Chapter 30: Visiting Doctor Nema
The world was a blur of stone corridors and muffled sound. My legs moved, but they weren’t mine. They were props operated by the firm grips under my arms, my feet scraping a pathetic rhythm on the polished floor. Every shift of fabric against my skin was a fresh indictment. The soft, loose trousers they’d found for me felt like sandpaper over the aftermath of the Kessel Run.
Rey and Aayla flanked me, a solid wall of support and the reason I needed it. My head lolled against Rey’s shoulder. She smelled of sunshine and sweat, a comforting, familiar scent undercut by the metallic hint of the training hall.
“Almost there, kiddo,” Aayla murmured, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. Her lekku brushed my other shoulder.
We turned a corner, and the austere grey of the main temple gave way to the warm, serene glow of the Halls of Healing. Light, stained the colors of rare herbs and healing crystals, fell in soft patterns on the smooth floor. The air itself changed, thick with the scent of bacta, alazhi, and something floral and calming. It was a silence filled with purpose, a quiet hum of focused energy.
Rey guided me to a low, padded bench nestled in an alcove. “Sit,” she instructed, her voice soft but leaving no room for argument.
I tried. The process of bending my knees and lowering myself was a monumental feat of engineering. A sharp, hissing breath escaped my teeth as my tortured backside made contact with the plush cushion. It wasn’t pain, not exactly. It was a profound, overwhelming awareness, a deep-throated thrum of protest from every nerve ending.
“Shhh,” Rey soothed, kneeling in front of me. She took my face in her hands, her thumbs stroking my temples. Her brown eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, were wide and earnest. “Look at you. You took all of that. Every single stroke.” A slow, impressed smile touched her lips. “I’m serious, Charlie. I’m… really impressed. You didn’t break. You barely even begged at the end.”
Her praise was a warm blanket thrown over my shame. It confused the ache, made it feel somehow worthwhile. I blinked, my vision still watery.
“I forgive you,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me. “Completely. For the refectory, for everything. It’s squared away.” She leaned in and pressed her lips to my forehead. The kiss was chaste, sisterly, an absolution.
Then Aayla was there, a pair of simple, grey linen trousers in her hands. “Can’t have you wandering the halls half-dressed, even here,” she said, her playful smirk returning. “Arms up.”
I raised my arms weakly. She guided them through the sleeves of a soft tunic she’d produced from somewhere, then moved to my feet. She pulled the trousers over my ankles, up my calves. Then came the hard part.
“Lift your hips,” Aayla instructed.
I tried, a feeble upwards push that sent a jolt of fire through me. I whimpered, falling back against the bench.
“Oh, come on, don’t be a baby,” Aayla chided, but her hands were careful. She hooked the waistband and began to tug.
The soft linen, harmless against any other part of me, was an instrument of exquisite torture as it dragged over the sensitized, swollen flesh of my backside. It was a slow, grinding invasion. A high, pathetic whine escaped my throat. I screwed my eyes shut.
“Hey,” Rey said, her voice pulling me back. Her hands were back on my face. “Look at me. Don’t think about it.”
I opened my eyes. Her face was inches from mine. Then her lips were on my mouth.
It wasn’t a sisterly kiss. It was deep, consuming, a distraction writ in flesh and breath. Her tongue swept past my lips, tangling with mine, a warm, wet claim that hijacked every circuit in my brain. The pain in my backside receded, becoming a distant throb under the immediate, shocking reality of Rey Skywalker kissing me. I could taste the tea she’d drunk, the faint salt of her skin. My hands, which had been clenched on the bench, came up to grip her shoulders, holding on as if she were the only solid thing in a spinning world.
I heard a soft grunt of effort from Aayla, felt the final, merciful pull as the waistband settled around my hips. The pain flared, a sharp reminder, but it was buried under the scent and taste of Rey.
She broke the kiss as suddenly as she’d begun, pulling back just enough to search my face. Her breath was warm on my wet lips. “Better?”
