Now ...

Namir lifted dull eyes to meet those of his false rescuer. The man crouched before his chained victim, slowly, deliberately, and with evident enjoyment, eating a sticky muja-fruit tart.

His mouth watered helplessly, and he hated himself for it. It was hard to be sure of anything through the fog of pain and exhaustion, but he thought he'd been on the man's ship for three days now. In that time, the man had given him a few precious sips of water, but no food. He'd taken great care to eat every one of his own meals in front of Namir.

Namir was used to being raped -- in his short life, he'd been assaulted by so many of his owners and their friends he'd lost count. What this man had done to him was far, far worse, although he had repeatedly taken his pleasure, all the while whispering taunts and insults like a lover's endearments. When he had tired of that, he'd taken to switching on the neural implant remote at his moment of climax, with Namir screaming and bucking beneath him as his nerve endings melted.

If the man was going to kill him, Namir wished he'd just get it over with.

He had exhausted his short supply of happy memories, the times with T'min. He'd played them so often in his mind, they were beginning to lose all meaning for him, the same way an endlessly repeated word will become gibberish.

A shrill beeping caused the man's head to jerk, then he rose hastily, moving out of Namir's limited field of vision, leaving the remains of his tart behind.

Namir stared at it, his heart pounding. He sat on the floor, his arms chained above his head to the metal table in the mess area. Cautiously, he reached out with one bare foot, straining toward the two or three bites of pastry left on the floor.

He heard voices and tensed, relaxing when he realized the man was speaking to his comm unit. Snatches of conversation floated out to him as his big toe brushed the tart.

" -- ning accident ... healer's ward ... head trauma ... . "

He flexed and relaxed every muscle he owned, stretching out further.

" ... understand ... soon as possible ... ."

Namir's foot curled around the tart, and he grinned in victory, scooping the pastry across the deck toward him. He was so intent on his prize, he didn't notice when the man returned.

Agony flooded his body and he arched up, pulling at the chains, twisting from side to side as he screamed, not only in pain, but in miserable, helpless frustration. The pain ended almost as soon as it began, and he sagged back against the table, gasping.

The man crouched before him again, holding the remains of the tart on his palm. "Are you still hungry?" When Namir didn't respond, the man grabbed a handful of hair and forced his head up. "Answer me!" He thrust the food under Namir's nose. "Do you want this? Do you?"

He started to shake his head, but the man's grip on his hair tightened. "Say it."

Namir had never before so longed for death. "Nnnnn ... nnnno."

The man's lips curved. How could he have ever thought that smile was kind? "That's what I thought." He dipped his head and ate the rest of the tart in two bites, then rose to his feet and strode from the mess area.

Namir closed his eyes and tilted his head back, wondering if his nightmare existence would ever end.

The one-eyed man frowned, shaking his head. "I'm just not sure. If I could hear it one more time ... ?"

Qui-Gon slid another credit chip across the table and pressed the play button again. He'd transferred the audio of the vid to a portable player, and had taken it with him to five different systems now, hoping someone, somewhere, would recognize the voice of the man who held Obi-Wan. Or had, six cycles ago.

He knew it was a fool's dream, but it was all he had to work with.

The one-eyed man was nodding now, stroking his chin. "That sounds like my old friend Brelk, now that I think about it."

"And where might your old friend be located?"

"Well now, I can't say for sure ... he moves around a lot, does old Brelk."

Qui-Gon sighed shortly, and another credit chip crossed the table.

His informant stood. "Sindara. Capital city. Look for a club called The Combat Zone and ask for Telli. She'll know where he is."

When they left the port, his hands cuffed, his arms bound tightly to his sides, Namir saw with an utter lack of surprise that they were back where they had started. He was on his way to Brelk's again.

He was prepared for Brelk to pitch three or four different kinds of fits upon his return, to at least refuse the customer his refund, but after a few minutes' conversation with the tall man, Brelk nodded in a dazed kind of way and handed over a huge pile of credits. The man turned and left, Brelk removed Namir's restraints and herded him to a cell, and that was that.

He was home.

He pulled the thin blanket from the cot, wrapping it around his shoulders, and crawled onto one corner of the lumpy mattress, resting his head against the cool stone wall. If he remembered, Brelk would feed him later, the usual stale bread and greasy, undercooked stew. And, if he were in the mood, the meal would be accompanied by the usual punishment from the heavyset man, the one he administered whenever Namir had been returned after displeasing his owners -- or sending them to a med ward.

A black wave of despair crested in his heart, and broke through the walls T'min had helped him construct. He blinked back burning tears, remembering the tall man's lies. I'm taking you back to where you belong, to the people that love you and miss you.

Surely someone, somewhere, missed him. Loved him. Surely he had a home where he never had to go hungry, never got beaten or raped when he did the wrong thing.

No. He was fooling himself, constructing a fantasy world that in all probability had never existed. He had more than likely been born a slave, born into this never-ending life of want and abuse and despair.

A harsh, choked sob escaped him and he put his head down on his knees, rocking back and forth, wishing he had never seen the tall man, never felt the hope the man had so insidiously planted in his heart.

Mostly, as he quietly poured out his anguish, he wished he'd never been born.

"Boy!" Brelk's harsh voice bounced off the stone walls. "Up! Here! Now!"

Namir let out a tiny sigh, running the tip of one finger over the lichens growing on the stone block in the corner. They were very pretty, he thought, a pale green with flecks of blue here and there. He almost called for T'min, to share with him, then remembered T'min wasn't there. Nor had he ever shown much appreciation for silly little details that always seemed to catch Namir's eye. He frowned, vaguely remembering that T'min had appreciated such things at one point, then shook himself. Perhaps he was thinking of someone else.

"I'm very sorry about this, good sir." Brelk's voice again, in the cringing tone he reserved for customers. "Usually he's much more responsive -- puts on a good show, in fact."

"It's all right." A quiet, deep voice. "Let him come in his own time."

Namir resumed his examination of the lichens, wondering what gave them such tenacity, such ability to cling so stubbornly to the stone they seemed a part of it.

"The good sir is too kind," Brelk said, then, bellowing, "BOY!"

Namir could hear the frustration in Brelk's voice and almost smiled. Since he'd been returned by the tall man, he'd spent most of his time in this corner, refusing to respond whenever Brelk paraded customers by the cell. None of them so far had been interested in such an unresponsive slave, and though Brelk had beaten him soundly each and every time afterwards, it was worth it. Brelk would never mark him permanently, and this way no one would ever torture him again with false hope and lies.

Eventually, he hoped, Brelk would tire of the game and dispose of him.

"May I?" the quiet voice asked.

Brelk sputtered for a moment. "As long as the good sir promises not to hold the establishment responsible for any damages. He doesn't look like much of a threat, but he's a fighter, this one."

"If I can't handle him, there's not much point in buying him, is there?"

Namir felt a grudging admiration for the owner of the quiet voice. He had a point. He tensed briefly when he heard the clang of the door, then went back to studying the lichens.

