Growing Pains


Itching for a Fight

"Hrothgar the Magnificent, Hrothifir the Munificent, then Clottild the Vast – no, the Virtuous, and then, um…Vallheimax the ..something, Stalwart was it? Steadfast. Yes, Steadfast, and his son Vallimartax the Imperturbable – he had a hundred choristers executed for singing in the wrong modal key at his coronation, did you know that Master? And then, um… wait.. He had no scions, so the line passed to the second cousin, Meerblatz the Bastard."

"And then?" Qui-Gon prompted, idly checking this endless recitation of historical figures' titles and lineage against the datapad display. Obi-Wan , he had discovered, knew the names of Teth imperial succession right up to the notorious decline of their house during the Fifth Dynastic period.

"Then, Um… Meerblatz the Bastard had two illegitimate sons, both assassinated by the same courtesan, Shewanka-Nubba, who wasn't even indigenous but rose to power through popular acclaim – I would like to have met her, Master, don't you think? At a safe distance, I mean - and then she took Meerblatz's brother Meerstromguh as consort and after his death Meer-Nubba the Vile usurped the throne, and then, um…" The padawan's broken narrative was punctuated by vigorous bouts of scratching. His fingers dug into the cloth of his trousers, clawing convulsively at the flesh beneath.

"Stop that," the tall man warned, irked that the distraction technique had proved futile.

"I'm sorry, Master." The boy's hands stilled their restless ministrations. He threaded his fingers together and rested them upon the console.

"Shall we try mathematical problems instead?"

"No!" the boy peeped. "I mean, that won't be necessary."

"Hm." Qui-Gon checked the navcomp readout again, pressing his lips together at its staid proclamation that reversion was estimated in three point one standard hours. "We've a bit of a slog ahead yet."

"Oh." The padawan stared determinedly out the viewport, watching the indifferent sworls of hyperspace laze their way past in undulating ribbons of light. Meanwhile, he was gently rubbing one booted shin against the opposite leg, at just the right angle to drag its line of buckles across inflamed skin.

"That's enough," the Jedi master growled, stilling the impulsive motion with one hand upon the boy's fidgeting knee. "I've told you a dozen times, Obi-Wan."

It was indicative of a shameful deficit in self-control – and they both knew it. The padawan colored deeply, his fingers clenching together until his knuckles stood out white. "I'm truly sorry, Master."

The tall man leaned back in the pilot's seat, contemplating his agitated student. "Cortisoma should have ameliorated your symptoms. Poison okkar is among the most common galactic flora."

His apprentice took comfort in denunciatory eloquence. "Not that poison okkar. Nothing on that star-forsaken planet had the decency to be common. I ask you: what self-respecting sovereignty permits fatuous tripe like a Gathering Ceremony to fill the role of pan-planetary festival? I've never participated in such trumped up idiocy – or worn such ridiculous garb." Having thus flamboyantly violated the prescribed bounds of self-expression for Jedi in training, he apparently decided to end on a defiant flourish. "I'm glad the Force-damned mission is finished."

"The toxin appears to have got to your tongue," Qui-Gon dryly commented. "Perhaps I should wash your mouth out with some of that liniment."

"Just smother me and have done with it. At least then I won't itch."

Such vitriolic outbursts were out of character, at least when delivered aloud. Qui-Gon checked his own impatient retort and fixed his fulminating apprentice with a solemn but not unsympathetic look. "The Temple healers will surely find a solution. Until then, you must simply have patience, as befits a Jedi."

Sheer vexation afforded the padawan a five minute span of obedience, and the stern injunction lengthened it to a solid ten or fifteen. But at the term of that blessed respite Qui-Gon found his placid meditation on the Floating Blossom sutra disturbed by a sudden renewal of hostilities. His young companion was shimmying where he sat, in a transparent attempt to scratch the back of his knees and thighs without actually lifting a finger.

"Obi-Wan."

"I'm sorry, Master."

"You will be, if you do it again. Surface irritation spreads the toxin. You are engaged in irrational self-harm. Where is your discipline?"