I could only nod, dazed.
Aayla fastened the trousers, giving my hip a pat. “All set. Let’s get you to the good doctor.”
The walk through the Halls was a quiet parade. We passed closed doors, the occasional Jedi healer in cream-colored robes gliding by with a nod. The atmosphere of gentle authority was palpable. Finally, Aayla stopped before an open doorway leading to a sunlit examination room. Inside, a figure was bent over a datapad, her back to us.
“Doctor Nema?” Aayla called, her voice respectful.
The figure turned. She was a Halaisi, her skin a pale, delicate lime green, her hair a silvery cap of tight curls. Large, yellow eyes, kind and impossibly perceptive, regarded us from a face etched with fine lines of experience and compassion. She wore the standard healer’s robes, but hers seemed crisper, radiating a quiet competence. This was Dr. Rig Nema, a legend in the Halls for her steady hands and steadier nerves.
“Knight Secura,” Nema said, her voice a soft, melodic alto. She glanced at Rey, then her dark eyes settled on me, taking in my shaky posture, the way I leaned into Rey. “And you’ve brought me a patient.”
“Padawan Charlie,” Aayla said, guiding me forward. “He’s had a… a rigorous training incident.”
A faint, knowing smile touched Dr. Nema’s lips. “I see. Come in, Padawan. Knights, you may wait outside. He’s in capable hands.”
Rey gave my arm a final squeeze before releasing me. Aayla winked. Then they were gone, leaving me alone with the doctor in the quiet, sun-drenched room.
“Sit on the examination bed, please,” Nema instructed, gesturing to a padded table covered in clean, white paper.
The process of getting onto it was another quiet agony. I managed, perching on the very edge, my hands clenched between my knees.
Dr. Nema pulled a stool over and sat facing me, her datapad resting on her lap. She didn’t touch it. She just looked at me, her gaze patient and open. “Now, Padawan Charlie. In your own words, please explain what happened. And where you are injured.”
My face burned. The clinical setting made the morning’s events feel both absurd and horrifically real. “I… it was a punishment. A disciplinary session. In the main training hall.”
“I see. And the nature of the discipline?”
I swallowed. “They used a paddle. The… the Kessel Run one.”
A single, silver eyebrow arched slightly. “Ah. That one.” She made a note on her datapad. “And the affected area?”
My voice dropped to a mumble. “My… my backside.”
“I will need to examine the tissue to assess the damage, Padawan. For that, you will need to lower your trousers and lie on your stomach, please.”
The instruction was delivered with such gentle, unshakeable professionalism that it bypassed my embarrassment and went straight to obedience. I stood on shaky legs, turned my back to her, and fumbled with the fastening Aayla had just secured. The linen whispered down my legs. I heard the rustle of the paper as I climbed onto the bed and lay down, my face turned to the wall, my throbbing backside exposed to the cool air and her clinical gaze.
I heard her shift on the stool. A moment of silence. Then a soft, thoughtful hum.
“Significant erythema and edema,” she murmured, more to herself than to me. “Uniform bruising is beginning to form. The pattern is… distinctive.” Her fingers, cool and dry, probed the edges of the worst of the pain. Her touch was infinitely careful, but it still made me flinch. “Deep tissue trauma. No broken skin, however. The implement was clean, and the application, while vigorous, was controlled. This is important.”
Her assessment was a bizarre comfort. It framed the violence in medical terms, stripping it of its emotional weight and making it just a problem of physics and physiology to be solved.
“You can sit up, Padawan,” she said after a moment.
I pulled my trousers up, wincing, and shuffled back to the edge of the table, unable to meet her eyes.
Dr. Nema sat back on her stool, her hands folded in her lap. “Master Shaak Ti sent you?”
I nodded. “Yes, Doctor. She said… she said to tell you I needed a soaking. And a hands on healing.” I finally looked up, confusion cutting through my shame. “I don’t know what that means.”
