Feedback: yes, of course. not that i think anyone will actually
*like* it....
Disclaimers: don't believe in them
It was late enough that most of the inhabitants in this wing
of the Coruscant Temple, with quarters generally restricted to
active teams that spent most of their time off planet, were
either asleep or well on their way, so the Jedi Master felt
that his reputation for dignity would not be tarnished by his
current disheveled condition. He could have stayed in the rooms
of his paramour, but had chosen to return to the quarters he
shared with his Padawan. They had only returned from their most
recent mission that afternoon and he knew Obi-Wan always felt
awkward adapting back to Temple life. There was a chance they
would be here for more than a day or two this time, he would
have other opportunities to spend the night in his lover's
arms.
"Qui-Gon Jinn." Startled - had he been so caught in his
thoughts that he'd missed someone approaching? - Qui-Gon turned
slowly to face the being that spoke in the deep, echoing voice.
Hilatakka'T'm'Bra took up nearly half of the wide hallway, his
many-tentacled bulk pulsing with multiple heartbeats.
"Master of Conformity." He gave a polite half-bow and came
closer. Hilatakka'T'm'Bra was getting older and his sight was
failing. He had been Qui-Gon's instructor as well as that of
all of his Padawans. Rumor had it he'd been Master Yoda's
instructor, too, nearly 800 years earlier - but no one could
confirm that.
The Office of Conformity was an archaic institution, a part of
the Jedi path that Qui-Gon personally thought should have been
abolished centuries ago. But like many of his ideas, that was
considered ill-reasoned and radical and he doubted it would
happen in his lifetime. And there was no reason to be hostile
to the highest-ranking member, who was himself kind and polite
to the extreme.
"How may I be of service?" He asked, standing still, hands
folded into wrinkled - he winced - sleeves.
"Your Padawan, Qui-Gon Jinn." Hilatakka'T'm'Bra waved three
tentacles in the air, weaving them into a pattern of mild
agitation.
"Is approaching the deadline, I am aware." O of C had a
singular mission within the Jedi; to set each and every Jedi on
one of the three sacred paths. Each of the paths put different
restrictions on the life and training of the Jedi that walked
it.
Aesthete, Warrior and Academian.
There were good points and bad points to each, and many times
important aspects of each overlapped from one to the other, but
each had a distinct feel in the Force, clearly-defined limits
and an assortment of deadlines for completing the different
requirements, most of them set in stone.
Obi-Wan's final, and most important deadline was almost upon
them.
"The Padawan has not sought instruction or guidance. His
assigned advisors have come to me and expressed their deep
concern." Hilatakka'T'm'Bra lowered all tentacles to the floor,
raised them again slightly, his race's version of a human
shrug, meant, Qui-Gon knew, to demonstrate his frustration with
the situation. "I seek a conversation with his Master."
Swallowing heavily, knowing that his reaction would be noted,
Quo-Gon bent in a deep bow. There was nothing for it; he would
have to talk about it. "A meditation room would provide the
necessary shielding." He replied, straightening and waiting for
Hilatakka'T'm'Bra to start moving - his bulk took a bit of
effort to get flowing, it was a factor of his age; the
lubricating slime his body excreted flowed more reluctantly
now. To walk before he did would be to draw attention to that,
and embarrass him. Something Master Qui-Gon Jinn would never do
deliberately - or without reason.
There were several such rooms on this floor, and they paced
toward one in contemplative silence, Qui-Gon considering the
implications of what he'd been told, Hilatakka'T'm'Bra no doubt
reviewing their past encounters to help him formulate his
arguments. That's what Qui-Gon would have been doing in his
shoes. Well, with his suckerfeet...
It wasn't that he didn't respect the O of C and what it was
meant to do. But the Jedi Order had changed since its inception
and Qui-Gon just didn't feel it was beneficial anymore. When it
had first began, in the dark ages, as it were, when the
Republic had been a wild place populated by scattered
smatterings of intelligent life and the first of those who
found themselves with this incredible ability to touch that
which created and sustained them all - the Force - then the O
of C had been needed. Rather desperately. Through it a newcomer
to the Order, and in later years, Padawans and newly-anointed
Knights, could prove their dedication to the Order. To the Jedi
as a whole. As an ideal. To participate in the ritual
subjugation, to open their minds fully to another and allow it
to be plundered without any attempt at self-defense....it was
the most traumatic experience a Force- sensitive could suffer.
Even in this day not all who took the final step survived it.
And it wasn't just the mental and emotional dominance that had
to be suffered, but the physical as well, all the more
difficult for some....especially those identified as Aesthetes.
It was usually obvious which path a Jedi was on, from the
moment they entered the Temple. No Council member had ever
approached the infant Qui-Gon, or the adolescent or even the
adult and said ; "*You* are a Warrior." It had always been
obvious. He'd always known. His friends had always known. His
Master had known without asking.
The Office of Conformity had always known. He was sure it had
been marked down in one of their big books, recorded in one of
their singular computers somewhere, the day they had decided.
