Archive: SWAL, m_a, SPEB - If you want to, yes. ^_^ Anyone else, just ask.
Archive Date: January 24, 2000
Category: Drama, Angst, AU, pre-slash
Disclaimer: George is my god, I shall not want, for he maketh my bunnies to graze in green pastures. *g*
Feedback: PLEASE! It keeps me plunking away at my keyboard with plump bunnies.
Notes: I'm in a borrowing sort of mood, so as long as I was borrowing from George I thought I'd borrow some ideas/images from a few other sources as well. Anyone who can spot them without help.... congratulations, your brain's as twisted a mine. *g* For everyone else, a nod of the hat goes to (in order of appearance):
the manga series Crying Freeman
the movies Pillowbook and Fight Club
Storm Constatine's book series "Wraeththu"
Pairing: Non Q/O
Rating: PG-13
Series: Out of Darkness (What if the Sith had won...?)
Summary: Obi-Wan is introduced to the life of an apprentice.
Warnings: SQUICK ALERT! Underage suggestions of slashiness between people you'd probably rather not see slashed, and bordering on non-consensual! Squick at your own risk, and assume that you've been warned that I'm *trying* to bend your brain with this series. ^_^

He was shivering with something more than cold, and he could no more stop the trembling then he could cease the heavy pound of his heart. Obi-Wan drew in a cold breath, feeling the chill air seep through clenched teeth and trickle like ice water across tongue and throat. His hands were numb against the hard rests of the chair, his fingernails broken against the unpadded surface from being dug against the hard metal.

He felt the light diminish upon his closed eyelids, fading the world beneath their cover from bloody red to velvet black as something came before his face. He had a moment to catch another breath and hold it, tight against his clenched diaphragm, before cool fingertips touched the heated flesh of his cheek and the needle came again, tiny silent pricks that spread hot flashes through his skin, painting lines of fire across his face with painstaking slowness.

Obi-Wan shivered again, feeling the cold trickle of sweat across the bare surface of his brow. The hands paused, matter of factly wiping the droplets away before they could become troublesome. The light returned and he heard the watery swish of the needles being rinsed, the quick rustle of cloth and the soft clatter of brush and inkpot as the points were loaded with pigment once again. Then the dark descended, hands hovering over him, and the fire returned to lick at him.

He was no stranger to it. Every year, on what he was told was the anniversary of his birth, he had entered an identical room and sat on the unforgiving lines of an identical chair. Every year, since leaving the crèche, he had sat, unmoving, without noise, as the needles had traced forth the reminder of another year upon his skin in blood red ink; a mark that welled real blood as it was pricked into his flesh. But those, he discovered, had been nigh unto nothing - quick things, easily shrugged off, and not since the first year had he even thought of crying.

Being an apprentice, he found, was something else entirely.

His initiate marks had been stripped away the day before - harsh chemicals that burned to the touch and scorched each breath, leaving him light headed, his eyes helplessly tearing. But in their wake, feeling as though entire swaths of his skin had been peeled back, he had looked into the tiny reflection glass mounted on the wall of his new quarters and seen his own face looking back - sickly pale and utterly unmarked, as he could barely recall it from crèche days. It had seemed strange and despite the lingering pain he had been unable to keep from brushing fingertips against the points where his years as an initiate had been recorded.

One night, being neither one nor the other, reduced back to the unmarked days of infancy. And now, today, he had entered once again into the room, sat upon the chair, with no idea at all of what he would find when he rose again. He would be marked as an apprentice, a design chosen based upon his Master's rank and personal preference. This one he would likely bear for the rest of his life, forever marking him as a trained Sith.

Hours, it had been, until his entire face felt hot and swollen. He had seen youths elevated to the elite guard before - had seen them return with full marks tattooed across their skin, demon masks in black and blood. But he had also seen them pale and wane beneath those marks, flushed and damp with fever, skin traced in tiny rivulets of their own dried blood where the relentless tracks of the needles had drawn it forth.

Now, it seemed that every prick of the needle against his cheek drove the fever into his flesh, made his bones shiver with cold as his skin burned.