He heard approaching footsteps, then the quiet rustle of cloth. From the sound of it, the man was crouched at the foot of his cot, within easy reach if he decided to suddenly lash out with his foot. He was tempted for a moment, then let it go when the man spoke again.

"Please look at me."

Namir ignored him for another moment or two, then slowly turned his head and looked over his shoulder. What he saw made him wish he hadn't.

Even crouched, the man was tall, every inch of him radiating quiet power and strength. The broken nose indicated he was no stranger to fighting, and the large hands resting on his thighs looked as if they could snap Namir's neck as easily as a twig.

This one could hurt him, very, very badly.

Brelk hovered nervously in the background as Namir continued his examination. Black boots and trousers, topped with a deep blue tunic, one that matched his eyes. Long brown hair and beard shot through with silver, reminding Namir in an absurd, disconnected way of a painting he had once seen of a wintry wood.

The man didn't move, regarding him calmly, and for some reason that made Namir even more afraid. He tried to shrink further back into the corner, flinching when the man abruptly stood, towering over Brelk. "I'll take him."

"Oh, excellent, good sir! He's very reasonably priced -- "

"I'm in no mood to dicker," the man said pulling out a credit chip and holding it up, his eyes never leaving Namir's. "Take what you need."

Namir's mouth went dry, and he fought the urge to throw himself at Brelk's feet, begging him not to do this, not to sell him to this dangerous-looking giant.

All he could do was stare into too-blue eyes and hope he could find a way to get the man to kill him quickly.

The big man kept a firm grip on Namir as he steered him into the busy port. Brelk had been convinced to let the slave keep his blanket, so he hadn't been forced to walk the streets of the city naked, at least. But his hands were cuffed, and the man hadn't let go of him since they'd stepped outside the pens.

Namir's feet slowed as they approached what was obviously the man's transport. It looked far too much like the last ship.

Frowning, his new owner put a hand to the small of his back and pushed him gently up the ramp.

Once inside, Namir looked around, his heart beginning to race. Even the interior was the same, cabin to the left, quarters to the right. He felt dizzy with the sense that he had been here before, that it was all going to happen again.

However, instead of giving him a little speech about a lost home and fictional loved ones, the man simply guided him to the cockpit and strapped him into the co-pilot's chair.

Namir watched as the man prepared for takeoff, frozen with fear and indecision. He kept telling himself he wanted to die, but he had no wish to die slowly and horribly. This man looked perfectly capable of breaking every one of his bones with his bare hands and leaving him to rot somewhere. Should he try to fight, and hope the man would just snap his spine? Or should he be as quiet and submissive as possible and look for an opportunity to escape somehow?

Namir peeked at the man out of the corner of his eye, his gut clenching at the sight of the strong profile. He looked like a hawk, cruel and predatory, and yet he had never seen any expression other than calm serenity on the man's face. He frowned as he noticed the man's hands on the console. They were trembling.

That didn't bode well at all.

By the time they reached hyperspace, Namir still had not reached any conclusions. He would just have to stay on his guard and let events unfold as they might.

The man released his seat restraints, then led him aft, stopping just outside the cabin. He studied Namir intently for a moment, then asked, "Are you going to fight me?"

Namir bit his bottom lip, then shook his head.

"Good," the man said mildly. He took a key from his belt and unlocked the cuffs. He clipped them to his belt, an unsubtle reminder of who owned whom. Namir stood perfectly still as the man reached out and fingered his odd lock of long hair. "I have no intention of hurting you, so I don't want you to be afraid of me. I know you don't remember me, but I know you, have known you for years, and I'm taking you back ho -- "

That was all it took. Something in Namir's head snapped and he launched himself at the man in blind fury, kicking, biting, clawing at whatever he could reach, screaming with rage. After what seemed like no time at all, he found himself face down on the deck, his arms pinned behind him, a knee pressing into his back.

"We've wrestled with each other since you were thirteen years old." The bastard didn't even sound out of breath. "You haven't won yet." The voice moved closer to his ear. "I can pin you to the deck as many times as it takes, or I can put you back in the cuffs, or you can simply cooperate and we can pass the time relatively pleasantly. It's up to you."

The pressure on his back eased and his arms were released. He lay still for a moment, his heart beating wildly, then turned on one side and looked up.

The man stood with his arms folded across his broad chest, his expression perfectly, maddeningly calm. After a moment, he extended his hand to Namir.

Namir took it, too shocked to do anything else.

He was led through the ship in a daze, utterly numb. When they stopped, he blinked and looked around. They stood outside the fresher in the comfortable-looking quarters.

The man held out a neatly folded tunic and Namir took it, marveling at the soft feel of the fabric. Trousers were placed on top of the tunic, then a scuffed pair of woven leather shoes that looked just broken in enough to be incredibly comfortable. Namir stared at them, then at the man.

"I've bathed you on more than one occasion as well, but I'd like to think I can trust you to do it yourself. Can I?"

Namir nodded slowly.

The man's expression softened, and he jerked his chin at the fresher door. "Go on, then," he said gently.

The fresher door slid shut behind him and Namir simply stood there for a moment. He let the filthy blanket slip from his shoulders, set the new clothes on a shelf by the shower unit, then stepped inside and palmed the water controls, his actions as thoughtless and mechanical as a droid's.

He stared at the tiles, unseeing, as the water drummed against his skin. He blinked once, twice, then a wail erupted from his chest and he slid down the wall, sobbing like a child. He curled into a tight ball, his cries wracking his entire body. He couldn't do this anymore, he couldn't. He couldn't pretend to want to die, he couldn't pretend to not want the things his captors so cruelly promised him. He wanted to live, he wanted to be free, he wanted --

His breath hitched as he felt strong arms glide around him, gathering him gently into a warm, wet embrace.

"It's all right," the man said softly. "Let it out."

Namir rested his head on the man's shoulder and did just that.

What seemed a long time later, Namir stood before the mirror, staring into his reddened, puffy eyes. The man had held him close while he had sobbed out his terror and frustration, then left him alone to bathe, asking him to come to the mess area when he was finished.

Namir didn't understand this one at all.

He longed to believe what the man said, but didn't dare. After the last one, he refused to hope any longer, wasn't sure he was still capable of it. Ah, well. At least he was clean again and wearing soft, fresh-smelling clothes that fit him remarkably well. Live in the moment, as T'min used to say.

He frowned, a small twinge of pain erupting behind his eyes. Was it T'min who had said that to him? Or someone else? He shook his head, dismissing the thought, and dragged a comb through his wet hair. When he thought he looked reasonably presentable, he slipped his feet into the shoes, then walked out into the quarters.

He stopped, staring down at his feet in astonishment. The shoes molded to his feet as if they had been sprayed on. He wiggled his toes experimentally, feeling tiny depressions in the leather sole that corresponded exactly to each pad.

Staring dumbly at the shoes, he felt a prickling on the back of his neck. Could they possibly be his shoes? Worn during a time he could no longer remember? But if that were true, then ... .

Then perhaps the man was telling the truth about everything.