Dr. Rig Nema looked at me, her dark, wise eyes holding a universe of understanding about the strange, harsh, loving ways of Jedi. The knowing smile returned to her lips, fuller this time, touched with a hint of gentle irony.
“I do,” she said softly.
“I do,” she said softly. She set her datapad aside, her movements deliberate and calm. “The ‘soaking’ is not a punishment, Padawan. It is a restorative.” Her melodic voice softened the clinical edges of the words. “We have a small, private mineral pool in the rear caverns. The water is fed from a deep geothermal spring, infused with naturally occurring bacta-microorganisms and neural-soothing salts.”
She leaned forward slightly, her dark eyes holding mine. “Imagine sinking into perfect warmth. The heat will penetrate the bruised tissue far more deeply than any salve. It will draw out the inflammation, easing that deep, throbbing ache. The buoyancy will take all weight and pressure away. You will simply… float. Your muscles will unknot themselves. Your mind will quiet.”
The description was a gentle spell. I could almost feel it—the enveloping heat, the weightlessness. My body, still screaming, seemed to lean toward the idea.
“After the soak,” she continued, “comes the hands-on healing. This is not the quick, superficial fix of a kolto injection.” She held up her hands, showing me her long, graceful fingers. “It is a focused, meditative technique. I will use the Force in tandem with manual manipulation—very gentle, specific pressure—to guide your body’s own energy into repairing the micro-traumas in your muscle and nerve tissue.”
She mimicked the motion, her hands moving through the air in slow, pressing circles. “It feels like… a deep, purposeful warmth moving under the skin. It unknots the residual tension the soak leaves behind. It will turn that pervasive soreness into a fading memory.” A genuine, reassuring smile touched her lips. “Many Knights request it after particularly strenuous duels. It is the difference between feeling better tomorrow, and feeling new.”
The appeal was undeniable. It wasn’t just an end to pain; it was an invitation to dissolution, to a state where my body wasn’t a catalog of hurts. A shaky sigh escaped me. “That… sounds good, Doctor.”
“It is,” she affirmed, standing. “It is a kindness your Master has instructed for you. Now, come.” She gestured for me to follow her through a different archway, one leading away from the main halls and deeper into the temple’s foundations. The air grew warmer, carrying a faint, earthy mineral scent. The light dimmed, replaced by the soft blue glow of luminous fungi growing along the natural stone walls.
We entered a cavernous space, steam curling lazily from the surface of a small, rock-lined pool. The water was crystal clear, shimmering with a faint blue bioluminescence. The only sound was the gentle drip of condensation and the low hum of a power generator keeping the water at its perfect temperature.
“Remove your clothes and enter slowly,” Dr. Nema instructed, her back politely turned as she prepared a tray of towels and what looked like smooth, heated stones. “Allow your body to adjust to the heat. There is no rush. I will return to begin your session when you are settled.”
The privacy felt like another mercy. I slid out of the tunic and trousers, letting them pool on the smooth rock. The cavern air was warm and damp against my skin. I stepped down into the pool, the heat an immediate, breathtaking embrace.
It wasn’t a shock, but a gradual, total submission. As I sank up to my neck, the deep, resonant ache that had been my constant companion since the training hall began to melt. The pressure vanished. I let my head loll back against the stone edge, my eyes closing. For the first time in hours, my muscles unclenched. The warmth seeped into bones I hadn’t realized were chilled.
I floated. The world shrank to the scent of minerals, the gentle lap of water against stone, and the silent, forgiving heat. My thoughts blurred at the edges. The sharp memories—the blindfold, the phantom touches, the thunderous impacts—softened, becoming distant events that had happened to someone else.
I don’t know how long I drifted before I heard the soft footfall. Dr. Nema knelt by the pool’s edge, her sleeves rolled up. “How do you feel?”
“Liquid,” I murmured, the word slurring slightly.