That Qui-Gon Jinn strode the path of the Warrior. His classes
had been arranged his training directed accordingly.
A special few were not so fortunate.
They reached the largest of the rooms available and Qui-Gon
held the door while his companion entered, then went in
himself, settling in a lotus position on a mat while
Hilatakka'T'm'Bra got comfortable. They did not speak yet, the
other being apparently aware that Qui-Gon was thinking things
through. Perhaps thinking about it as well.
A special few. A select few, he'd told Obi-Wan when, only a
day after their return from Baldur and the mission that had
bonded them - against his will, he admitted even now - into a
Master-Padawan team. That was the day he had learned that
Obi-Wan Kenobi; thirteen years old, a Jedi Padawan, brilliantly
gifted in the Force, had not been set upon a path.
Discrete inquiries led to the Creche Master, and Qui-Gon
listened to her tale with almost stunned disbelief. When he was
young, they had believed that Obi- Wan would find a path. Then
it was believed that, after he was taken as a Padawan, his
Master would choose one for him. When he reached the age of
twelve or so and was still an Initiate, with no potential
Master on the horizon, it had been decided that, since it
didn't seem likely that he was to be a Jedi anyhow, he would
simply be allowed to continue as he had been.
Qui-Gon had read the reports, the interviews, seen the
confusion in Obi- Wan's eyes as he was questioned and queried,
the pain when it seemed that he knew he was somehow not
measuring up and those around him did not explain how or why.
Even Hilatakka'T'm'Bra had interviewed him more than once
during his formative years, but no action had been taken.
Obi-Wan's fate had been decided. He was not meant to be Jedi.
So why burden him with the choice of a path when he showed no
affinity for one?
The Force had felt differently. Qui-Gon had been thankful for
that ever since.
"Your Padawan did not come to this place naturally."
Hilatakka'T'm'Bra spoke now, as Qui-Gon surfaced from a
meditation much deeper than he'd realized. The room was large,
but felt claustrophobic with his bulk filling most of it.
Taking a deep breath - Hilatakka'T'm'Bra smelled of soft
flowers and wet earth, as did all of his people, a pleasant,
natural scent - Qui-Gon nodded, letting his hands rest in the
opening position of a calming kata of the Mersazi variety;
nearly microscopic movements of fingers and wrist, invisible to
anyone who did not know what they were seeing. It was something
he had learned so that he could teach Obi-Wan, who had trouble
sitting still during long negotiations when he was younger.
Truly, Qui-Gon had not been at a stage in his life where
taking a Padawan was the best choice for either of them; as a
top negotiator and fighter, he spent much more time away from
the Temple that his peers and most of it dealing with the
mission, which left little room to teach. But Obi-Wan had
flourished in the atmosphere of not infrequent neglect.
"Obi-Wan was placed upon his path because his talents are
diverse and he is not strongly gifted enough in any one thing
to become a master of it." Qui-Gon spoke slowly, basically
reviewing the facts aloud. "He is a skilled fighter, a
determined student and a compassionate man. But his nature is
not basically composed of any of these."
"The emotional distance he maintains from others has always
been obvious." One tentacle, flushed a rather grisly shade of
orange - it made Qui-Gon wish he could politely look away -
rose and the tip looped into a spiral in the space between
them. "For this Padawan, a lack of emotion is the strongest
emotion. A negative that outweighs his many positives."
They were not speaking of negatives and positives in value
terms, but as measures of energy. Qui-Gon knew that Obi-Wan's
lack of emotion was, in the end, more powerful that any of his
other talents. In many cases it enhanced his other talents,
giving him the ability to use them to their fullest without
worrying about how it made him feel. Obi-Wan was compassionate,
and caring, and he did feel things deeply. Most things just
didn't penetrate his connection to the Force, which was his
bedrock. Unlike his Master, who often rather ruefully wished
aloud that he did not care *quite* so much for those they dealt
with, because it made it that much harder for him to experience
their pain. With his own emotions so close to the surface,
Qui-Gon could become the walking wounded - that would never
happen to Obi-Wan.
"That was the deciding factor." Qui-Gon agreed after a pause
that he perhaps allowed to go too long. "There are few
Aesthetes left in the Order, and there will be fewer still in
the future." They both thought about that for a few moments.
At one time, being an Aesthete had been the desired path.
Unencumbered by emotional attachments, able to act rationally
under almost any circumstances. Four hundred years ago that had
been the perfect Jedi. But times and opinions had changed. It
was discovered that Jedi could laugh and love and live real
lives without losing their place in the Force. More and more
took to other paths as it became clear it was allowed, that
they would not suffer for it within the Order.
Now the only Aesthetes Qui-Gon knew of were a few Master
Healers, a Master Artesian, and Obi-Wan Kenobi, who showed no
talent to become either one of those things. He was meant to be
Jedi Knight. The Force willed it.
"All paths must take the final step." Hilatakka'T'm'Bra said
at last. His spiraled tentacle snapped out suddenly, cracking
like a leather whip beside Qui-Gon's head. "Tell him that there
will be no allowances made. He must follow his path as all
others tread theirs."