They locked eyes, authority and incipient sedition in a poised equilibrium. And then the scales tipped. "It can go to the blazes along with all the poison okkar on Devaron!"

Afraid that the malefactor would persevere in the damaging habit for three solid hours, thereby inducing an acute case of blood poisoning, the Jedi master took matters into his own capable hands. "Back here," he ordered, hauling his fuming padawan up by the collar and shepherding him one-handed into the aft passenger compartment, a cramped space barely large enough to contain a narrow gription matted deck between an inset ship's bunk and the opposite bulkhead. "Drop your pants, brat."

A flare of raw trepidation sizzled across the Force, as the younger of the pair momentarily concluded that he had driven his mentor to actually administer the oft-threatened thrashing old school style; the atmosphere in the tiny cabin relaxed appreciably when Qui-Gon merely fished the half-empty packet of standard cortasoma cream from the emergency med kit. "I can do that myself."

"Apparently not effectively."

"Master, this is-"

"Quiet. Now." Qui-Gon made sure the remedy was properly applied, in copious quantities, regardless of the various twinges and piteous stifled yells this inspired. He yanked his friend's trousers back up with a rough alacrity and tossed the empty container into the 'cycler hatch. "Congratulations. In your sustained and mindless frenzy, you managed to draw blood by excessive scratching. There will be absolutely no more indulgence in such impulsive conduct. Am I understood?"

"Perfectly," Obi-Wan snipped, adjusting his skewed sash and tabards to satisfaction.

"Stay here – and do not scratch."

"I'll try."

The tall man lifted one brow. "There is no try. There is only do not. Or do, at your own peril."

That earned them another quarter-hour's peace – but little more. The nav interface was still showing a tediously lengthy wait until reversion in Coruscant's system when the tell tale scritch-scritch-scritch wafted to Qui-Gon's ears above the air cyclers' steady susurration.

He might be a master diplomat, and a paragon of patience and forbearance, but every Jedi in the Order knew that a situation gone sour occasionally called for aggressive negotiations. He switched the console to full auto-pilot, draped his cloak over the empty co-pilot's seat, and stormed into the aft cabin in full battle array.

"Master?" Obi-Wan started out of his semi-reclined posture, nearly bashing his head against the bunk alcove's low ceiling.

The tall man stooped over him, seized either wrist in a broad hand, and pinned them at the boy's sides. "I said, do not scratch."

"I'm so-"

"I do not want your apology, Padawan. I want your obedience. This is for your own good."

Obi-Wan's fingers twitched, and he clamped teeth down on his lower lip for a moment. Discomfort trickled across their bond, making Qui-Gon's own flesh crawl. Whatever was in that Devaronian okkar, it was potent, and devilishly resistant to conventional treatment. But that could not be helped, and Jedi training dictated far harsher exercises than this.

"Well?"

"Yes, Master. "

They remained motionless for a handful of deep breaths, during which time the yammering demands of the toxin spread like wildfire through the padawan's nerves, galvanizing him to action. He squirmed in place, seeking relief.

"No," Qui-Gon reasserted, pouncing before his victim could adopt a defensive position.

The wrestling match was violent but brief. Qui-Gon ended up on top, hapless padawan pinned most securely beneath him in an unbreakable hold, face down upon the deck matting.

"Master," he gasped, writhing in place until additional pressure on his shoulder joint convinced him to surrender the struggle.

Time passed.

"Sola! I yield. I understand,Master. I won't scratch," the miscreant pled, panting a bit as a renewed bout of itching swept its way through him. "Ugh… I won't."

"No, you will not," Qui-Gon serenely replied, settling comfortably against the bulkhead and firming up his grip.

This was an unprecedented twist in their path together. Obi-Wan took a long moment to wrap his head around its convoluted meaning, and then despaired of plumbing the depths of his mentor's devious intent. "I'm sorry. I'll meditate – I won't indulge my base urges any longer. You are right."

"Of course I am right. And you may certainly meditate if it seems helpful."

"Like this?"

