antiseptic which would help until the healers could get here...

"No, Padawan." Qui-Gon pulled his hand from mine as we entered our bedroom. He turned unsteadily to his dresser, where he pulled out clean underwear and a soft shirt. "Your intentions are good, but misguided. I will nap here for a while, then, after mid-meal, we should work on your sparring. You still have the unfortunate habit of dropping your guard on left side attacks."

I gaped at him. Surely, he could not be suggesting... "Your back, Master. You need to see the healers!"

He nearly toppled over trying to get his undershorts on, and I hastened to his side to help him. The bloody welts on his back had crusted over, and the sight of them brought my rage thundering back.

"Calmly, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said, straightening carefully and pulling his pants up. "Your thoughts betray you, my love. Master Po's instruments are all sterilized between sessions, and there is nothing that needs to be done. The injuries will heal in time." He couldn't prevent the wince of pain when he pulled the elastic over the welts on his bottom or when he raised his arms to slide the shirt on.

"I don't believe you," I whispered, backing away. "Has the entire world gone mad? You're injured! You need medical attention now!"

He merely shook his head gently at me, smiling slightly, then made his way to our bed. Carefully, as if he were a hundred years old, he lowered himself to the bed and rolled to his stomach. "I know you are not happy with me, Obi-Wan. I know you do not understand and have reservations over the entire matter." He turned and looked at me, his now-calm eyes boring into me. "However, I must ask you to merely accept, as I do not have the energy at the moment to debate it further with you. Later, perhaps." He sighed and settled himself on the pillows. "If I fall asleep, would you wake me in time for mid-meal? Thank you, Padawan."

It was a dismissal, and though part of me was glad to leave his presence, most of me was furious at his callous disregard of me and my feelings. Was I not his lover, as well as his padawan? How could he... how could he?

I stormed out of our quarters and fled down the corridors, ignoring everyone in my path in my fury and desperation. Eventually I found myself in one of the smaller, more heavily shielded gardens, where I felt free to scream my rage to the plants before falling to my knees, then my face, in abject misery. I didn't understand -- I couldn't understand. It made no sense to me, and my anguish over it made me pound the ground in frustration.

"Padawan Kenobi? What are you doing here?" Oh, lords on high, spare me, it was Councilor Windu. Not someone I wanted to see even on my best day. "I would have thought you would have been with your master. Didn't Master Jinn undergo the--"

"The Rite of Mortifere, yes, he did," I interrupted him, dully. It was never a good thing to interrupt Master Windu -- his displeasure was legendary -- but at this point, I couldn't find it within myself to care.

I felt his narrow-eyed regard of me, though I didn't look up. "I see." His voice could freeze a desert planet. "Then, tell me, why are you here -- broadcasting highly inappropriate distress -- instead of with him in his need?"

Ignoring his caustic comment about my shielding, I said, "He doesn't need me, Master. He has his wounds to keep him company," I added snidely, even to my own ears sounding like the most green of initiates.

There was silence for a long time, and I finally managed to sit up, rolling into a half-lotus. When I hazarded a glance at him, Windu's face was as expressionless as a sheet of durasteel. He stood over me, his hands folded into his robe, his own shields tighter than any drum. "Interesting," he finally murmured. "I was not happy when your Master petitioned the Council for permission to bed you, Kenobi, and now, I believe I understand why. Even though you are -- what, twenty-three? -- you let your own selfishness rule you and indulge in emotional histrionics totally unbecoming a Jedi. Amazing that your master feels you close to your trials."

I gritted my teeth, shaking in rage, and bit my lip hard. I dared not look up at him -- not after that damning assessment. When I felt able to speak clearly, I said quietly, "Is it selfishness to want to help one's lover and master, then?"

"It can be," he replied, in the same cold, level tone he'd been using all along. "Depending on the circumstances. A Jedi does not live for himself, Kenobi. A Jedi serves the Force -- first, last, and always."