“Good.” She reached into the water, her hands finding my shoulder. Her touch was firm, grounding. “Turn onto your stomach, please. Keep your face above the water. Just relax into the buoyancy.”
I did as told, the water cradling me. Her hands began to move over my back, my shoulders, working down toward the injured area. Her touch through the water was profound. It wasn’t massage. It was a slow, sustained pressure, a coaxing. I felt a new warmth blossom beneath her palms—not the heat of the spring, but a living, moving energy that followed the paths of her hands.
It seeped into the marrow-deep bruising. The sensation was extraordinary: a unraveling, a soothing unwinding of knotted pain. A low, involuntary groan of pure relief vibrated in my throat.
“There,” she said, her voice a peaceful hum that matched the rhythm of her hands. “Let it go. Your body knows what to do. I am just showing it the way.” Her fingers traced the edges of the patterned bruises, the gentle pressure somehow softening their brutal map. The painful, raised welts began to settle, the angry heat dispersing into the mineral-rich water.
The relief was so complete it felt like a new kind of vulnerability. My eyes stung. I buried my face in the crook of my arm against the pool’s edge, not from shame now, but from a surge of overwhelming, unnamable emotion. The harsh discipline, the confusing intimacy of my punishment, and now this absolute, caring remediation—it was a tumultuous current I could no longer navigate.
Dr. Nema’s hands never stopped their work. She said nothing about the quiet shudder that passed through me. She simply continued, her healing touch a silent anchor in the warm, dark water.
She simply continued, her healing touch a silent anchor in the warm, dark water. The heat and her focused energy unspooled the last tight knots in my lower back. A deep, unconscious sigh escaped me, my body going truly limp for the first time. The buoyancy of the mineral-rich spring took over completely.
I drifted.
The gentle current of the pool, stirred by our movements, turned me slightly. My legs, loose and heavy, rose. My back arched in a natural, weightless curve. I broke the surface without intent, my upper body tilting back down.
My warm, wet bottom breached the water and thrust upward, landing with a soft, damp smack against something solid and warm.
I froze. The solid thing was a face.
I scrambled, feet slipping on the smooth stone bottom, whirling around in a splash. Dr. Nema was blinking, wiping water from her large, yellow eyes with a serene expression. A single droplet hung from the tip of her green nose.
“Oh, stars, Doctor, I’m so sorry!” I sputtered, my face burning hotter than the spring. “I didn’t mean to—I just floated—”
She held up a hand, a soft chuckle interrupting my panic. “Peace, Padawan. It is quite all right.” She wiped her face with her sleeve, her smile genuine and unoffended. “This is not the first backside to find its way into my face during a soak, I assure you. The body relaxes, the muscles release, and buoyancy takes over.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Although I must admit, yours is perhaps the cutest, despite its rather impressive cherry redness.”
The frank, clinical compliment was so absurd it short-circuited my embarrassment. A startled laugh hiccupped out of me. The redness she mentioned felt different now—not a mark of shame, but a fading condition she was treating.
“The deeper tissue work is nearly complete,” she said, her tone shifting back to professional kindness. “But the superficial bruising and surface nerve inflammation would benefit from direct focal attention.” She tilted her head, her gaze holding mine. “With your permission, I would like to focus the remaining healing on that specific area. It will be more effective with direct contact.”
The question hung in the steamy air. It was a simple, professional inquiry. Yet, after a morning where hands had struck, gripped, and pinched without a moment’s hesitation, the courtesy was a profound shock. It felt like being offered a key instead of having a door kicked in.
Delight, warm and clear, bubbled up through the lingering ache. Someone was asking. “Yes,” I said, the word coming out too fast, too earnest. “Please. I agree wholeheartedly.”
“Good. Turn around, then. Just rest your arms on the ledge there.”
I turned, presenting my bruised skin to the open cavern air. The warmth of the water still clung to it. I heard her settle on the pool’s edge behind me. Her hands, now slick with the healing mineral water, returned.