He clamped down on the rising emotion he felt, squashing it ruthlessly. They were shoes, nothing more. They'd probably belonged to someone about his size, the same as the clothes he now wore. All it meant was that this man was probably more devious than the last one, and he'd have to watch him carefully.

Firming his resolve, he made his way to the mess area, pausing just outside the open door. His stomach rumbled as he smelled something delicious cooking, then he noticed the big man over in one corner, taking something out of a small metal cabinet. He had changed out of his wet clothes, and wore a long robe made of some shimmery blue material.

Namir took a step back, lurking by the edge of the doorway. He tensed in fear as the man unwrapped a hypo, then frowned as he injected himself with it. Was the man sick? Or worse, an addict of some kind?

"Don't hover," the man said without turning. "In or out."

It was said without rancor, and Namir felt a momentary shame for spying. He gave himself a mental shake and stepped over the threshold.

The man moved to the food prep area and gestured at the metal table. "Have a seat. The food's almost ready."

A chill ran down Namir's spine, but at least this table actually had chairs. He edged closer, keeping a close eye on the man, whose back was turned as he took two bowls out of the heater.

Namir slipped into one of the chairs, poised for flight.

The man set one of the steaming bowls before him, along with a plate of thick bread slices. "It's only pre-packaged slop, but it's servicable."

Namir studied the contents of the bowl. He saw slices of meat and vegatables, mixed with toasted bits of bread, the entire mixture covered with a creamy sauce. He tried not to drool as the steam wafted past his nose.

The man returned with a fork and a glass of pale brown liquid. Namir curled his fingers around the fork, looking warily up at the man.

"Eat," the man admonished gently, and Namir didn't need to be told twice. When he took his first bite, he had to struggle not to moan in ecstasy. The sauce was delicately flavored, the meat tender, the vegetables firm. The toasted bits crunched under his teeth, releasing a sharp, spicy flavor that complemented the sauce.

He was consumed by the sensations of the food, and barely noticed when the man sat across from him and began eating with a look of restrained amusement.

When the bowl was empty, Namir took one of the bread slices and sopped up every speck of remaining sauce before stuffing the slice into his mouth. He drained half the glass of brown liquid, then sat back in his chair.

"Enjoyed that, did you?"

Namir looked up, startled. He'd almost forgotten the man was there. He knew how dangerous it was for him to feel gratitude for such a basic kindness, but he couldn't quite help himself. Concentrating deeply, he forced his lips and tongue to work. "Good," he said, inordinately pleased that it came out with no hesitation.

He was rewarded for his effort with a brilliant smile, one that did interesting things to his insides.

Thinking he might be on a roll, Namir tried for another word. He lifted the bowl. "Mmmore?"

"You'll make yourself sick," the man said, and Namir's shoulders slumped in defeat. The smile returned. "Perhaps a half portion will be all right."

Namir managed not to wriggle with happiness when the man returned with more of the delicious food, and even accomplished a more sedate pace while eating it. When he was finished, he let out a long, satisfied belch. If the man wanted to rape and torture him now, he thought he might be able to bear it, at least a little.

As the man cleared the table, a huge yawn split Namir's face, and he blinked sleepily, scratching his now-full stomach.

"I have a few tasks to attend to," the man said, turning from the sink. "And you sound like you need sleep. The bed in the quarters is yours. If you need anything, I'll be in the cabin."

Namir looked at him uncertainly. That was it? Hot bath, hot food and a bed? Had the man never owned a slave before?

One of the man's brows rose. "Do you need assistance getting there?"

Namir stood hastily and fled the mess area.

When he lay down on the luxuriously wide bed, he wondered for a brief moment where the man would be sleeping, and if he should worry. Then his eyes closed and he fell into immediate, satisfied sleep.

"What about the mindwipe?" Qui-Gon asked, rubbing his eyes. Devi was the fourth person he'd talked to so far, behind Mace, Yoda and Healer Fetra.

Devi sighed, looking none too fresh herself. "You'll have to watch him carefully. Some of those backworld mind butchers aren't choosy about their procedures, and it might start to decay, especially if it's never been reinforced."

"What are the symptoms?"

"Headaches, confusion -- some even experience mild psychosis and hallucinations, if the wipe was botched badly enough."

"Can I tell him anything?"

Devi pursed her lips. "If he seems to be in good shape, it's at your discretion. But go slow. You don't want him overwhelmed." Her eyes narrowed. "How are you doing?"

Qui-Gon smiled at the screen. "I've got my heart back, Master Devi -- how could I be anything but good?"

He switched off the comm unit, knowing that he and Obi-Wan still had a long, hard road to travel before they were as one again, but at least they had hope now.

That was when the screams began.

Namir opened his eyes and blinked in confusion. The tall man loomed over him in the darkness, his robe shed. "Time to pay for that meal, little morsel," he rumbled.

A hollow feeling settled in the pit of Namir's stomach. He should have known it was too good to be true. Too weary and heartsick to fight, he simply rolled over onto his stomach, raising his hips and spreading his thighs.

The mattress sagged and creaked as it took the man's weight. Namir felt rough hands on his hips, then bit his lip hard enough to draw blood as the man plunged into him with no warning, no preparation.

The man grunted and leaned over Namir's back, his beard scratching the skin. "That was one of my favorite recipes, you know. Sliced T'min morsels with new vegetables." He made an obscene slurping sound in Namir's ear, then began thrusting in earnest.

Namir gagged, trying not to vomit as he remembered the tender chunks of meat.

"I think tomorrow I'll try some roasted Namir," the man mused as he ravaged his victim. "Would you like that?"

Namir bucked his hips up, trying to throw the man off, but his attacker was too big, too heavy, too strong. Helpless to do anything else, he threw back his head and screamed.

Powerful hands gripped his shoulders, shaking him, but he wouldn't stop screaming, couldn't stop. "Open your eyes," a deep voice commanded. "You're dreaming."

Namir opened his eyes, his breath hitching in his chest. The tall man loomed over him in the darkness, and before he could think better of it, Namir rammed his elbow into the man's face and leaped off the bed. The man was between him and the door, so he ran to the corner and crouched there, hooking his hands into claws, ready to take the man's eyes if necessary.

The man was bent over by the bed, holding a hand to his mouth. Muffled curses reached Namir, and he felt a vicious satisfaction when the man's hand came away bloody. "Lights," the man snapped and Namir squinted his eyes against the sudden brightness of the room.

"Well, that could have gone better." The tone was mild, as usual, and Namir watched in astonishment as the man sat on the edge of the bed and crossed one leg over the other, as if he were attending afternoon tea instead of facing a desperate slave who'd just bloodied his lip. "Tell me, are all your nightmares this violent?"

Nightmare? Namir blinked, finally looking at the man. He still wore the blue robe, belted at the waist, and Namir realized with some chagrin that he himself was still fully clothed as well. But it had seemed so real ... .

"I'm not sure what it will take to convince you that I mean you no harm. I'm not sure at this point if you can be convinced, but that's no fault of yours." The man looked earnestly into Namir's eyes. "All I can do is assure you again that I will not hurt you, nor will I allow you to be hurt. Do you understand that?"