Closing my eyes, I struggled to center myself. "I am having..." Push the words out, Kenobi. "...difficulty..." Now, there was an understatement. "...accepting that my master would willingly allow someone -- who does not even know him! -- to beat the sh-- to beat him so viciously. That he would not only allow it, but that he would seek it."

"Obviously," Windu replied caustically.

After a moment of struggling with myself, I looked up at him again. "Have you ever undergone the ritual?" I asked.

"That is none of your business, Padawan," Windu snapped. Had the temperature just dropped a few degrees or was it me? "Just as it is none of your business whether your master uses it or not."

I had found a measure of calm, and fought an internal battle to retain it. "She doesn't even know him," I ground out. "She beat him as severely as if he'd been a... a prisoner of war, and she doesn't even know him."

"Would it have been better for him to have been beaten by someone he knows? Someone he loves, perhaps? Were you offering your services in that fashion, Kenobi?" Without allowing me to reply, he continued, his voice becoming increasingly acerbic. "You are hardly a child anymore, Padawan -- and you claim to be a Jedi. If you cannot come to terms with this, if you cannot release your highly inappropriate emotions over it to the Force, then perhaps the Council erred in allowing a sexual relationship between you and your master in the first place."

He was deliberately baiting me and, luckily for me, I realized that immediately. Whatever else Qui-Gon was, he was an excellent teacher. I knew how to handle baiting. In truth, Windu's attempts to rile me further merely helped center me, and I was able to meet his icy stare calmly. "Perhaps you are correct then, master," I replied. "The Force knows that my master and I will bow to the superior wisdom of the Council on this matter." Qui-Gon would have been proud of me; I was able to say that with sincerity, and Windu knew it.

Windu's eyes narrowed, but he refrained from further digs. Instead, he nodded shortly and said, "I suggest some time in the library, studying the Rite, might not be amiss, padawan. You may also wish to speak with Master Po. She may be able to illuminate some of the areas you're having problems with."

I nodded, not trusting my voice to betray my still-careening emotions. Casting my eyes down, I nearly held my breath until he finally turned and left me. I waited for another long moment, keeping my shields tight about me, until I was certain he was gone, then I allowed myself to slump once more to the grass. My rage had disappeared, as well as my discomfort, and I felt curiously numb.

v Watching the mindless patterns of aircraft in the air above the Temple, I allowed myself to feel nothing, nothing at all. It was better than the hurt I had felt, I suppose, better than the pain of realizing that I was secondary in my master's life, that he would not consider me to be as helpful to him as a braided whip. As I lay there, I gradually became aware of other things -- the soft breath of recirculated, artificial breezes, the slight tickle of an insect creeping under my leg, a throbbing ache in my hand. I lifted it to discover a bloody wound there, and wondered dully how I had gotten it.

Despite myself, I began once again to pick apart Qui-Gon's actions. I was a Jedi, after all, and emptiness is not of our nature. It seemed, after my words with Windu, that I was alone in my loathing of the Rite, and I suddenly wondered why. Why was it so universally accepted?

I am a Jedi and I have been taught since infancy to look at every puzzle from all sides. Turning the question around, then, seemed completely harmless until I realized what I was asking myself. Why did I hate the rite?

I didn't want to think about that. I did not. But once unleashed, the question simply wouldn't go away. I sat up and wrapped my arms around my bent knees, resting my face on them as I thought. It wasn't the pain factor -- we're Jedi. We deal with pain in one form or another all our lives. And normally, my master is the one who flouts the rules, breaks the law, goes against the grain -- I am the one who follows. He is intrinsic, spiritual -- granted, he's a pain in the ass because he does what he 'must' do and damn the consequences, I've seen it my whole apprenticeship. I'm the extrinsic one, I'm the one who would prefer to follow orders, who is generally more in tune with the Council and the little rituals which make up our life as Jedi.

So why was I so upset? Why did I balk at a rite I knew was accepted in the Temple, a rite my master sought himself, requested himself, a rite that hurt him, humiliated and degraded him, drove him to his knees and made him...

