The Long Drift: A Troop of Echoes
Two and a half months without his Padawan and Qui-Gon Jinn thought he might lose his sanity down the vacuous hole that had become their bond.
He had not returned to the temple before setting out to search the galaxy for the boy, deciding to start on independent planets nearest to the Republic's core and then spiral outward to its farthest, darkest reaches. The master had been living out of the simple Republic cruiser he and Obi-Wan had left for Amund in and noticed some time ago that the supply of credits in his account was in no danger of being completely depleted. He realized that someone - probably Master Yoda, if not the entire council - had been silently feeding money into his account. He was grateful for their support and told them so on his next transmission - they were required of him at a minimum of every two days.
The long flights in space were when it was worst for him. The soft rattle of the ship's engines became maddening after a short time. Constant as the sound was without a single interruption of a second pair of boots, an eager young voice wanting to know why, even the gentle breathing of the one who had been at his side for the past two, nearly three, years.
During these times alone in the vast deepness of space Qui-Gon's great shoulders sagged with deep sorrow and his strong, noble countenance fell, seemed far less imposing. He warily lowered himself into the pilot seat even though there were many hours left in his journey to Mopeda. He settled his gaze at the viewport, letting his eyes lose their focus as he stared blankly out at the white streaks of hyperspace.
He turned to a small compartment and it opened with a soft click. With trembling hands he smoothed out a crumpled leaf of durasheet on his lap. Next, he took out a thin stylus and held it over the page. If the disappointment he met on each planet visited was bad - this was agonizing.
The sheet was a list he had compiled of known planets that had a market for slavery. He put the tip of the stylus down on the page next to the name Llan and paused.
Qui-Gon never knew for sure if he was leaving his Padawan behind. Never knew if he should have waited minutes more, just in case he were to catch sight of a boy with ginger hair traipsing across a docking platform to meet him, a giant and heart breakingly charming smile on the young face. He never knew anything for certain besides the soft whispers of the Force and its gentle nudges.
The stylus moved and blacked out another planet's name.
What if Obi-Wan had seen him on Llan but had been unable to attract his attention?
He refolded the durasheet and placed it back in its cupboard.
What if he had just missed the boy?
He tossed the stylus in after it and shut the compartment door soundly.
What if, indeed.
* * * *
A week in that box was what he had been told. Left out in the sun for a time, the metal cooking his skin. He had howled for someone – anyone – to help him, please, please help him, but no one came. Water was dribbled through slits in the surface and Obi-Wan nearly swooned each time the sweet liquid kissed his cracked lips, thin slices of some hydrated food were pushed through holes mere centimeters high. Soon he forgot all about the scene he had witnessed because it no longer mattered. There was nothing he could have done, and nothing he could do. No matter what he would have liked to think, he was only a slave here. He could not change that.
And now Obi-Wan Kenobi resided in an entirely different complex – the grounds were secluded and reached far; the house was looming and crooked with a foreboding presence. The man who owned it was probably something close to human, no one knew for sure. It was difficult to tell sometimes in the outer rim; more races mixed and bred together, changing partners as often as they changed their ship's fuel.
The young Jedi was worried, there was no denying that. Still weak and in a mild state of shock from the horror he had stumbled upon, he was grateful to find two familiar faces in this new place, at least: Spyre and Roark.
It seemed they had both been assigned to kitchen duty while Obi-Wan had been told to remain in his role as a simple house servant, errand boy, a go-getter. One fresh change of clothes and trading in of his old collar for a newer, sleeker one later and he was sitting alone at a table, away from the other slaves who spoke in low voices to each other, spooning stew into their mouths and nearly cleaning their bowls with their utensils.
A friendly thump on his back and he winced.
"Sorry," Roark muttered, flushing gently as he sat across the table from the lost Padawan.
Spyre settled in next to her friend and smiled, joyless. "Better eat up. We helped make this piss."
Obi-Wan dropped his dull gaze to the stew waiting for him, a brown skin forming at the top, and responded dryly, "I hope you don't mean that."
Quiet laughter took them all by surprise and they each bottled it up quickly, taking spoons in their respective hands to begin a despondent meal. Spyre and Roark ate in silence, but Obi-Wan brought nothing to his lips, staring bleakly down at his hand.
Had his knuckles always been that pronounced? His joints so easy to see? It was happening, he thought, finally – he was beginning to waste away. The work, the pain, the fruitless hope – all were teaming against him, it seemed. And his mind was worse. There was a sharp pain in his hand still, one that should not have been there. He knew it could not be real, and sometimes it faded away to almost nothing when he rubbed it just so, but…
Obi-Wan felt crippled without some attachment to the Force or his master, he felt as if he were drifting alone in an oblivion of bruised worlds, each worse than the last. He wore himself out at night trying to hear something in that ringing silence of his mind, something familiar. Hear it and feel it so he could cling to it as a life preserver. He would not even use it – Obi-Wan felt that he just needed to know it was still there. Just that would keep him going for some time longer.