Namir relaxed his stance reluctantly, nodding. He slowly uncurled from his crouch, then put his hand over his heart, and shook his head, spreading his hands wide. I'm sorry.

The blue eyes twinkled and the man rose from the bed. "I need to take care of this," he said, gesturing at his split lip. "Would you like something from the mess? Some hot cha, perhaps?"

Namir had no idea what hot cha was, but if it was edible, he wouldn't turn it down. He remembered a fragment of his dream, and shuddered. Well, almost.

He followed the man into the mess area, appreciating the way the silky robe clung to the man's shoulders and back. He hadn't felt desire for anyone since T'min, and was certainly not foolish enough to desire this man, but he could enjoy the aesthetic aspects, couldn't he?

The man busied himself at the food prep area for a moment or two, then took the medkit out of its cabinet and set it on the table. Namir noticed an odd bulge in one of the man's pockets and studied it curiously. It was too small to be any sort of weapon.

A steaming cup of thick brown liquid was set before him, and he curled his fingers around it, inhaling the creamy aroma. He suspected he would like hot cha.

As the man prepared to sit down, Namir pointed at his pocket and raised his brows. The man looked uncertain for a moment, then seemed to reach some sort of decision. He pulled a holopic out of his pocket and slid it across the table to Namir.

Namir gazed at the image, blinking in surprise when he recognized his own features. He looked up at the man, who watched him carefully as he dabbed a bacta swab on his bottom lip. "That's you."

Namir stared at him for a moment, then returned his attention to the pic. He couldn't quite equate the laughing man in the pic with his own solemn visage, but it was unmistakably him. Had he ever laughed before? Had he ever been happy enough to laugh?

He felt a moment's dizziness as the larger implications washed over him. If this man had his picture ... then maybe ... it was all true. He shook himself, drinking in every detail of the holo. The image only contained his head and part of his neck, but it was enough. His hair was short, as short as it had been when he'd arrived the first time at Brelk's. A braid trailed past his right ear, threaded with a white ribbon.

He pulled the long length of hair over his shoulder, touching it thoughtfully, then looked up at the man, who had sealed his lip with plastiskin and sat quietly, watching him.

"I've been looking for you a long time." The man looked down at the table. "A very long time," he whispered. He cleared his throat, then smiled at Namir. "That helped me remember what I was looking for."

Namir swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. He touched the pic, running a finger over the braid, wondering what its significance was. Setting the pic down, he lifted the lock of hair and looked inquiringly at the man.

"Do you ... would you like me to braid it for you?" The man's expression and voice were suddenly so hopeful, Namir felt a prickling at his eyelids. He blinked rapidly and nodded.

"I'll be right back." The man rose and disappeared aft.

Namir took the opportunity to sip his safely cooled cha, and decided he liked it very much indeed.

The man returned, bearing a comb and a coiled length of white ribbon. When his hands touched Namir's head, the slave stiffened for just a moment, then relaxed as the comb slipped through his hair.

The sensation was calming, soothing, and by the time the man finished his braid, Namir was sound asleep, and so didn't notice when the man lifted him tenderly from the chair and tucked him back in bed, his wounded lips brushing Namir's in a soft, sweet kiss.

Namir opened his eyes to the sound of running water. He stretched, burrowing into the blankets, relishing the sensation of being surrounded by warm, soft things. So unusual. So good.

He stayed in bed for another few minutes, running his new braid through his fingers, then his stomach rumbled ominously, and he sat up, slipping his feet into the shoes by the bed before making his way to the mess area.

A quick exploration of the coldbox turned up some ripe jurberries, so he grabbed a handful and wandered to the cockpit, idly scratching himself. He sat in the co-pilot's chair and watched the stars streak by while he ate, supremely content for the moment. He was beginning to trust his new companion, however strongly his brain screamed that he shouldn't. He wondered how long they would be in space, how much longer he would have to wait before he found his mythic, yearned-for home.

A shrill beeping caused him to start upright, and he quickly identified its source as the comm unit. He glanced through the cabin door, seeing no sign of the tall man, and frowned at the comm unit. The noise was beginning to irritate him.

He stabbed a finger at the keypad, hoping to find an off switch, then began randomly pushing buttons as the beeping continued. He sighed in relief when the noise stopped, then sat back in alarm as the screen filled with the face of a green, large-eared alien.

Large blue eyes widened as they met his, then the enormous ears rose skyward. An odd, crooning noise came from the alien, and what could have been a smile crossed its wizened face.

Namir peered at the screen, then moved a little closer, studying the creature intently. The blue eyes narrowed, then the creature made a hmmmph-ing noise. "Have jurberry juice on your chin, you do."

Namir blinked, putting a hand to his sticky chin. He ducked his head and gave the creature a shy, sheepish smile.

A gleeful cackling issued from the comm unit, and Namir decided he liked the odd little troll.

"Missed you I have, young one. Missed you we all have."

Namir felt a warm glow at the creature's words, then wondered who 'we' were.

"Master, what are you doing?"

Namir looked up in surprise at the man, who stood at the cockpit door, his hips wrapped in a towel, wet hair dripping onto his bare chest.

"Catching up with my grand-Padawan, I am," the creature replied. "Keep him cleaner, you should."

The man let out an exaggerated sigh. "Was there something you wanted?"

"Discuss it later we can, when clothes you have on." More cackling ensued, then a green claw gestured at Namir, who moved closer to the screen. "Be gentle with him, you should. Loves you, he does."

"Master!" the man exclaimed in a strangled voice.

"Have nice day, you will," the creature intoned, then the screen went black.

Namir slowly looked up at the man, his heart pounding. Love? This man ... loved him?

The man stared at the darkened screen for a moment, his jaw clenched, then turned his eyes to Namir. "Eight hundred years is far too long a life span for anyone." With that, he turned and strode through the door.

Namir watched him go, wondering if he was dreaming again.

Namir studied the man as his blood was drawn. He had insisted on performing a series of medical tests on the slave, checking, he said, for any infectious diseases or conditions not immediately visible.

He had called the little green thing 'Master.' Was he also a slave? Was that why he treated Namir so well? Or did it have to do with the other thing the troll had said, that the man loved him? And if that were true, loved him how? The man was in excellent physical condition, but he was clearly old enough to be Namir's father. Was the man his father? And what in all the hells was a 'grand-Padawan'? Namir's head was beginning to hurt.

The man rubbed the inside of Namir's arm with a bacta swab and flashed him a quick smile. "That should ease the sting."

Namir smiled back, then bit his bottom lip, unsure of how to proceed.

The man slid the container of his blood into a small machine he'd set up on one corner of the table, pushed a button, then sat across from Namir. "Something wrong?"

Namir pointed at the man, then put a finger to his own lips and raised his shoulders in a small shrug.

"I'm sorry -- I don't understand."

Namir repeated the actions with the same result. He sighed, realizing he'd have to try his unreliable voice. "Nnnnn ... nnnnnnnnnn ... nnnnname?"

"What is my name?"

Namir nodded.