Qui-Gon lowered his head, felt his tangled hair fall into his
eyes, did not move to brush it away. "Yes, Master." He
answered, sadness welling deep within him. He had thought
perhaps - hoped - that they would not require it of his
Padawan. His still- fragile, always vulnerable Padawan.
It was Obi-Wan's dignity that masked that vulnerability, and
he knew he was the only one who had ever seen it. The years of
being adrift in the Order, the decision to send him to the
AgriCorps, his own rejection of him; these things had left
Obi-Wan with a deep-seated insecurity. A doubt in himself that
his rational mind rejected out of hand. But it lingered, hiding
in the recesses of his psyche, waiting for a chance to strike.
The ritual of subjugation, the final step, would be the perfect
opportunity for it.
He heard Hilatakka'T'm'Bra leave, but Qui-Gon didn't move.
Obi-Wan's Day of Acceptance; the day he'd come into the Temple,
was barely forty-eight hours away. On that day time would run
out.
After too long sitting, he rose, stiff and sore, weighed by
responsibility and sadness, and completed his interrupted trek
to his quarters. One of the things forbidden to Aesthetes was
sexual contact - almost any physical contact at all, really -
and it had never seemed to bother Obi-Wan to do without it. As
a teenager he had pulled away when Qui-Gon, forgetting - his
first two Padawans, Sharl'Pu and Xanatos both - had been
Warriors both and required consistent amounts of physical
comfort - when he forgot and hugged Obi-Wan or patted his
affectionately, the younger man had tolerated it, stiffened
occasionally, and given him a look that had said 'I'm letting
you do this because I know it's your way and it makes you feel
better, but I'd really rather you didn't." But Qui-Gon had kept
hugging him once in a while, and patting him more frequently,
because he just couldn't believe within himself that any
humanoid didn't need that kind of contact at some level. Even
Jedi Aesthetics.
But he'd chosen to not flaunt his own physical life in the
younger man's face. He took his lovers outside their quarters
and kept the details to himself. As a Warrior he was expected
to have large physical appetites and it was acceptable to
indulge them with moderation; something he had not always
practiced, *especially* as a young man! But he had learned from
Obi-Wan that sometimes there was more to be said with a look
than a touch.
No doubt his Padawan would know with a look what was troubling
him now as soon as he entered their quarters.
It was a sad thing that he could not solve this problem with
either of those simple solutions.
"Padawan."
Having found Obi-Wan asleep in the armchair, a text in hand,
when he returned so late, Qui-Gon had chosen to not disturb
him. Now it was past dawn, and he'd slept in, and the younger
man, freshly bathed and dressed, was serving breakfast onto a
pair of stoneware plates they had thrown together, the dark
glazes and intricate patterns another tangible metaphor of
their life together. Their rooms and their lives, were filled
with such reminders that this was the way things were meant to
be; the Force seemed to revel in pushing them to make and do
things that spoke so, to them and all that saw what they did.
They were strong together. Qui-Gon hoped he would be strong
enough to be what Obi-Wan needed now. He didn't know what that
was, but he trusted his Padawan to tell him. Or the Force;
whichever spoke first.
Surely this would not destroy someone as centered, as powerful
as Obi- Wan?
"Yes. Master?" Mild tone of inquiry, though Qui-Gon had
deliberately used a command voice, albeit somewhat softened.
Qui-Gon stood in the center of the common room. He refused to
take this topic to table - a meal was no place to discuss
something this potentially painful. With a plate of sliced
fruit - greasha and ipi0i and uyyi'iy!, all Qui-Gon's favorites
- in one hand and a selection of hot breads in the other,
Obi-Wan waited patiently. Their eyes met, and Qui-Gon smiled
faintly.
"I spoke to Master Hilatakka'T'm'Bra early this morning." Or
had it been late last night? They spent so much time away,
sometimes he had trouble figuring out when he was when they
returned. Obi-Wan had no such problem; he was gifted with a
perfect timesense, the envy of many. All he had to do was
instruct his body to adjust to the time it was on whatever
planet they were on and then he was, with no regard to
planetary rotations or moon cycles or day lengths. A are and
valuable talent that had saved them more than once.
"Yes, Master." A new tone; subservient but still confidant.
Qui-Gon waited, hands crossed before him. Obi-Wan put the
plates on the table and bowed. "It will be resolved, Master."
Was it enough? Staring at his Padawan; he'd grown into an
exceptional young man, much stronger than he looked, able to
withstand severe hardship, his body honed and hardened, mind
stretched and filled. Qui-Gon still occasionally heard young
Knights and older Padawans mourning his status as untouchable.
For he was beautiful as well, moreso because he was completely
unaware of it. Now he waited, patiently, no hint of hurry or
worry in his Force aura, head bowed, for Qui-Gon's judgement.
Trusting his Master implicitly.
It was enough.
"I am - pleased." The word came hard. He knew how difficult
this was going to be. How painful Obi-Wan would find it. But he
also knew now that Obi-Wan would do what was required, and that
he would continue on his path to becoming a Knight. It was the
goal they both held dear.
