Her skin smells faintly of durasteel dust and oil under the scent of the standard issue refresher soap. The mechanical reek of Iokath has not left him either, it clung to the uniform neatly folded by the bed with vehemence that could only be rid of by thorough washing. He buries his nose in her hair, searching for the smell of musk that is uniquely her, struggling to analyse if it is exactly as he remembered it. So many years have passed. He finally concludes that he is unsure and the thought unsettles him in a way that alerts her to his worries.
During their reunion she was collected, calm, accepted his advances like he had never been gone; he barely held back his tears. How times have changed.
Only now he has time to recollect, to explore each curve of her body with his hands and lips, groping like a blind man in search of a familiar path. They have been too hasty in their love-making, spent themselves too quickly, too easily. He would be embarrassed of his boyish behaviour were he not so desperate to touch her, hear her pant his name again. Now, a more thorough examination is required.
Her skin is smooth, silky, except where it is marred by scars. He recounts each battle they fought together, each wound he treated, and assigns them to the correct scar. The ones he cannot remember are a scant few, from the time before he knew her, or recent. Of those, he mostly recognises shallow marks of the blaster bolts or a tiny patch of ion grenade burns. His brow creases with anger at how poor a job the medic has done of patching her up. If he had been there…
Then his eyes arrive at an almost geometrical burn mark on her abdomen as if from a concentrated laser beam or a…
"Arcann…" she says, feeling his sight focus on the scar.
His hand balls into a fist. He'd prefer not to imagine the internal damage she must have suffered; by his estimates she should not be alive. It must have been Vitiate's power that has kept her alive then. At once he finds himself torn between the feelings of ire and gratitude toward the former Sith Emperor.
To his surprise, she grins, "I made him a matching one."
That is when a nagging feeling sets in. Arcann. The former Emperor of Zakuul seemed to ever stand ready at her side, ever courteous. Even from his short time on Odessen and the few briefings he has attended, Malavai was able to discern that she deferred to his counsel on many occasions. And while his intellect told him that it was only natural that she would seek counsel on matters of Zakuul—a world he was more familiar with than most; his temper flared up each time the man leaned in closer in order to offer his opinion.
He barely realises that he has voiced his concerns out loud when the words escape him, "Did you and him…?"
She chuckles, "Are you jealous, Malavai?"
"Of course I am," he admits with a frustrated huff. He did not intend on having this conversation; even if she did seek solace in another man in his absence, it wasn't his place to criticise her. She was still a Sith and he her lesser. He should comfort himself with the fact that she settled for no less than an emperor. "You seem to possess some manner of infatuation with men that make attempts on your life. I have to make sure." he says.
"I assure you, husband, that you're an exception."
Relief—and shame—fill him. She remained faithful after all. The shame is for the doubts he previously held; for the actions of past. She claims to have forgiven him, but would he ever forgive himself?
He voices his concerns out loud, intentionally this time: "I'm not entirely sure whether that should please me. The idiocy of my actions still haunts me."
"I've almost forgotten it."
The tone of her voice is that of dismissal, yet he still can't help but think of it. He was so sure she wasn't ready, so sure of her inevitable failure. He took it upon himself to spare her Baras's torture—to give her a clean death, then end his own life. He felt that he owed her that much as her lover.
He was so wrong. Baras was nothing compared to her might, her wrath; now, she was proving him wrong all over again.
But back then, upon receiving his orders from Darth Baras, he panicked, and in so doing he fell back to his calculating ways, making a rational decision instead of following his passions as she had taught him.
The memory pained him just as much now as it did when still fresh.
"If anything," she adds, fixating her bloodshot orange eyes on him, a smirk crowning her lips. "The outrage at your actions made me desire you more. The danger made you more alluring."
You'll just have to make it up to me. In private.
As she suggested, he spent many hours showing her the true depth of his affection after his betrayal. The memories of those days are a mix of variety of emotions—most prominently regret, love, pleasure and overwhelming gratitude. It was the simplest request. Were his transgression lesser, he would have answered with a laugh.
Still, he scoffs in response, "I'm not sure I comprehend the logic of Sith women."
She chuckles, "Then don't, and enjoy the spoils."
At that, her mouth searches out his earlobe and bites down gently while her fingers tangle in his dark hair. Malavai lets out a silent gasp, locking his lips with hers, pinning her under him with his weight.
"Of course, my love." he whispers, desire darkening his eyes.
Six years later his passion for her still burns as brightly as the day they first made love.
He promises himself to last longer this time.