The man studied him intently, considering. "My name is Qui-Gon Jinn."

Qui-Gon Jinn. Qui-Gon. Namir tried the words out in his head, placing them in the context of the man he observed. That was Qui-Gon's beard. Those were Qui-Gon's hands. That tunic belongs to Qui-Gon Jinn. It was a good name, he decided. It seemed to fit the man in all the right places. He frowned, concentrating. "Quuui-gon."

Another brilliant smile. "Yes."

Namir smiled back, then, after a moment or two, slowly lifted his hand and pointed at himself.

Qui-Gon Jinn's unspeakably blue eyes softened. "Your name is Obi-Wan Kenobi."

Obi-Wan Kenobi? What the hell? That wasn't a name -- it was a nursery rhyme. What a ridiculous-sounding appellation to hang on someone. Obi-Wan Kenobi. It sounded like a game one played when stuck inside on a rainy day. Hey, Qui-Gon! Up for a few rounds of Kenobi? I'll bring the dice!

He heard quiet laughter, and realized some of his displeasure must have shown on his face. "It's a perfectly good name, my Obi-Wan."

Warmth spread through his abdomen and he smiled. It sounded different when the ma -- when Qui-Gon said it. It sounded almost beautiful then. But he decided to stick with Namir for a little while longer, at least in his own head.

The machine beeped, and Qui-Gon turned his attention to the display screen. "Good. You're disease-free. You do, however, have a severe vitamin deficiency, and you're somewhat anemic." He stood and walked to the metal cabinet, rummaging through its contents before withdrawing three hypos.

Unable to help himself, Namir tensed when Qui-Gon returned to his side. Qui-Gon either didn't notice, or pretended not to. He quickly and efficiently injected Namir with two of the hypos, then turned the third one on his own arm.

Namir worried about that. Qui-Gon seemed to be at the peak of health to him. Perhaps he was addicted to something. He touched Qui-Gon's sleeve, pointing at the hypo.

"Ah. Yes." Qui-Gon sighed, disposing of the used hypos before sitting back down at the table. "You and I share a ... condition. There's something wrong with us that means I have to take these drugs four times a day, and also means I can't remove your collar."

Namir's fingers stole up to rest on the metal band around his throat. He'd worn it so long it felt a part of him now.

"But don't worry yourself unduly -- when we get home, we can both be healed."

Namir nodded, savoring the word. Home.

The rest of the day -- or its deep space equivalent -- passed in a happy blur for Namir. He discovered that Qui-Gon was not, in fact, a fellow slave. The little green person, whose name was Yoda, had been his teacher, and was called 'Master' out of respect, Qui-Gon explained.

Qui-Gon either wouldn't or couldn't explain how Namir had gone missing, or what their strange 'condition' was, saying he didn't want to overwhelm him with too much information all at once. Namir accepted that, and hoped everything would be explained when they reached their destination. Another three days or so, Qui-Gon said.

The conversation then turned to other things. Namir discovered that Qui-Gon was highly knowledgable on a wide variety of subjects and prompted him with animated gestures and the occasional strangled word when he had a question or wanted to know more. Mostly, he just enjoyed listening to the deep rumbling voice, no matter the topic.

Qui-Gon's hair had air-dried in a haphazard manner around his face, and Namir offered to return the favor of the night before, which Qui-Gon readily accepted. While Qui-Gon talked, Namir combed the unruly mass until it resembled a sleek, glossy animal pelt. He had a hard time resisting the urge to bury his face in it when he was done.

Namir kept trotting to the coldbox to filch pieces of fruit or cheese, and Qui-Gon joked at one point that if he wasn't careful, he would weigh three hundred pounds by the time they got home. He was rewarded for his lame attempt at humor with quite a rude face, and both men convulsed with laughter. Namir was surprised to hear such a happy sound coming from his own mouth.

When Qui-Gon had to make some minor adjustments to their flight path, Namir amused himself by exploring the small ship, an exercise that almost ended in disaster when he discovered a ribbed metal tube in the quarters that looked to be a handle for something. He puzzled over it for a few minutes, then pushed the red button on the grip, almost slicing his arm off when a bright beam of green light shot out of one end.

Qui-Gon came running at the sound of his startled yelp, then seemed to waver between anger and amusement when Namir pointed to the offending object, lying deactivated in one corner where it had rolled upon being dropped. Qui-Gon then said that while he had the run of the ship and could do whatever he pleased up to a point, perhaps he'd better ask in the future before pushing any more buttons. Namir nodded vigorous agreement.

They prepared dinner together, adding to the prepackaged staples with the few fresh supplies on board. Namir couldn't remember cooking before, but he was evidently a natural at it, and even, with a light slap on the wrist, prevented Qui-Gon from overseasoning the salad. He was appalled that he'd done such a thing, but Qui-Gon seemed to take it in stride, and even thanked him for it, confessing his own uselessness in the culinary arts.

Since they were unlikely to run out of food before their return, Namir stopped wolfing every bite and they enjoyed a relaxed, leisurely dinner. They took their desserts to the cockpit and ate while watching the stars, a contented silence between them.

By the time he'd finished the last, sticky bite of his sweetcake and licked his fingers clean, Namir's head was nodding. Qui-Gon gave him an indulgent smile and sent him off to bed. Since they only had themselves to please, he said, the dishes could wait until morning.

Namir kicked his shoes off, pulled the soft tunic off over his head and lifted one corner of the blankets before being struck by a thought -- where had Qui-Gon slept last night? Where would he sleep tonight? He chewed his lip, ashamed he hadn't thought of it before. The bed was more than big enough.

Shivering when his bare feet hit the cold metal of the deck outside the quarters, he made his way back to the cockpit. Qui-Gon sat slumped in the pilot's chair, his long legs sprawled over the co-pilot's chair. It looked distinctly uncomfortable.

Qui-Gon opened one eye and looked at him. "Something you need?"

Namir shifted his weight from one leg to the other, then held out his hand.

Qui-Gon took it with a puzzled frown, then stood when Namir tugged. When Namir began to lead him aft, Qui-Gon stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Are you sure?" he asked quietly.

Namir looked up at him solemnly, then nodded.

Qui-Gon acquiesced with a smile, and a few minutes later Namir lay under warm blankets, listening contentedly to deep, even breathing. He wrapped his arms around his pillow and drifted off to sleep, a tiny smile curving his lips.

Namir fled down a long, narrow corridor, pulling up short before an impossibly tall red door. He looked around frantically for the controls, but didn't see any.

He heard booted feet running down the corridor behind him and turned, his heart thudding painfully against his ribs.

A tall man in a brown cloak and cream tunics raced toward him, his face a snarling mask of rage.

Namir threw himself against the door, pounding on its unyielding surface. He turned back, crying out in fear as the man slowed his steps, then stopped.

"Where do you think you're going, little morsel?" the man purred, patting his short brown hair back into place.

Namir stared up into pale blue eyes and knew he was about to die. Then the door behind him slid open, and he fell through it. He scrabbled to his feet and ran, howling in frustration as another red door slid shut meters in front of him. When he reached it, he turned, leaning against the cool surface, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps.