Made him...

Made him human.

No. It could not be that simple, that easy. I would not accept that, could not accept that. I was well aware of Qui-Gon's limitations, of his foibles and his bad habits... I watched him pull his pants on one leg at a time. I held no hero-worship for my master any longer. I was certain of it. There must be another reason, and I would meditate on it... on another day.

Finally calmer, I rose, and walked back to my -- our -- quarters, resolved to do whatever Qui-Gon would let me do to help him, regardless of my "inappropriate emotions." One thing I knew for certain -- there was no way in hell I would ever speak to Master Po about this abominable Rite.

In that, I was right.

Oh, gods, my sorrow that I was right.

When I look back upon that time now, I realize it was the beginning of the end for us. We remained lovers, but there was something missing, something that I held back. I thought that he didn't know, that he couldn't tell -- but that was pure pride on my part. He knew. He knew all too well -- my loving, exasperating, insightful master.

Less than two years later, he was dead, driven through the heart by a Sith monster while I watched, helpless. My pride had helped the rift between us grow during that mission to Naboo, but he was the one to start it... and he contributed to it by his unwavering faith in Anakin Skywalker, his Chosen One -- the one Qui-Gon had me swear to train as he lay dying in my arms. The one he guilted me into taking. Oh, yes, I recognized it for what it was -- not at that moment, but soon after. He knew that the only way Anakin would be trained was if he got his lover to swear he'd do it. Qui-Gon may have seemed altruistic to those who didn't know him well, but he was not above emotional blackmail.

Therefore, instead of last words of love or of sorrow, instead of promises to wait in the Force, I got a heavy load of guilt and a padawan of my own even before my braid was cut.

Thank you, Master.

I'm sure I sounded sincere as I spoke to Master Yoda about my knighting. I know he was very upset with my insistence that Anakin be made my padawan -- I had promised Qui-Gon. My rage and despair over what Qui-Gon had done I kept carefully tamped down, behind shielding as strong as anything my master could have constructed. Yoda surprised me, though -- I'm sure he managed to sense some of it.

After agreeing -- albeit reluctantly -- to my taking Anakin as my Padawan Learner, he stopped his pacing and faced me. "See a Master of Suppliants you should, when return to the Temple you do," he said.

I know I was not successful in hiding the flash of distaste I felt. "I don't think that will be necessary, Master," I said, my voice as calm as I could make it.

Yoda is a shrewd old toad, and his penetrating looks have always made me feel transparent. This was one time, however, that I could not and would not surrender to him. I would take Anakin as my padawan, and I would not seek the so-called help of any of the Masters of Suppliants. I had not changed my mind over how I felt about the rite, and I was quite certain that nothing would ever change it. Not even what he said next.

"Feel guilt you do about Qui-Gon's death," Yoda mused, nodding. I would keep that meddling troll out of my mind -- somehow. "Not unexpected this is," he added after a moment. "Difficult to deal with, is guilt. Difficult it is to release properly."

"I am quite certain that, given enough time, I will be able to expunge any negative emotions concerning the... the..." Dammit. I couldn't even say it, and I had to or else Yoda would have my naked back chained to a wall waiting for a beating. I took a deep breath. "...the death of Qui-Gon. Of my master." There. "Given enough time, I will be able to properly submit to the will of the Force."

Gods, there are times that I hate Yoda with such bitterness... Those glowing eyes saw right through me and into my soul, into my pain. "Given enough time," he repeated softly. He was quite still. "Given enough time, universe will end," he added finally. "Given enough time, mighty will become low. An end to the Force, even maybe, given enough time. Have time, I do; much time. Have time, you --" he suddenly poked me in the chest with his gimer stick-- "do not."

I had to fight to suppress the shiver of prescience his words sent through me. Yet my resolve held firm. Yes, I had been blackmailed into taking a padawan long before I was ready. Yes, I felt guilt -- and anger, and bitterness, and a soul-numbing grief -- over Qui-Gon's death. None of these emotions were new to me, however, and I had never had any problem in the past releasing them to the Force.