"Thank you, Master." A touch of quiet humor, and Obi-Wan went
to get the rest of the meal, baked meats and mild wine.
They ate while discussing their schedules for the day,
inevitably waiting for them when they came home after a
mission; lists of duties and classes and social calls they
needed to make to keep their lives organized and fulfilling.
"Will you be attending the Initiate's saber demonstration this
afternoon?" Obi-Wan asked, his food cut into neat bites and
eaten in methodical order. Qui-Gon had once asked if it tasted
better that way and Obi-Wan had assured him it did. For himself
the older man poured sticky-sweet over a chunk of warm bread,
folded it in thirds, and bit off half, letting the syrup run
down his chin, since he hadn't bathed yet anyhow. It ran down
his wrist as well, and he bent his head to lick it off, rolling
his eyes at Obi-Wan's long-suffering sigh.
"No, the Warrior's social is this evening and I haven't been
able to attend in literally months. I'm looking forward to
trading stories. Will you join me?" As his Padawan Obi-Wan was
technically invited to these things automatically, but he
seldom attended; the atmosphere was a bit looser than he was
comfortable with and he was supposed to be allowed to pursue
his own level when they were home. Seek his own pleasures,
whatever they might be. Qui-Gon suspected any free time this
visit would be spent in practicing a new kata Obi-Wan was
designing for the creche babies; there were only a handful
simple enough for them, and more were needed. It was a
challenging endeavor; making them both interesting and
educational enough without making them too hard or boring for
toddlers. He had submitted two versions already, both rejected,
and was determined to succeed with this latest revision.
He called it 'The Old Man' and there were movements in it that
reminded Qui-Gon strongly of himself. He chose to be flattered.
"I may." The answer surprised him and he let it show on his
face. Obi-Wan stood and shrugged lightly, beginning to clear
the mess they had made. "We have not been able to spend much
time together lately. The last several trips we've separated to
facilitate the mission." With his hands filled again - how many
times had Qui-Gon seen him thus, doing the domestic work as if
it were a meditation in and of itself? - he looked directly at
his Master. "I have missed your company." It was a huge
admission from this young man.
"Should I stay home tonight and spend the time with you
instead?" He honestly wanted to know if Obi-Wan had a
preference. "It is no hardship, my Obi- Wan." The affectionate
endearment earned him another roll of expressive grey- green
eyes.
"*No*, Master. I will come join you after the saber
performance and we can talk a bit afterwards."
Qui-Gon relaxed, feeling relieved. Obi-Wan did want to talk to
him about the ritual, he did want guidance and encouragement.
That would make it easier for Qui-Gon to watch him go through
it. Not that he would watch, necessarily. There were several
options available to the younger man. The subjugation had to
take place in public, yes, but 'public' could be widely
defined. It wasn't really required that there be witnesses,
only that there could be. Just a few months ago a female
Padawan, a Freegian, had reached her deadline; unfortunately it
fell in the middle of her reproductive cycle, so she had
already been carrying a litter, and was almost to due date. She
had performed her ritual in the middle of the night in one of
the public gardens, and all but one person who'd been warned in
advance had stayed away, to spare her feelings at such a
delicate time.
It was stories like those that further convinced Qui-Gon that
the time for these games had passed.
"I look forward to it." He told Obi-Wan, then he slouched out
of his chair - hearing Master Yoda's voice in his head, as he
did every time he didn't maintain proper posture; "Tall you
are. Short am I. Insult me it does when pretend otherwise you
attempt."
As much as he loved him, there were times he had hated Master
Yoda.
"So I ducked this way -!" The drink in his hand splashed when
Qui-Gon demonstrated , legs spread wide, crouched low and
sideways, one arm high over is head wielding an imaginary
lightsaber while the real thing bounced on his hip. "And
Obi-Wan went the other way - and we pinned him between us! The
rebel leader didn't know what hit him - he went down like a
sack of tubers."
"And you didn't trip over your feet?" Another Master inquired
slyly. "I seem to recall seeing that happen whenever you tried
a move in any direction beside forward!"
"Hey!" Qui-Gon rumbled in good-natured protest; it was late,
he'd been gossiping and carousing with old friends for several
hours and he couldn't remember having been this relaxed in
months - possibly years. Yes, Obi-Wan would have to take the
final step, but he was going to let his Master help him through
it and then they could get to the real work of getting him
knighted. "For a few months when I was fifteen, but never
since!"
"I've sat the oars in boats smaller than those boots!" Someone
hollered, having heard the comment from across the room.
"I've seen roast Bantha served on a smaller platter!"
"If you think his shoes are big, you should have to wash the
socks."
All heads in the room turned at the new voice. It was quiet,
and low, and practically devoid of warmth or humor.
"Force, Qui-Gon. You should have warned us." All laughter
fled, the Jedi closest to him backed away as everyone stared.