The man continued his pursuit, jogging lightly to where Namir was trapped.

"Running won't help, you know," the man said conversationally. He smiled, and Namir moaned in horror as his features blurred and ran, morphing into Qui-Gon's visage. "Would you like to know why?" Even the voice was now Qui-Gon's. He reached out with one blunt finger and touched Namir's sweaty brow. "Because I'm -- in -- here." Each word was punctuated with a tap on Namir's forehead.

The door slid open and Namir was off and running again. This time, when the red door slid shut in front of him, he felt only a dull misery.

"All you're doing is exhausting yourself." The first man was back, his brow creased in a puzzled frown. "I mean, why even bother? I'll always find you." The man cocked his head to one side, and Qui-Gon's voice issued from his mouth. "Fight him, Obi-Wan."

Namir blinked uncomprehendingly.

The man shook himself. "That was strange," he said in his own voice. His jaw dropped open and Qui-Gon spoke again. "You have the power here, Obi-Wan -- use it." The jaw clamped shut and the man let out a nervous laugh. "Very strange. Has anything like this ever happened to you?"

Namir backed up as far as he could, terrified beyond reason.

The man suddenly clapped his hands over his head as tiny cracks appeared in his skin, an incandescent white light pouring forth from each one. The man screamed, and Namir screamed with him, unable to get any farther away.

With a deafening roar, the man's head exploded, the tiny, charred pieces of his skull drifting away down the corridor, spinning lazily.

Namir fell through the door behind him into Qui-Gon's waiting arms.

"You did it, my Obi-Wan," the deep voice soothed. "You defeated him. He'll never bother you again."

Namir looked up at Qui-Gon, trembling, then looked at their surroundings. They stood in a circular chamber, glowing with light and filled with graceful, airy machinery.

Qui-Gon pressed a tender kiss to Namir's brow. "I need you to stay right here and don't move. I have to go die now."

Namir blinked, then stared in stupefaction as Qui-Gon stepped away from him and bowed to a horned, tattooed Zabrakian who had appeared near the center of the chamber. The Zabrak bowed in turn, then took one of Qui-Gon's hands in his, placing the other on his waist. They began a graceful, elegant dance, the Zabrak's black tunics flaring out behind him.

"You're leading again," Qui-Gon admonished and the Zabrak smiled, baring yellow fangs. The dance continued, incorporating stylish turns and dips, then the Zabrak suddenly shoved Qui-Gon away.

Namir blinked, then screamed in horror as the Zabrak withdrew a glowing red blade from Qui-Gon's chest. Qui-Gon stared at nothing with a look of surprised bewilderment, then dropped to his knees before collapsing in a boneless heap.

Namir didn't think he would ever stop screaming.

"Obi-Wan! Obi-Wan, wake up!"

Namir's eyes flew open, his scream trailing away to a broken moan. Qui-Gon held his arms, looking down at him in alarm. Namir struggled upright, his hands fumbling under Qui-Gon's tunic, searching.

"Obi-Wan, what ... ?"

Namir grasped the hem of the tunic and pulled it up. With an impatient noise, Qui-Gon pulled it off over his head. "What is it?"

Namir's trembling fingers found the spot where he'd seen the glowing blade pull free. The skin was unbroken, unblemished. A shuddering sigh of relief escaped him, and he threw his arms around Qui-Gon.

Strong, warm hands glided over the skin on his back. "It was just a dream, my dear one. Just a dream."

Namir nodded against the lightly furred chest, and began to cry.

Qui-Gon held him close, murmuring soothing nonsense, stroking his hair. After a few moments, he lay down, still holding Namir tightly.

When his sobs tapered off, Namir shifted his head, placing his ear so he could hear the comforting thump-swish of Qui-Gon's heart. When his breath stopped hitching, he raised his head.

Qui-Gon smiled at him, his own cheeks wet with tears, and Namir could almost hear the click in his head as the truth slid into place.

The little green troll was right. Qui-Gon loved him. It was evident in every word, every gesture, and it shone from his eyes like the purest light.

Without pausing to think, Namir leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on Qui-Gon's lips. He pulled back, watching.

Qui-Gon said nothing, his face carefully blank.

Namir kissed him again, more firmly, running the tip of his tongue over the soft roundness of Qui-Gon's lower lip. He pulled back again.

Qui-Gon's expression hadn't changed, but the skin under Namir's hand began pulsing with a faster beat. Namir closed his eyes, concentrating as hard as he could. "Please," he said softly, then opened his eyes.

Qui-Gon regarded him in utter stillness for an endless moment, then, with a low groan, met Namir's hungry mouth with his own.

And, ah gods, it was so sweet, so good, so much better than anything he'd ever experienced, even with T'min, supple velvet stroking inside his mouth, strong hands gripping his arms, his hips, his buttocks, long soft hair falling around his face, tickling his neck, and there ... oh ... oh yes, there ... incredible heat, hard and heavy, pressed against his own.

When his vision began to dim, Namir wrenched his head back, sucking in lungfuls of sweet air, only to forget how to breathe again as Qui-Gon's mouth fastened on his throat, sucking, licking, biting and soothing. He plunged his hands into the thick fall of hair, mouth open in a soundless cry of delight.

A callused thumb slid over his nipple, and his delight found its voice as he moaned, arching against that long, rangy body, pressing himself against that touch, mindless with pleasure, knowing only that he wanted, he needed, and that for only the second time in his short life, he would be denied nothing.

He raised Qui-Gon's face to meet his again, grinding his hips against the bigger man's, filled with the overpowering desire to touch every inch of Qui-Gon's skin all at once, to be enveloped and filled with nothing but this man's scent, his essence, his every cell.

Warm hands stroked down his back, fingers finding the waistband of his leggings, slipping them down, a soft, agonizingly brief touch of fingertips along his throbbing length, and then ... .

A sharp cry burst from Namir's lips as silken steel glided against his aching shaft, slipping and sliding with delicious friction, and he hooked his leg over one muscular thigh, capturing Qui-Gon's mouth with his own, pressing closer, harder, his tongue darting and flicking inside soft, hot recesses.

Qui-Gon's fingers dug into his buttocks, and Namir whimpered, a frantic, desperate sound that erupted into a ragged scream as pleasure slammed through him, molten heat pulsing across his belly, across Qui-Gon's, then Qui-Gon was roaring his own pleasure, straining and shuddering in Namir's embrace.

Namir let his head fall onto Qui-Gon's shoulder, gasping for breath, reeling from the undiluted, unaccustomed pleasure. After a moment, when his breathing had evened, he reached up and brushed a finger over Qui-Gon's kiss-swollen lips, smiling. Without even having to think about it, he spoke one word with perfect precision and clarity.

"Good."

Qui-Gon punched the code for Fetra into the comm unit, then sat back to wait. He'd left Obi-Wan sleeping soundly in the quarters, slipping quietly from the bed, unable to resist a brief touch on the silken hair before pulling on his robe and making his way to the cockpit.

