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Obi-Wan stood quietly before the mirror in the small room, carefully examining his body, even turning his back to survey the fading welts from the lash that had been applied to him. Qui-Gon had been too concerned with Obi-Wan's pain; if there were no marks on him today, Corm would surely notice that something was amiss.

But Obi-Wan was marked, and not merely upon his back. Wondering fingers rose to his throat, traced the dark print of teeth that lay there. On his upper arm and his hip were ten wide-splayed bruises, the exact size and shape of Qui-Gon's broad fingers. His lips were swollen, and there were miscellaneous bites, bruises, and tender red and pale purple patches scattered over his skin that he could not quite remember receiving. He had not been taken so much as he had simply been ... devoured. Even his thighs and calves had not escaped the inadvertent prints of Qui-Gon's strong hands and mouth. And he was sore elsewhere also, though it did not show so readily as the other marks, his body stretched and tender from accommodating his Master's rough entry.

He could read his body now, like a book that detailed the intimate secrets of Qui-Gon's desire for him, Qui-Gon's pleasure in him. The marks on his flesh were a calligraphy of lust that Qui-Gon had carefully inscribed onto him, the only recorded evidence of what had happened between himself and his Master.