Given enough time.

I know how to placate Yoda. "I will take your words to heart, Master," I said, bowing my head, "and will think on them." Yes, for all of three nanoseconds. But he didn't need to know that.

Yoda sighed. "Have Qui-Gon's stubbornness you do already. Know you now that never did it prevent him from seeking help. Young you are. Old, before your time comes, you need not be." He sighed again, but I did not lift my head. Eventually, he left the room.

Old, before my time? I was already old -- older than the stars, or so I thought. Pain will do that to you, you know. I already felt older than Qui-Gon, older than Yoda. I took scant comfort in the knowledge that at least there was nothing else the universe could throw at me, now.

I was wrong.

They are all dead now; Anakin has killed them.

Some, he killed swiftly and mercifully. Others, like Ki-Adi-Mundi, he lingered over. I know this; I felt it through our bond -- the damnable bond he would not allow me to sever. Oh, I could block it, and did, but every time I tried to rip it out, through every screaming rage or black despair, he thwarted me. I don't even know how he did it -- I didn't think it was possible. Eventually, I gave up and tried to seal it away behind shields of adamant.

Yoda still lives, I know, but I will not seek him out. I cannot. I have a charge to guard, a child to watch over here in this desolate place that is now my home. It pleases me, sometimes, to call my little dirt hovel the last Jedi Temple, and sometimes, I laugh at the idea of hosting senators and royalty here. It is hysterical laughter, to be sure, but it is all I am capable of any more. I can sit here in the terrible heat and have long conversations with Jedi long dead -- in my head only, as they don't come to visit me as Force ghosts, not even Qui-Gon. They shun me in death even as they did in the last of their life, in the agonies of their dying. Even Windu, and he was killed long before Anakin turned.

I wish... Quite often, I wish one of them -- well, at least Qui-Gon, at least the man who I thought loved me -- would come to me. Would deign to talk to me again. Would let me explain how much I've come to understand here, how much I've come to realize. I thought to never need any rite to release my emotions -- perhaps it was because I never had emotions sufficient to require the rite. I don't know. I don't know much, anymore. Or I try not to know. That way lies madness, and I have enough trouble with my sanity as it is.

Luke is growing into boyhood now. He's growing straight and tall -- well, he appears to be, from what I can see from a distance. Owen Lars won't have anything to do with me, he didn't even want to take the baby but Beru insisted. They were childless, you see. So he gave in to her wishes, but only under the stipulation that I take my damn-fool Jedi nonsense away, far away. So I did.

The boy -- well, the boy and his sister -- are the last hope of the Jedi. The last hope of a people who long ago gave up hope, along with all that other nonsense -- love, relationships, joy. Released it to the Force. But the Force doesn't answer me very well any more, and I have to wonder if it answers Yoda any better. Perhaps it is merely that it, too, is shunning me.

My pain is an enormous thing that threatens to choke me.

Wilt thou feel helplesssnesss again, Jedi?

My rage knows no bounds.

Art thou angry, Jedi?

My sorrow...

Thou felt guilt, Jedi. And thy ssorrow remainss ass well.

Yes, Master.

They make a rope here on Tattooine out of a hardy desert plant -- they call it twynne. It is much like the planet is, raw and harsh and prickly and strong. I can make it even stronger by braiding it, though that makes it almost too abrasive to touch. But braiding it means it lasts longer, means I can thread into it tiny, sharp stones, for added weight and other things. Looking at the tattered remains of my last length, I realize it is time to braid another -- I long ago lost count, what would this be, seventeen? Twenty? No matter.

I had said I did not need it, nor would I ever want it. Now that I can no longer have it given to me, can no longer beg for someone to provide surcease from my unceasing sorrow, I wonder...

Was I wrong, or was I right?

As I braid, my fingertips crack and bleed.

end