It had begun at the crest of his forehead, where already it seemed he could feel the phantom itch of growing back stubble. It would be months before the delapidorys wore away and his hair would begin to grow again - he could not properly recall what color it was, though he thought it might be a lighter shade. The needle had traced a slow line down the center of his forehead, coming to rest between his brows and making his eyes ache with the effort not to turn his gaze inward to that point.

Then it had turned to his eyes themselves, pricking at the tender flesh beneath them until he was uncertain he could open his eyes even if he wished to. From there to his cheeks, picking out a design his mind had lost track of, each pass of the hands and their needle only adding to the burning.

Rinse, dry, ink, prick. The sounds had blurred in his ears, a repetition that he had lost count of. The illusion of respite between each laboriously drawn mark was just that - illusion. Enough to take a breath, indulge a shivering tremble, and then freeze once more as the needle returned.

He had begun to think that hours had, in truth, become days when the scrape of a chair being pushed back roused his drifting mind. Obi-Wan froze, anticipating the muted clatter of movement as positions were changed, another vantage found to complete some portion of the design. Instead, to his surprise, the warm light above his eyes was moved away, leaving him in cooler darkness. "It's done," a crisp voice declared.

"Good." Low and gravely, the voice of an old man, rasped deep within the throat. Obi-Wan started; he had been unaware of the presence of anyone but the tattooist. Forcing open eyes encrusted with unshed tears, puffed and swollen from the attention of the needle, he peered in the direction of the voice.

The black robe fell in soft folds from the crown of the drawn down hood to sweep against the floor, concealing all features of the wearer. Obi-Wan shivered - rarely had he been so close to a Sith Master. Taking a deep breath, he forced strength into numb hands, sitting up from the tilted chair. The world spun for a moment and he wavered, drawing in a slow breath to combat the sparks behind his eyes.

A firm hand pressed his shoulder, steadying him even as it held him implacably still, yet when he looked up there was nothing and no one touching him. The grey suited tattooist stepped back, bowing slightly as the Sith Master strode forward, silent but for the soft brush of his robes.

Thin fingers, joints knotted with age and rough nails yellowed, stretched out and caught the boy's chin. Obi-Wan could not suppress a shiver, but struggled to still it as the grasp turned his face up towards the light, twisting him to one side and the other as the Master surveyed the tattooist's work with a critical eye.

"It's well done," the man said at last, releasing Obi-Wan. "I will sign and seal your work. You may leave us."

Obi-Wan released a breath he hadn't been aware of holding - this, then, was to be his Master. "I have given you a Master," the Emperor had said, and at the time Obi-Wan had thought he had heard some hint of favor - now, looking at the baleful yellow gaze of the eyes which peered down at him from a heavily lined face, he was not so sure.

The tattooist bowed again and left in silence, the heavy doors sliding shut behind the man. Obi-Wan tried to take a breath, to let it out with all of the jumbling nerves inside of him, releasing it outwards and remaining calm. But every motion of his new Master broke that semblance, every slight gesture from breath to the slide of the narrowed eyes making his heart leap anew in skittering fear.

Thin lips curved upwards in what might have been a smile. The Sith Master reached up, laying back the hood of his cloak. "You may call me Sidious."

Obi-Wan swallowed, feeling the dryness of tongue and throat. "Darth Sidious," he repeated respectfully, his voice cracking embarrassingly in the tight echoes of the room.

The man was ancient, the lined flesh of his face paper thin and yellow tinged beneath the harsh lights. Sparse white tufts of hair lay against the desiccated curve of scull, skin stretched across skeletal lines of bone and sinew. The yellow of his eyes was rimmed in red, giving the orbs the sharp look of a predator.

Ancient, but the cool darkness of the Force fairly bathed him, surrounding him like a presence that Obi-Wan could feel. It stirred at his every gesture, swirling idylly around his hands, breathed in and out with every motion of his lungs. A Sith Master, and now, Force help him, his Master. The one who placed the rank of apprentice before him; who would, in time, give him the stepping point that would take him beyond that.

His Master. Obi-Wan raised his chin, meeting the man's disconcerting gaze fully. His path to his future. "Master," he said evenly. The old man cackled, the sound harsh.