He'd been hesitant when Obi-Wan kissed him, not wanting to take advantage of the young man's obviously damaged psyche, not wanting to inflict further pain. Oh, but that lithe body, those delicate lips and aqua eyes were impossible to resist. Obi-Wan's softly spoken plea had undone him completely.

"Master Jinn?"

Qui-Gon blinked, sitting upright. "Healer Fetra. I hope I haven't disturbed you."

"I'm between appointments at the moment. How are things going?"

"Relatively well. He seems to trust me now, and we had a good day today."

"But?"

Qui-Gon sighed. "He's had severe nightmares the last two nights, and very violent reactions to both. I know he's undergone unspeakable trauma, but I don't know if the nightmares are a reaction to that or something else. Master Devi warned me that the mindwipe might begin to decay, and spoke of hallucinations."

Fetra grunted. "Has he shown any other symptoms, like headache or disorientation?"

"Not that I've noticed."

"Has he shown any evidence of remembering his life at the temple?"

"Not really -- well, maybe little things. He stopped me from putting too much pepper in the salad, so he obviously remembers how to cook. And he somehow managed to input the correct code into the comm unit. But he almost hurt himself with my lightsabre because he didn't know what it was."

"What about the dreams? Has he had them at any time other than during your regular sleep cycle?"

"No."

Fetra nodded, entering notes on a datapad. "I don't think you have anything to worry about, but if it worsens, you might have to sedate him until you arrive here." He looked up at Qui-Gon. "Have you been intimate with him?"

"I -- yes."

Fetra nodded again. "I suspected as much. Even though neither of you are able to access the Force, it is still very much working its will here. It wants that void filled, and the two of you being in close proximity means it's just that much closer to achieving its goal. Unfortunately, this added pressure might make Obi-Wan even more unstable."

"Should we ... restrain ourselves?"

"No, I think that might only make things worse. What's your ETA?"

"Two days."

Fetra smiled grimly. "Don't make any unscheduled stops."

The next day after firstmeal, Qui-Gon returned from the fresher to find Obi-Wan standing in the middle of the mess area, looking around uncertainly. "Obi-Wan? Something wrong?"

Obi-Wan made a series of graceful gestures that indicated a search for something.

"What are you looking for?"

The fierce line appeared between his eyes, and after a moment, he said, "T'min."

Qui-Gon shook his head, nonplussed. "What's a t'min?"

Still frowning, Obi-Wan put a hand to his head, then shrugged with an apologetic smile. He kissed Qui-Gon's cheek, indicated he was going to the fresher, and walked away.

Qui-Gon watched him go, a tiny seed of worry beginning to bloom in his heart.

Namir raised his face to catch the hot spray, hoping it would ease the small but piercing pain behind his eyes. It did, a little, and he turned, allowing the water to massage his shoulders and back, letting his thoughts drift aimlessly.

Namir, he thought. It meant 'beloved,' someone had told him. A tiny frown creased his brow as he tried to remember who, then gave it up. He was Qui-Gon's beloved now. Perhaps he should start thinking of himself as Oafy-Wan. No, that wasn't right either. Someone else had called him that, someone with white hair and a cruel smile. Ofi-Wan? No, that wasn't it. Obi-Wan!

I am Obi-Wan, he thought, trying to ignore the spreading throb in his head. Qui-Gon's Obi-Wan. I wonder what Obi-Wan means, he wondered, soaping himself. Perhaps it meant 'beloved' as well, in some other language.

He let himself fantasize briefly about his home. He had no inkling of what awaited him, but hoped they had good food and soft, warm beds in abundance. The little green Yoda-person was a teacher, Qui-Gon had said, so perhaps it was a school of some kind. Maybe I was a student there, he thought, and Qui-Gon was my teacher. Maybe I got kidnapped by pirates or something, or a slaver nicked me from a field trip, or ... .

He bit his lip as the pain expanded in his skull. He shut the water off and grabbed a towel, rubbing it vigorously over his face and head, trying to ease the pain. It subsided somewhat, but still persisted, a pinpoint throbbing behind his eyes. Not bothering to dress, he wrapped the towel around his hips and went in search of Qui-Gon.

He found him in the mess area, still slobbing about in his robe, long legs propped up on the table as he studied a datapad, his damp hair rather untidily tucked behind his ears.

Beautiful, Obi-Wan thought, his headache forgotten as desire flared in his groin.

Qui-Gon looked up, smiling, and Obi-Wan moved to the table, unceremoniously dumping Qui-Gon's legs to the floor before hopping up onto the metal surface in front of the tall man.

Without breaking eye contact, he untucked the towel around his hips and spread it wide.

Qui-Gon swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the tempting prize Obi-Wan had revealed.

Obi-Wan braced his hands behind him and spread his legs, swinging his feet, a slow, seductive smile curving his lips.

The datapad clattered to the deck and Qui-Gon was on his feet, stepping between Obi-Wan's legs, capturing his mouth in a ravenous kiss.

When strong arms slid around him, supporting him, Obi-Wan slipped his hands over the silky material covering the broad chest, parting the cloth, letting his fingertips roam through crisp hair, seeking nipples already hardened with desire.

Qui-Gon moaned into his mouth, and in one quick motion, had Obi-Wan on his back, covering the still-wet body with his own.

Obi-Wan gasped as his back made contact with the cold surface of the table, the heavy body pinning him there. Pain spiked into his head again, and he cried out in sudden panic, wanting only to get away. He struggled against the weight that held him down, shoving and kicking. When he was free, he leaped off the table and ran blindly, stopping in the corner by the med cabinet.

"Obi-Wan!"

Shivering, he turned, hugging himself against the cold, staring at the metal table, wondering why it frightened him so.

"Obi-Wan?"

He tore his gaze away from the table and looked up into Qui-Gon's worried face. For just an instant, Qui-Gon's image shimmered, replaced with that of a faceless, headless man in cream tunics, and Obi-Wan let out a low moan of fear.

Then Qui-Gon was back again, holding him close, and he hugged the warm body tightly.

Qui-Gon stroked his wet hair for a moment, then pulled back, looking down into Obi-Wan's eyes. "Obi-Wan ... does your head hurt?"

Obi-Wan nodded, his face a mask of misery.

Qui-Gon let out a controlled breath, then nodded. "Go get into bed, and I'll bring you something that will make it stop."

Obi-Wan trudged to the quarters, shivering violently, and managed to get himself into bed. When Qui-Gon came in a few moments later, he tried to apologize for what had happened, but Qui-Gon waved him off, making sure he was properly tucked in. He pressed a hypo to the side of Obi-Wan's neck, then held him close as he drifted down to a soft, quiet darkness.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes, aware of two things -- he was ravenously hungry and felt like he could piss forever. He threw the covers back and stumbled to the fresher, his mouth dry and sticky.

When he emerged, he stretched hugely and opened the storage trunk by the bed in search of clean clothes. As he was pulling a tunic on over his head, Qui-Gon entered the quarters.

"How do you feel?"

Obi-Wan smiled, then pointed to his stomach and frowned.