An older slave, a sharply angled woman with a nose and chin that stuck out oddly from her face as if wanting to meet at some point in front of it, rapped her knuckles on their table. "Master's coming," she grunted quietly, and moved on.
Obi-Wan straightened in his chair, closing his misery behind walls so sturdy and thick no lack of Force of presence could wear them down. He set his hardened gaze on the small dining hall's entrance. The young Jedi felt as if he was gradually eroding away, but he would be damned if he let anyone see it.
* * * *
Carn Vuyis swept appraising eyes over the boy who stood in the entrance to his private quarters, deciding that the gods must be quite satisfied with him – or at least someone who looked very much like him. He beckoned the boy to come closer and fingered a lock of dirty brown hair. Noticing a pair of stormy gray eyes staring at him he arched a brow at the blatant disrespect. He tugged harshly in the filthy hair and forced the slave's head down.
"Don't gawk at your betters," he hissed. "Apologize." The steeliness of his voice left no room for disobedience but the boy hesitated anyway.
"I apologize," The slave said finally, and, though Vuyis should have been contented by the boy's complaisant, if forced, concession, he frowned at the curious undertone. Most slaves were completely submissive by the time he acquired them, but the boy seemed to hold his authority in disregard.
"How long have you been a
slave?" he questioned, suddenly very curious. The youth seemed to straighten
under his hand.
"I am not a slave."
Vuyis landed a vicious backhand across the boy's face. The slave tumbled away and lay in a heap on the floor, staring up at him icily. The owner allowed a small smile to broaden fully until low chuckles escaped. He would take great care to break this one. But the smile soon disappeared, replaced by a mask more notable, but no less cruel, than the smirk which preceded it."
"You certainly look like a slave," he spat and wrinkled his nose. "You're filthy. Gods know you stink like one."
Was that a slight blush that crept across the boy's cheeks?
Never taking his gaze from the youth he strode to the giant double doors. Opening them, he caught the attention of one of his senior servants. He pointed a long finger at the boy, still lying at the center of his floor. "This slave has displeased me. Flog him and bring him immediately back to my quarters."
"Shall I clean him for you, Lord?" the man asked.
"No," Vuyis answered, throwing the boy a wolfish grin. "Don't bother. Just bring him back to my rooms."
* * * *
When Obi-Wan was dropped to the cool wooden floor of Lord Vuyis' chambers and left alone, he would have wept with relief had he not known his troubles were not yet over. His back was aflame with agony, hot and burning, and the fire was relentless, subduing him with every move he made. He attempted some pain relieving techniques, but without access to the Force it was all but useless.
They did help calm him, however, reminding him of what he was. Obi-Wan opened himself to the pain as he pushed his body upward, accepted the dizziness which made his head swim and the floor tilt. He welcomed – begrudgingly – the way the room's light seemed to fluctuate, irritating his eyes which were startlingly sensitive.
He wavered on his feet, but made it to the huge double doors made of polished wood – real wood. Obi-Wan took a moment to brush his fingers over the deceptively smooth surface and thought for an idle moment that the council should invest in real wooden doors for all the rooms in the temple.
He shook those thoughts from his mind, as they were trivial ideas and he had no time for them. He found the lavish, mechanical handle; the polished gold color reminding him of the way sun shined off the hair of a woman in the garden, outside. Her hair was long - rather pretty, he thought - and hung loose, tousled slightly by a cool breeze which swept through the large enclosure from time to time. Thinking back, Obi-Wan seemed to recall another who had the same shade mane as the woman – one of the overseers who had whipped him.
The young Jedi squeezed his eyes shut and fought for control of his thoughts. They were scattered far and wide, and he felt a touch of despair then, feeling as if he was deteriorating on the spot. He pushed down on the handle, ignoring the burn it brought on his torn back, and leaned into the door. It began to creak open – all too slowly – but it was opening, nonetheless.
Obi-Wan cried out as someone grabbed him by one wounded shoulder and jerked him back, knocking him to the floor. The huge door was slammed shut and the noise resounded loudly throughout the bedchambers. Obi-Wan raised his eyes to meet those of Lord Carn Vuyis, who stared down at him with an odd look on his sharply angled face.
"But you just *got* here," he said, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth as he reached down to help the apprentice up.
Weakness washed over the padawan and Obi-Wan went boneless, too exhausted and pained to struggle.
"Please," he tried, moaning at the sting at his back as he was peeled off the floor, "I need to speak with my master." His head felt swollen and heavy. The Padawan's eyelids drooped. "I need…"
The last sensation he felt was of his overheated body sliding along the chilly wooden floor.
* * * *
Vuyis made sure the water coming from the faucet was uncomfortably hot before plugging up the drain. He then turned hungry eyes on his new slave and said wryly, "You are quite filthy, my pet. You are in dire need of a cleansing."
The boy was a bloody mess and his tile floor was staining red but that hardly mattered – in his experience, humiliation was the key to breaking a spirit. He grabbed hold of the youth and roughly dragged him forward. The slave struggled but his efforts were weak after being beaten so and Vuyis had only to slap him a few times across the face to quiet him.