"I would have..." Too shocked to elucidate, Qui-Gon held, as
if frozen, suddenly acutely, absurdly aware of the dark wine
that dripped slowly from his tipped goblet and ran down his
wrist to abandon his arm at the elbow and leap for the
cushioned floor below. "Padawan." He meant it to be firm, to be
critical, but it came out half-frightened, unsure, and showed
the depth of his worry.
"Master." Naked, pale but not blushing, Obi-Wan entered the
room through the largest of the two doors - the one that came
from the main hall of the general quarters, where most social
activities took place. Where most of the beings at the Temple
gathered for food, recreation and socialization.
Which meant that Obi-Wan had possibly - probably - walked
naked through crowds of Jedi. And all of them had known what it
meant, what he was doing. Qui-Gon closed his eyes briefly,
unable to bear the thought. Why had Obi- Wan made it *so*
public?
"I've come to take the final step on this path." Obi-Wan said,
moving toward him. There was no doubt in Qui-Gon's mind that
his Padawan intended to approach him for the ritual, but he was
positive that *he* didn't want to participate. But if he
refused, Obi-Wan would not complete this step; choosing the
appropriate partner was part of the test. If Qui-Gon refused,
Obi-Wan would never become a Knight.
Was that what he wanted? Was he choosing Qui-Gon because he
couldn't bear to do this?
Pulling himself up, standing tall, Qui-Gon stared hard at his
Padawan as the younger man walked toward him slowly. People
fell away from him, respectfully. Some seemed uncomfortable,
some seemed nervous, a few seemed angry; perhaps they thought
the Padawan should have chosen another night to do this and not
interrupted their rare night off. Most just seemed unhappy.
Obi-Wan's history was known, of course, many of these people
had been his teachers in various things. They would all be
aware of the special circumstances that made this moment so
potentially devastating.
Obi-Wan stared right back at him. Almost glared. It seemed
like the younger man was daring him. Challenging him. To back
down or accept?
After a moment Qui-Gon realized that he could not tell. He
chose to go with his instincts, and what he believed to be his
exceptional understanding of his Padawan.
"This is a long and difficult path, Padawan." He said, the
same words he'd spoken when he set Obi-Wan on it. "The final
step may not lead to an end you can live with." That was the
nice way of putting it. Stripped, exposed, emotionally and
physically, Obi-Wan might not be able to reconcile this
experience with the rest of his life; with what he knew of
himself. Though it was rare, there were still those who chose
the fourth path after the final step. The path the Jedi spoke
of in hushed, furtive whispers.
Warrior, Aesthete and Academian. And Fallen.
To be Fallen did not, as most thought, mean one that had
turned to the Dark Side of the Force. That was Turned, a term
now applied to another Qui-Gon had loved, though not quite as
deeply and dearly as he loved this young man. Xani had been
brilliant and vital in ways Obi-Wan was not and never would be,
and Xani had taken the final step with a touch of sarcasm and
an arrogant grin that had carried him through. Now Xani was
Turned.
If Obi-Wan chose to die after this, he would become Fallen. He
would abandon his physical body and seek solace in the Force
that would take and nurture him until it was time for his
spirit to try again.
"I will only fall as far as this floor tonight, Master." As
much assurance as he was going to get.
"Why - tonight, Obi-Wan?" He watched as Obi-Wan stopped before
him, and then began to sink slowly to his knees, exhibiting a
remarkable degree of muscular control to do so with such
precision and grace.
"The day I came to the Temple is one of my fondest memories;
for the first time in my life I was with people who felt the
things I felt, who saw the things I saw. I hold to that memory
when I wonder what my place is in the Order; I cling to it when
I doubt that the place I have worked for truly awaits me. To do
this tomorrow, on the anniversary of that memory, would be to
tarnish it beyond recognition." On his knees now, he tilted his
head back. His braid was undone, the soft hairs scattered
glistening across his shoulder and chest, a few wispy strands
stuck to his cheek and eyelid. "I cherish that memory too much
to allow that to happen."
Obi-Wan was naked. He was on his knees, legs spread. His penis
was soft, lying wrinkled and unprotected against his left
thigh. He put his hands out to the sides, palms up, displaying
himself. Qui-Gon saw the sweat the beaded on his forehead and
upper lip and knew how hard it was for him to do that. "Why..."
Why me? He wanted to ask. But it wasn't part of the ritual.
Obi- Wan did not have to tell him, now or later, why he had
chosen his Master instead of one of his friends, or a stranger
that he had no connection to, which was the choice most made.
Someone they would come into contact with rarely, so they
wouldn't have to be reminded of their humiliation. For it was
supposed to be that, certainly. That and more.
For Obi-Wan to choose him meant either that they would never
see each other again after the younger man was knighted, or
that Obi-Wan thought he could live knowing that the only other
person in the world that knew him so deeply was the one person
he trusted.