"I'm not surprised. When you're dressed, come up to the cockpit -- I have something to show you."

Obi-Wan hoped it involved food somehow.

Once dressed and shod, he walked to the cockpit, relieved to see a plate holding a steaming bread pouch on the co-pilot's chair.

"Strap yourself in," Qui-Gon said, gesturing to the chair. "We're about to leave hyperspace."

Obi-Wan did so, and was two bites into the pouch when the implications of Qui-Gon's words hit him. Were they almost home? Had he slept an entire day away? He vaguely remembered something about his head hurting, but ... .

His thoughts were sharply curtailed by the wrenching of the hyperdrive, and he stared in amazement at the glittering planet before them. It was like no other planet he'd ever seen before, its continents and oceans replaced by precise angles and glows. Hunger momentarily forgotten, he looked at Qui-Gon, who watched him with a warm smile.

"Coruscant," Qui-Gon said. "Home."

Coruscant, Obi-Wan repeated in his mind, fascinated by the sight of the planet as they drew near. He barely tasted his food as he watched their approach, amazed by the complexity of the planet's surface, one enormous city as far as he could tell. He tore his gaze away from the viewscreen when Qui-Gon activated the comm unit, speaking briefly with a bald, dark-skinned man. Their conversation consisted of mostly nonsense to Obi-Wan's ears, landing coordinates and something about a "devifetra" but he was too entranced by the sight of his home to pay much attention.

When they entered the atmosphere, Obi-Wan gasped. The sun was setting on this side of the planet, the graceful spires and towers below touched by an ethereal golden light. He'd never seen anything so beautiful.

Qui-Gon maneuvered the ship through endless traffic as Obi-Wan gaped. It would be so easy to get lost here, he thought with a momentary shiver of fear. No wonder he'd gone missing -- how could anyone ever hope to find anything on this planet?

His eyes found a building more tall and magnificent than any surrounding it, topped with five spires, one central, four on each corner. When the transport veered in that direction, he looked at Qui-Gon who smiled in confirmation.

Here? This was home? Obi-Wan swallowed nervously, intimidated. He'd been picturing a cozy little group of buildings, perhaps located in some quaint, pastoral setting. Not this awe-inspiring edifice. He wondered about his assumption that it was some sort of school -- how could anyone possibly learn anything in this place? There was far too much to look at.

By the time the ship touched gently down on a corner landing platform, the golden light was red-tinged, the faint beginnings of a twilight sky showing at the edges of the atmosphere. They unstrapped themselves, then Qui-Gon shuttered the viewscreen. Obi-Wan looked at him, his heart pounding with anticipation and not a little fear.

"Are you ready?" Qui-Gon asked, and Obi-Wan shrugged helplessly.

Qui-Gon stood, holding out his arms, and Obi-Wan flowed into them. "It's almost over, my heart," Qui-Gon said softly, rubbing Obi-Wan's back. "You'll have your life back soon."

Obi-Wan nodded against his shoulder, then lifted his head, trying a brave smile.

Qui-Gon kissed him tenderly, then took his hand and led him to the docking ramp. Giving Obi-Wan's hand a squeeze, he palmed the controls and the ramp lowered with a hiss.

Keeping a death grip on Qui-Gon's hand, Obi-Wan tried to look everywhere at once as they walked down the ramp. Only a tiny sliver of the sun still showed on the horizon, and lights sparkled everywhere, glowing against the fading light. Qui-Gon gave his hand a gentle tug, and Obi-Wan took two steps in that direction, then froze.

A group of beings awaited them by a lift door, the dark-skinned man, a purple-skinned man, a woman and the little green creature.

And every last one of them wore a brown cloak with cream tunics.

"Obi-Wan?"

He turned his eyes to Qui-Gon's, his sense of betrayal so deep he could barely stand. It had simply been a game after all, more elaborate than the first one, to be sure, more devious and well-acted, but in the end, nothing more than a lie.

He tore his hand from Qui-Gon's grip and ran, faster than he'd ever run before, aware of shouts and running feet behind him. He dodged the ship and ran for the edge of the building, putting on a burst of extra speed as he cleared a railing and leaped up to land on a tiny platform supporting a comm tower, his toes millimeters from the edge.

"Obi-Wan!"

He slipped an arm around the slender beam of the tower and turned.

Qui-Gon had stopped a few paces away, his face drained of blood, one shaking hand held out in supplication.

He felt an unutterable longing for what might have been, what his false rescuer had promised. But mostly, before he ended his torment and misery once and for all, he wanted to know only one thing. Giving his tortured voice full cry, he screamed one word, endlessly. "Why?"

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon choked out. "Please listen to me. I don't know what has frightened you, but you must trust me. No one here will harm you."

More lies. Did they never tire of this game? He closed his eyes and sagged against the cool metal of the comm tower, the wind whipping his braid around his face. He opened his eyes and looked down, feeling almost exhilarated by the prospect of plummeting through all that empty space, of finally being free.

He looked back at Qui-Gon, stiffening when he saw the dark-skinned man running toward them. He slid his feet closer to the edge.

Qui-Gon whirled around. "Stay back!" he roared, and the dark-skinned man pulled up short. He turned back to face Obi-Wan. "If you go, I will go with you," he said quietly.

He frowned. Was this another trick? It seemed a senseless one.

Qui-Gon edged a step closer, his hands held out. "You are my heart and my soul. Wherever you go, I will follow. If you truly wish to destroy yourself, you will destroy me as well. I will not leave you, Obi-Wan, not even in death."

Oh, his head hurt so abominably. If he could just have a moment to think ... .

"Please," Qui-Gon said, his voice breaking. "Please trust me."

The wind swirled Qui-Gon's hair around his face, and Obi-Wan thought of all the time they'd spent together on the ship, the conversations, the passion, the tender way Qui-Gon had held him and soothed his nightmares. He wanted to trust him, wanted it, he realized more than anything else, even death.

He raised his face to the sky, praying to whatever gods existed to allow his suffering to end, then took a step back from the edge.

Qui-Gon took a step forward, then their hands met and Obi-Wan was pulled into Qui-Gon's fierce embrace. They held each other tightly for a moment, trembling, then Qui-Gon wrapped his arm around Obi-Wan's shoulders and turned him away from the edge.

He shrank against Qui-Gon's side as they drew even with the dark-skinned man, who looked vastly relieved, but said nothing as they passed, perhaps sensing Obi-Wan's fear.

Qui-Gon led him silently to the group waiting by the lift doors. Obi-Wan felt a tug on the hem of his tunic and looked down into too-wise blue eyes. On an impulse, he knelt down before the little Yoda-person, heartsick and utterly exhausted.

The creature folded his hands over the gnarled stick he carried, studying him intently. When he seemed satisfied, he gestured at the comm tower from which Obi-Wan had nearly leaped. "Better view from inside, there is."

Obi-Wan's eyes filled with tears and he put his head down, unable to prevent the sobs that burst forth. A stubby claw stroked his hair, a gentle, soothing touch.

"All is well, young one. Home, you are."