"Listen, Pet, you are mine, now. And I refuse to be served by such a filthy mongrel. I'm going to bathe you now, and when we're finished you'll sleep at the foot of my bed, because that's what pets do."
The boy stared up at him with a blend of shock and disgust in the blue gray eyes and opened his mouth to protest, no doubt, but a quick backhand from Vuyis silenced him. Blood trickled out of his nose and the corner of his mouth as Vuyis began to strip him naked. He had considered dumping his new pet in the bath fully clothed, but the disgusted stare he received moments ago had changed his mind. Vuyis tossed aside the bloody clothing and stared down at his prize.
The youth lay trembling on the cool tile floor, pale skin and bruises gleaming in the white light of the lamps. Vuyis, taking quick advantage of this overdue moment of quiet with his new slave, ran a hand up the length of one long, coltish leg. Noting the golden colored fleece at the boy's inner thigh he spared a quick glance up to the dirt and blood stained face. He realized that what he had first perceived to be brown hair was actually quite clearly run through with soft red hues, the dirt had only obscured it.
"Lovely," he breathed and suddenly could wait no longer. Ignoring the youth's humiliated and pained cry, he pulled him up and tossed him into the tub.
The boy thrashed in the hot water and Vuyis quickly jabbed his thumb into one of the deep welts on the slim back. The thrashing immediately halted with a stifled cry and the youth resorted to barely contained squirming. Vuyis grabbed some soap chips and rubbed them over that soft skin, working lather into the dingy hair. He shoved the youth's head under water without warning and only let him back up when he was sure all the soap was completely washed out.
The boy sputtered and choked, coughing up water nearly pink with his own blood. He was grateful for the dunk, however, unsure if he would ever forgive himself if he let this man see his humiliated tears.
Vuyis grinned and reached into the water, intently gazing into the wide blue gray eyes. He stroked one of the lean thighs and said, "You'll have to learn to groom yourself one of these days, my pet, but for now – I don't mind helping you in the least."
* * * *
The night was deep, spilling in and coating everything in the room with its thick, inky blackness. The moon was lazy this time of year, merely tossing its thin blanket of dim, ethereal glow on top of the shadows, but not obliterating them. This wing of the mansion was silent, far away from the hushed bustle of the kitchens where slaves hurried to prepare meals for the day shift. If anything were to happen in the bedchambers, it was a sure thing no one would hear it unless Vuyis wanted them to. The house communication unit built into the wall remained silent all night.
The lord smiled in the darkness, nearly giddy with himself. He hadn't felt this way in years. He knew the boy was there – could hear the short, fragile breaths – but rolled over in his lush bed anyway, letting one arm dangle down the side until his fingers brushed against soft and thick hair – clean hair – still damp from ablution. The head pulled away but Vuyis quickly grasped onto one bare shoulder, then ran his hand down the length of the slender arm. The skin was prickled with a bone deep chill.
"Aren't you chilly, Little One??" he crooned.
The whispered no had him letting go and rolling onto his back, shaken with silent laughter. Lord Vuyis stretched and clasped his hands over his chest.
"Very well, Pet."
In the morning he had his breakfast brought to his room and ordered the house to leave him and his new pet at peace for the day. Without rising from bed he began to eat and called the boy to him.
The slave stood defiantly in the center of the room, glaring. Hands were planted firmly over those slim hips and the fire that flashed in the smoldering eyes was enough to make Vuyis groan aloud with excitement.
"Join me in my bed," he said, managing to add a dangerous inflection to his words, "or I'll whip you myself. You cannot have recovered from your last punishment so quickly."
The slave had the gall to ask, "Would that be that beating or the bath?"
Vuyis blinked in disbelief then threw his head back with loud guffaws of highly amused laughter. "Take your pick," he managed, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. He sobered and looked squarely at the young man. "It certainly doesn't matter to me, though I'd be a liar if I told you I won't garner a bit of pleasure from drawing blood out of that beautiful flesh of yours." He searched the boy's eyes for any sign of acceptance, but found nothing. He patted the bed and said severely, "Come."
The boy looked away from the lord, locking his eyes on the far wall, but went forward. He walked with his head up and his arms crossed over his chest. As soon as he was close enough Vuyis grabbed him and pulled him on the bed.
"Affection," he growled, pushing the struggling youth down, "We need to work on your affection." He forced the slave to cling to him like some absurd and living shawl. "Haven't you ever seen the way pets linger in their masters' wake? Just praying with whatever primitive language they may have that they'll be spared even a glance? They circle their masters' legs, love them, want them – "
"You want me to circle your legs?"
He cuffed the slave sharply on the side of his head. "Do not anger me," he growled, "It is in your best interest not to do so.
"Do you want to eat today?" He held up a chunk of bread then mopped up runny yolk from his tarin egg with it.
The slave said nothing, didn't even respond with a glance. The smoky blue gray of his eyes remained locked on the ceiling.
Vuyis harrumphed and ate the bread himself. He continued his breakfast in silence with one hand on the slave's chest to stay him.