"No." He said, and saw Obi-Wan's eyes fly wide, the whites
visible, terror clear on his face though he struggled to
contain it. He'd already begun the opening, Qui-Gon saw, had
already begun the excruciating process of dropping the
multitude of shields he'd been taught to erect over he last
twenty years. Some of them were so old and so hard - Qui-Gon
remembered well how it had felt to fight with his own mind,
ripping at his own soul to get those walls down. And how much
higher were Obi-Wan's, with his emotional distance and
carefully created dignity? "I mean, no, forget I asked that."
He said hastily, wanting to ease that terror. It actually
encouraged him; Obi-Wan wanted to continue.
Qui-Gon crouched, lay a hand on a bare shoulder, felt the
muscle and tendon he had helped create, the sweat and trembling
not visible to the naked eye.
"I will walk beside you for a little ways, as you reach this
end." He said softly, the expected words of agreement. Behind
him he heard the murmur of the others and wished them to
silence. But he could not speak to them, or acknowledge them
not until this was finished. For the duration of this, he was
neither observer nor participant, but locked in the limbo
between them. He could neither speak nor move beyond what was
necessary to prepare himself, which consisted of little more
than grabbing a large cushion off the nearest low couch and
kneeling on it, untying his loose leggings and lowering them to
mid-thigh. It was warm enough that he wasn't wearing his robes,
just a tunic, and he bunched the majority of the tail behind
him and out of the way.
Then, hearing the roughness of his voice and wondering if he
was going to lose control and embarrass both of them by crying,
he leaned back, both arms braced on the floor, periphally glad
that it was softened. It would play havoc with Obi-Wan's knees,
though. Ready, he closed his eyes again and listened. It was
not a comfortable position, and his legs were already
complaining; a hazard of age.
There was a shuffle and he opened his eyes again, in time to
see Obi- Wan leaning down. There were people surrounding them
now. The audience watched with guarded, intent expressions.
Polite, withdrawn observers, no more.
The first touch of Obi-Wan's tongue was a shock. He gasped,
and felt a shudder run through his body. He expected Obi-Wan to
skip the niceties and get right down to business, but instead
the younger man nuzzled Qui-Gon's half- erect cock, scenting
it, lowered his head further to lick and suckle his testicles,
inhaled and exhaled heavily at the crease of hip and thigh
before finally returning to the penis and sucking gently at the
tip.
It was important to Qui-Gon that he get hard, and quickly,
both to encourage Obi-Wan and reinforce his efforts and to take
care of that doubt in his own mind, that he wouldn't be able to
hold up his end of the bargain, so to speak. With his decades
of body control to draw on, it really wasn't a problem and soon
he was rock hard and weeping, his stomach trembling with
anticipation, breath beginning to come in gasps.
But still Obi-Wan played, or teased, or explored. Qui-Gon told
himself that this was the first time the younger man had
touched anyone sexually, including himself, and it was only
natural that he would be curious about it. Not in a sexual
sense, but an academic one. He'd seen Obi-Wan approach several
unpleasant experiences just as something to experience,
something new to be added to the list of things he'd seen and
done, to be compared and evaluated later.
For an Aesthete to become sexually active was unheard of, and
Obi-Wan had certainly never shown any signs of desiring that.
But he was clearly using the opportunity to do a little hands -
or tongue-on - research. Despite the lack of experience his
touch was knowing and applied with just the right amount of
pressure to make Qui-Gon hungry for more.
At last he opened his mouth wide and took in as much of the
large organ as he could, closing his eyes and sucking strongly.
Qui-Gon could feel him battling down the gag reflex and hoped
that he hadn't eaten before this. Being vomited upon would not
improve the night for him, as weird as it already was.
The sucking went on and on and he hovered at the verge of
orgasm for so long that he feared he would have to say
*something* and break the silence or risk climaxing, which
would leave him unable to complete the ritual and Obi-Wan no
longer a Jedi. As if he heard the words his Master thought,
Obi-Wan pulled away with seeming reluctance and gave the wet,
reddened tip a tender kiss. Then he leaned up and laid a
similar kiss on Qui-Gon's half-parted, panting lips before
turning around and spreading his legs wider.
It was awkward for him, to shuffle backwards on the cushioned
floor, trying to get his knees to either side of Qui-Gon's. The
older man saw the tremor that ran through Obi-Wan continuously,
most visible in his arched back, and wished, just once, that
there was another way to do this. His shields were dropping.
Qui-Gon was beginning to feel him, to feel the fear and shame
and anger that this was making Obi-Wan feel. It was important
that he feel those things, at least at first, because those
were things he was meant to learn to accept. That was what this
ritual was supposed to teach him. To teach all Jedi. If they
could not submit - physically and emotionally - to an elder,
then they could not be Jedi.
Qui-Gon was often grateful that the rules had changed with
time. Once it had been acceptable for any Jedi Master to demand
this of any apprentice, anywhere, anytime, if the Master
doubted that apprentice's dedication. Of course that had been
abused and the custom fell out of favor quickly.
Obi-Wan reached back with a hand that shook slightly, grasping
Qui-Gon's penis. The hardness had faltered while he watched his
Padawan move, knowing as he did that the younger man did not
want this, could not want this, but now he willed it back to
full size. It would need to be that way for Obi-Wan to complete
the act, and to cause him as little pain as possible.