"You're quick," he approved, voice wheezing softly. "Good. Most of them spend months cowering in fear before they realize the truth... if they ever do." One skeletal hand shifted slightly and Obi-Wan gasped, pain flaring like flash fire through his nerves in a sharp burst that faded slowly. Sidious' grip caught his chin, jerking his head up painfully. "Don't," the Master hissed softly, "let it make you foolish."

"No, my Master," Obi-Wan choked out. The Sith Master's eyes seemed to burn him before the man at last released him.

"The tunic," Sidious snapped briskly. "Get to your feet, boy, and remove it."

Obi-Wan slid from the chair to his feet, nearly stumbling in his haste. The Force still crackled ominously at the Master's voice, lending speed to his fumbling fingers as he unfastened his belt and slid his tunic off, letting it fall to the chair behind him. The room was cold, the air sparking chill bumps across his skin.

The ragged edge of Sidious' fingernail touched the hollow of his throat, trailing a shivering touch down the line of his breastbone nearly to his navel. The Sith Master watched his reaction, eyes narrowed, a smile touching his lips at the shiver the boy could not quite contain. "Turn," he commanded, voice almost gentle. When Obi-Wan didn't comply quickly enough the hand grasped his shoulder roughly, shoving him around, the rough voice snapping out to lash at him. "Turn around."

Shivering harder, Obi-Wan stood where he was put, all too aware of the hard gaze of the man on his naked back. It slipped down the length of his spine, oily and cold. He struggled to banish his fear and found he could not - it settled within every cell, like hard, tight knots of ice.

Dry fingertips brushed his back, just above the band of his trousers. A chill hand settled there, cupped to the warmth of his skin in the small of his back, and it was all he could do to stop the audible tremble of his jaw. The hand slid slowly up his spine, a hard caress, the pressure growing in silent command. Biting the inside of his lip, Obi-Wan leaned forward until his forearms rested on the chair's seat, his waist bent across the arm rest.

"Good," Sidious crooned softly. The hand slid against the nape of his neck, cupping the bare curve of his skull as it pressed his head down. It left him there, only the lightest tap of a fingertip between his shoulder blades remaining. "Do not move, boy. If you can do that, then you are truly a Sith apprentice."

"Yes, my Mas..." Obi-Wan replied reflexively, but his voice trailed away in an indrawn gasp as he felt his Master step forward, leaning down across his back. The man's robe draped across his naked skin, surprisingly soft and warm. He felt the press of another body across his own, pushing him down, and the faintly warm brush of the man's breath against the nape of his neck.

"My sign, boy," Sidious whispered, the words tickling across Obi-Wan's skin. Lips touched him, the man's mouth pressing down in a moist circle just above the tiny piercing of his service record. Obi-Wan bit down harder, trying not to flinch.

Sidious drew away slowly, breathing out against the moisture left behind by his lips. It was an icy touch, tingling, making Obi-Wan clench his muscles almost painfully tight to keep from trembling. The Master's hand returned to his back, pressing firmly, a warning touch. "Do not move," he reminded the boy quietly.

In the space of two breaths Obi-Wan knew why. Tingling became burning, creeping through his flesh, and then burning became searing pain. The cry burst from his lungs by surprise, strangled in his throat. A white hot brand was touched to his neck, touched and held there, pressing through layers of skin as it burned them, peeling back flesh. He could almost imagine the smell of burnt flesh, the hiss of the iron. Muscles tensed and arched without thought, writhing, trying to escape the pain that opened to encompass him.

Sidious' hand tightened against his back. Sobbing, Obi-Wan pressed himself to the chair, fingernails scraping against the surface as he twisted, desperately trying to draw breath against the pain. He hissed through his teeth, panting, the sobs coming harder.

"Feel the pain," Sidious whispered, the words twining on Force driven fingers to echo through the boy's skull. "Let it flow through you. Know it, boy. It is your strength. If you overcome it, you can draw from it."

The pain was pressing him down, squeezing him. He couldn't draw air into lungs that spasmed with each sob torn from his chest. "M...Mas...ter..." The syllables died in his throat, falling broken from his lips. Sidious' hand tightened against his back, nails raking him, the sensation almost a relief from the pain.