The Jedi master shrugged nonchalantly. "A Jedi should be able to commune with the Force even under duress or in a most inconvenient position. Your present situation is enviable by comparison to some I have endured over the years. Take heart."

This cheering speech did nothing to palliate the boy's mounting distress. He tried again a few minutes later. "Please, Qui-Gon."

"No."

Frustration melted the edges of self-control . Soon enough, anger reared its ugly head. "It hurts! Torturing padawans is against the Code!"

"Don't be so sure. Your training must prepare you for any eventuality in the field."

That grim revelation hushed the mutinous complaints for a solid fifteen minutes. Obi-Wan didn't even wriggle as he digested the unsavory and hard truth that he must someday learn to withstand deliberately inflicted pain, and perhaps contemplated the possible means by which this might be achieved. In the end, however, his fighting spirit kicked back in with a vengeance. "If you want to teach me that, you'll have to work for it!" Whereupon he struggled with the vehemence of a rabid akk, actually upsetting the tall man's balance and bringing them thrashing and grappling onto the floor together.

But in this contest Qui-Gon had the upper hand. A judicious and ruthless application of the Force pinned the rebel back in place. "There. I've earned the right to teach. Now start learning."

The itch was intense, enough to drive any mortal to convulsions, judging by the faint echoes resounding across their bond. Still, the lesson was essential and indispensable. Qui-Gon did not lift his precautionary hold upon the boy.

Teeth gritted, a whimpering growl thrumming in his throat, the unfortunate padawan squirmed and strained, to no effect. "Please, Master! Please!"

"No. Begging will avail you nothing."

There were beads of perspiration trickling along the boy's hairline. He rolled his head sideways, then forward again, fixing his captor with a look of pure and earnest entreaty. "I've learned my lesson," he assured the tall man, in exquisitely dulcet tones. "You can let me go now." Hurt and contrition and an affectionate appeal to every softer sentiment were cradled within the bosom of that petition. It would have melted the heart of the Force itself.

Qui-Gon snorted. "You cannot use a mind trick on me, my audacious young friend."

"Blast it!" Obi-Wan snarled, arching his back and struggling petulantly.

The Jedi master steeled himself and held tight, yielding nothing. "I said stop. I can sense your lack of focus."

"Oh, I'm focused all right!" Heaving breath. "Master!" More squirming, and a choked sound of fury. "Nnnnnnnngh!"

"Calm yourself. You are not going anywhere, and you are certainly not scratching."

Obi-Wan fought until he was limp – a process that occupied a full twenty minutes of their leisure. Then, muscles shaking and Force signature ablaze with indignation and mounting despair, he turned his face away and briefly succumbed to negative emotion.

Qui-Gon breathed a sigh of relief. They were nearly at their goal now… he waited for the hiccups to subside before addressing his stricken captive again. "You do know when I am going to release you?"

"Never," came the apathetic reply.

Cautiously, hopes buoyed by his apprentice's slackened limbs, he relinquished his Force-enhanced grip, and then lifted his hands from the boy's arm and shoulder. Obi-Wan rolled halfway over and peered up at him, a bit blearily.

"Well?"

He could still feel the raging discomfort engendered by the toxins, a burning itch bleeding over the barriers between mind and mind, carried on that same Force that penetrated and bound all things together. But the fact of pain and need remained other, chained to the realm of gross matter, not impinging upon the sovereignty of spirit. At long last, what could not be done had become what would not be done, and remained so.

"It still itches like the blazes," Obi-Wan observed, a plaintive note tingeing his bravado.

"I'm sure it does," Qui-Gon replied. "I sincerely hope Ben To can find a more efficacious remedy."

"He's going to love this story," the young Jedi lamented, wryly.

They eased themselves to their feet and sidled back into the cockpit, where the navcomp happily chirped out a reversion warning. "We are nearly home."

"Oh good." Obi-Wan settled back in his seat, stoic in his misery. "I can have a look at my history holos – I've quite forgotten who succeeded Meer'Nubba the Vile. It was either Calstitrotos or Ankpannen the Formidable. I can't remember which. "

Qui-Gon pretended to nod in interest, and switched the helm back to manual control.