It was almost there. His penis pressed firmly against the
entrance to Obi- Wan's body. Qui-Gon could feel the touch of
wetness there that told him the younger man had prepared his
body properly, which made im feel somewhat better. His Padawan
had obviously thought this through and made this decision based
on his own needs, the way he was supposed to. That he had
chosen his Master was unusual, yes, but not unheard of. It was
just such an unusual situation.
Most apprentices would have been sexually active years ago,
many would have already engaged in public or semi-public sex
long before the time for this step came. Sex was generally
thought to be a welcome, needed activity in a Jedi's life,
wether for procreation or recreation. Qui-Gon himself had a
varied and fulfilling sexual life. Which was a good thing,
because he'd been on both ends of this act before and had an
idea of what to expect, and what was expected of him. Not as a
part of the ritual, of course, but at least he'd done it.
So when Obi-Wan began to press backwards, using the powerful
muscles of his thighs and back. Qui-Gon was able to hold
himself completely still. His spine arched, he sucked air
between gritted teeth as the penetration progressed in
quarter-inch increments. The pressure was intense, bordering on
pain and he had to control the urge to move with applied
willpower.
As Obi-Wan opened his body, so too he opened his mind and soon
the flashes became a trickle, and the trickle a spurting
stream. Qui-Gon shuddered, not just with the force of the act,
but the ferocity of the images that he was receiving. Mental
bonds were rare and short-lived, he had only shared one with
one other person in his life, and it hadn't begun to compare to
this. It was like Obi- Wan was pouring his brain out, pouring
it over Qui-Gon's head, drowning him in it, and he was finding
it hard to breathe beneath the weight of that dogged sharing.
It was clear right away that Obi-Wan was suffering. Qui-Gon
managed to keep his eyes open, but just barely. It was hard to
focus, hard to look at his Padawan, to see him like this. He
found his glance flitting over the room, registering snatches
of time, faces, expressions.
Master Plo Koon, one of only two Warriors that sat on the
Council, with his arms at his sides, off to the left, his feet
spread wide as if he felt an attack coming.
A tall female, human, that Qui-Gon didn't know well; both
hands to her mouth, eyes wide and brimming with tears.
Three huge feet to his right, within inches of his hands, the
boots stained with red mud the color of human blood.
A low hiss of sympathy from someone behind him that he
couldn't see.
The door opening, Mace stepping in and stopping, freezing in
place, his cloak swinging in slow motion.
Obi-Wan moaned, a helpless sound, and snapped Qui-Gon's
attention back to where it should have been all along.
There was a streak of red running the length of Obi-Wan's
spine, an indicator of the pain he was feeling, and he had
paused with Qui-Gon only halfway in. Paused and then his head
was drooping, he slumped downward, but not forward, arms
folding, face pressed to the floor, hiding in them.
Oh, no. Force, no. He had to finish. Had to complete the
ritual. They were halfway there, he couldn't quit now. The
images Qui-Gon was receiving were tainted red and purple, dark
and angry, filled with pain and resentment.
As the receiver of the ritual, Qui-Gon was not supposed to do
anything. Not allowed to say or do anything to affect the
outcome. If he did Obi- Wan would fail.
It was too much. To see his Padawan suffering and be unable to
help him. With a grimace he lifted his hand and touched a curve
of the beautiful buttock before him. Just barely-there, a
feather touch that could convey so much. Whispers rose around
them, but he didn't care. They would let him get away with it,
he was sure. He was the rebel, the contrarian, the one that
kept the Council on its collective toes. They *expected* him to
do things like this, to break the rules. And it wasn't a very
big break... he hoped.
Obi-Wan shuddered. He did not lift his head, but the muscles
in his back bunched and he began to move again. The pause
seemed to have helped, now Qui- Gon slid in more easily, all
the way, until his testicles hung warmly, brushing lightly
against Obi-Wan's own, which were drawn up tight from the pain.
It was almost over. With a deep breath Qui-Gon prepared
himself, reached for that mental trigger inside that would tell
his body to climax, so that it could be done as quickly as
possible and shorten this ordeal as much as he could. He had to
achieve orgasm for the ritual to be a success, and Obi-Wan had
to triumph over his own shields and open his mind completely to
his Master.
Orgasm had to be achieved through Obi-Wan's actions, though.
Qui-Gon could do no more than hurry it along. Actual rutting
had to take place. Soon it began, with Obi-Wan moving slowly,
finding his way around this new sensation, not something he was
enjoying, but something that had been forced upon him. At first
he made short little strokes that made Qui-Gon bite his lip to
stifle a moan of protest, but soon he understood what was
needed and the movement became smoother, fluid, and Obi-Wan
moved his body easily along the penis that alternately impaled
and withdrew. It was very tight and very hot and Qui- Gon was
relieved to realize that Obi-Wan wasn't hurting anymore, that
he seemed to have adapted. With the physical side being taken
care of he turned his attention to the mental, reaching out
clumsily for the younger man's mind, unsure of what he might
find in it, anxious as well. Would Obi-Wan be able to reach
back? To go all the way with this?