They settled directly on the crests of my buttocks. Her touch was definitive, but without ownership. It was a placement, not a grab. Her palms were warm channels. The Force flowed from them not as a diffuse energy, but as a targeted, intelligent warmth that seeped into the very specific map of my suffering.
It sought out the deep, thunderous imprint of the Kessel Run. It traced the sharper, stinging lines left by quicker hands. It unwove the pattern of the punishment, strand by fiery strand. The sensation was intensely intimate, yet completely detached from the morning’s chaotic intimacy. This was repair. This was order.
A soft, pulsing heat replaced the last echoes of pain. The skin tingled, not with hurt, but with a vibrant, alive sensitivity. She worked in silence for several minutes, her breathing slow and even. The only sounds were the water and the faint, focused hum of her concentration.
“There,” she said finally, her hands lifting. The absence of her touch felt cool, but the deep, soothing warmth remained within the tissue itself. “The inflammatory cascade has been halted. The bruising will fade by morning. The memory in your muscles… that will take a little longer. But it will be a memory, not a present ache.”
I turned in the water to face her. “Thank you, Doctor.” The words felt insufficient.
She nodded, standing and retrieving a large, soft towel from a heated shelf. “It is my purpose. Now, out you get. Slowly.”
I emerged from the pool, the cooler air raising goosebumps on my skin. The towel she handed me was blissfully warm. I dried myself, and the fabric glided over skin that was tender, yes, but no longer shrieking. It felt like my own again.
My clothes were gone. In their place on the stone bench lay a fresh, simple set of grey Padawan leggings and a tunic, soft and unbelted. I pulled them on, the fabric whispering over my healed skin. The sensation was normal. It was a gift.
Dr. Nema waited by the archway. “How do you feel?”
I took a deep breath, taking inventory. The ghost of the punishment was there, a faint, bodily echo, like the shadow of a loud sound. But the pain was gone. The humiliation had been metabolized, transformed by the water and her hands into something quieter, something I could carry. “Clear,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Remember,” she said as she led me back through the glowing fungal passages, “the body heals faster than the spirit. Be kind to both.”
We emerged into the brighter light of the main Halls. Rey and Aayla were where I’d left them, now sitting on the plush bench. They were leaning close, speaking in low tones, but they fell silent as we approached. Their eyes scanned me, looking for damage, for lingering distress.
“All patched up, is he?” Aayla asked, her lekku twitching with curiosity.
“The physical treatment is complete,” Dr. Nema said neutrally. “The rest is up to him.” She gave me a final, kind nod and glided away, leaving me with my… what were they? My tormentors? My witnesses? My sisters?
Rey stood up. She reached out, not for my face this time, but put a hand on my shoulder, squeezing once. It was a grounding, solid touch. “You walked in here like a ghost. You’re standing now.”
“I’m standing,” I echoed, testing the truth of it.
Aayla unfolded herself from the bench with a predatory grace. “Good. Because you’ve got a visitor waiting for you in the east courtyard.” A sly, familiar grin spread across her blue features. “Said she had a bet to settle.”
Ahsoka.
The name landed in my gut, not with dread, but with a sharp, electric spark. The submission of the morning was gone, burned away in the spring and under the doctor’s hands. What rose in its place was a clean, bright thread of anticipation. The game wasn’t over. It had just changed shape.
I looked from Aayla’s grin to Rey’s knowing eyes. A slow smile of my own, the first real one all day, began to form. “Did she now?”
Rey’s smile matched mine. “She’s been pacing for twenty minutes. I think she’s annoyed she missed the main event.”
I rolled my shoulders, feeling the new pliancy in my muscles, the absence of the deep, grinding ache. The memory was a fuel. “Well,” I said, my voice finding its old, familiar edge. “We shouldn’t keep her waiting.”
I took a step toward the archway that led out of the Halls, toward the sun-drenched courtyards. My step was firm. The momentum was back, and it was mine. I strut off to see what bet Ahsoka has to settle.