Struggling, Obi-Wan opened himself to the Force, but the pain ripped away his control of it. It flooded him, too much, too fast, pain layered atop pain as the icy oil of it whirled around and through him. He cried out with the pain, gave it voice and tongue, felt the fear and searing crest and reach out with the Force as its fingers. Dimly he heard the clatter and crash as the tattooist's instruments were flung to the corners of the room, heard the shriek of the Force driven wind as it whipped through the confined space. Sidious laughed as tiny pale crackles of lightning climbed the folds of his robes, delighted.

Clawed fingers closed around his shoulders and drew him bodily up into the embrace of black robed arms, with more strength then seemed possibly in the man's ancient frame. Sidious ignored his flailing struggles, bending to press his lips once more to the burning source of Obi-Wan's pain. The Sith Master's tongue licked across the searing point, unbearably harsh against damaged nerves, but in the wake of it the pain receded.

Obi-Wan went limp in the Master's grasp, his breath coming in harsh sobs. Around them, denied the source of its direction, the Force winds hissed and died away. Shudders spasmed through the boy's body, phantom aftershocks of pain arcing through abused nerves. Sidious' hand was surprisingly gentle against his back, a soothing touch that washed away the lingering hurt. Only when one fingertip traced the point where his lips had touched did the pain return, but it was the simple physical pain of a burn, easily dismissed in the ready memory of the agony it had been.

Sidious chuckled softly, a pleased sound. "Good," he said firmly. "Well done indeed, my young apprentice."

"Master," Obi-Wan gasped.

"Yes," Sidious hissed softly, turning the boy in his arms and setting him once more upon the chair, where Obi-Wan grasped the surface to remain upright, still softly panting. "Precisely." The old man hesitated, eyes narrowing as he regarded the boy, the withered line of his mouth pinching.

Decision came swiftly and, reaching out, he cupped Obi-Wan's cheeks between his hands, thumbs resting against the swollen points of new tattoos. A step forward close the small distance between them, the Master's cloak falling to drape Obi-Wan as well, until the boy could feel the thin limbs beneath it. No control could stop his reflexive flinch as Sidious' lips brushed his forehead, but the touch was simply that - a touch - with no searing pain in its wake.

The Master's words were warm against his cheeks, a shivering caress against the marks which bound him to the man. "The gift of breath, my apprentice," Sidious whispered, and then the thin line of the man's mouth closed across his own, tongue tip snaking through parted lips to brush flesh in an intimate touch.

Obi-Wan gasped, drawing in a reflexive breath. Spice and the bittersweet taste of metal filled his mouth and throat, sinking down deep into his lungs. It was the taste of the stillness at the center of the maze, the dappled light of the last dregs of a bloody sunset, the musky taste of death and the sweet, sweet taste of power. He breathed it in, let it suffuse him, a heady mix that steadied his shaken nerves and bolstered his failing strength.

His Master chuckled softly as he drew away, but the sound was no longer the harsh cackle of an ancient. Obi-Wan opened his eyes, his pulse hard in his chest, already half knowing what he would find. The truth of it lingered on his tongue, a taste he now knew intimately.

The hair was still silvery, but it dusted full across a scalp flushed with health. Dark eyes regarded him from the face of a man in the later half of his prime, the lines strong but subdued, a man one might almost look past if his visage were not as well know as it was. Obi-Wan stared, not daring to draw breath for fear of shattering the illusion.

Palpatine laughed softly, patting the boy's cheek with one slim, manicured hand before drawing away. "No illusion, young Kenobi," he said quietly, answering the unspoken thought. "Not now."

"Master," Obi-Wan breathed, the enormity of what was before him only beginning to surface.

"Yes." The Emperor stepped back, drawing up the hood of is cloak. As he did the Force around him shivered and dimly, like a shadow, Obi-Wan saw the withered visage of Sidious reappear about the man. He could see it from the corner of his eye, like a glimmering after thought, but before his direct gaze the Emperor remained, dark gaze fixed to him. Palpatine smiled faintly, nodding. "Keep your secrets, my apprentice. They are your best defense, and your best weapon... but only so long as they remain yours alone."

Obi-Wan nodded, breathless. "Yes, my Master," he affirmed, feeling the promise burn across his tongue. Palpatine nodded, satisfied, and gestured. Sliding from the chair, Obi-Wan gathered up his discarded tunic, falling into place behind the man as they strode from the room.

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