Yes, he was. The spurts became a river and the river a flood
as the dam that held in what was Obi-Wan burst and everything
gushed out. His body moved fast and furious, fucking himself on
Qui-Gon's cock with animalistic fury, uncaring or unaware of
the damage he was doing to himself. His head snapped up and
Qui- Gon moaned loudly as he struggled to take in and make
sense of all he was being given. It was a complete accounting
of Obi-Wan's life, every second of it that he remembered, every
thought, every feeling, every decision. The sense of
desperation that colored it all appalled his Master; how had he
managed to keep it all under control? That was the keyword that
defined what he was seeing, what Obi-Wan felt; control. Control
and desperation. His existence was grounded in the certainty
that if he didn't control, if he didn't contain every thought
and gesture and action that went contrary to what he was
supposed to be, he was a failure and not good enough to be
Jedi.
Blessed Force. That's not the way it was supposed to be.
The depth and scale of that conviction threw Qui-Gon out of
the link and suddenly he was back in his own body, though he
didn't remember leaving it, and Obi-Wan was still moving on
him, still fucking him, up on one arm now, the other arm at his
groin, working his own cock with base need. Blood ran down one
thigh and he was making a sound, a deep, gasping sound, he was
sobbing, helplessly, like an abandoned child, and Qui-Gon felt
the instant he gave in. The taut young body went rigid and a
high, keening wail filled the room, searing Qui-Gon's eardrums,
and the channel around his penis convulsed as Obi-Wan thrashed,
bucking back into him, almost knocking him over. The trigger
tripped and Qui- Gon felt his own release spill out, felt it
too-warm around the tip of his cock, felt the immediate give of
the muscles in his own legs and back and he slumped forward
over his Padawan, who was stilling, was pulling away, was
curling over onto his side, head covered by both arms, knees
drawn up to protect chest and belly, making a sound too deep to
be called a sob.
Someone reached for him - the ritual was over, he needed to be
cared for, taken to the Healers, the aftermath dealt with.
Obi-Wan had done what he had to, had taken the final step. Only
Qui-Gon knew what it had cost him. And more, he now knew how
wrong he had been, how wrong they had all been, about his
Padawan. Not an Aesthete at all, Obi-Wan had been burying his
true nature so deeply for so long that by the time Qui-Gon had
taken him he'd even believed what he saw.
The need for physical contact, unfulfilled for literally
decades, had left the younger man with a huge bleeding wound in
his soul. It would be Qui-Gon's duty to repair it, because he
had never seen it before.
As he crawled over the top of the smaller man, reaching with
both arms to lift him, snarling at the others that tried to
help, he felt gratitude welling in him.
The Force had been right. It had led him to Obi-Wan, and led
Obi-Wan to this ritual, where all could be revealed and healing
could begin.
He wrapped himself around the smaller body, held it while it
shook, caressed and whispered soothing words and made promises
that he could finally keep. Now he could help, now he could
heal, now he could show Obi-Wan how to be whole. Because now he
knew that his Padawan was not.
He was vaguely aware that someone - Mace? - was shooing the
others out and then something large and warm and soft was
draped over the two of them. It had to be clear to the others
that this had not been a typical final step ritual, that
something profound had occurred, and they were treating it
accordingly. The blanket soon allowed Qui-Gon to become warm,
but in his arms Obi-Wan gradually grew colder and less
responsive.
He sat up, Obi-Wan in his lap, and turned him over. The
grey-green eyes were closed, veins standing out like blue
embroidery in the chalky white skin. His respirations were slow
and shallow and Qui-Gon felt a moment's fear that he quickly
banished. Cuddling him, he kissed the slack face, used his
tongue to open the limp mouth and blow soft puffs of air into
the body he held.
Soon Obi-Wan stirred. He opened his eyes, stared up at Qui-Gon
for a moment, and then burst into tears again. This time he
grabbed his Master, hands twisting in the older man's tunic,
and he buried his face in his neck, where the tears ran warm
and sticky.
"No - didn't - know -" Words were too much and he just cried.
"I know. Now I know. All will be well, my Obi-Wan. All will be
well."
Holding him, rocking him while he cried himself to sleep,
applying a bit of Force-enhanced healing to mend his abused
body, Qui-Gon felt for the first time in many years, that he
could breathe. It was odd, because he'd been breathing all
along, and never noticed a lack. But now, today, at this
moment, his lungs filled and emptied with an ease that amazed
him, and the air tasted sweeter than he could ever remember.
His soul shifted, making room for a new reality, and he knew
that he was right.
His Obi-Wan would recover, then expand and flourish under the
new regime Qui-Gon was already planning for him, based on the
new knowledge he held so dear. His Obi-Wan would be fine. Would
be good. Would be a great Jedi Knight.
Would *be* his Obi-Wan.
He ducked his head, unsurprised to taste tears on his own
lips, and kissed the top of the sweaty, tangled, messy, sleepy
head.
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