A/N: I am so sorry! This should have been posted yesterday, but real life was kicking my ass. Hopefully we can return to our (somewhat) regularly scheduled update program soon lol. Thanks for bearing with me! Also, please brace yourself a hard left turn...
"All is not lost; the unconquerable Will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield"
- John Milton, Paradise Lost
CHAPTER 21
She should have had a blaster.
That is her only thought, a recurring one, as Isolde awakes on Coruscant. Her eyes open to red walls and red curtains and the blood-red sheets of her bed. She stretches and sits up. The light here is not as bright as the multiple suns of her home-world, and there is far less green than Gatalenta would ever allow. She misses the calls of the priestesses to prayer, giving thanks for another day. She misses the peace and tranquility. She misses the simplicity of thought and deed. She misses her aunt's terrible poetry and all her friends. Here there is only noise, there is only avarice, there is only grasping. She is not Force-sensitive, but Isolde can feel Darkness in this place. As if it has saturated every surface and seeped down into the earth. It makes no room for the Light but only chokes it. It feels like suffocation, and she takes a deep breath on instinct.
It was lit by a bad star, Amilyn would say, and Amilyn would of course be right. Amilyn would have had her charts out by now, mapping the local constellations (Too close to a dying sun and everything gets pulled off balance—Elsa, pay attention! How else will you ever learn?) She hears Amilyn's laughter, and it makes her throat swell. The thought of her stepmother always brings fresh tears to her eyes. It is too soon, she thinks. She is in mourning. She wants to be left alone. She should have been there; alive or dead, she could have made a difference. She could have done something different. She could have found a way.
She is still so angry at her father.
Amilyn Holdo was his third wife—and the longest lasting in a series of seven (Isolde's current stepmother being new to the position last year). Isolde's birth mother had been the first to wed Hasran Lin , a princess of Alderaan and a cousin of Senator Bail Organa. "So it will be perfect," Leia told her. When the regal woman Isolde remembered from her childhood once more entered her father's house, she asked Isolde if she wanted to help, and Isolde felt as if a prayer had been answered. She showed Leia the pendant Amilyn had given her. A gift from the last time she had seen her stepmother, just before her twenty-fourth birthday. Leia's eyes filled with tears, and she clasped Isolde's hand. "Wealth and birth will be your entrance," she told her, "and my family's connection will make you stand out. With the added possibility that you can bring peace"—and here the older woman smiled with a cool calculation—"it will make you too tempting for the Emperor to resist."
Isolde does not feel perfect. She feels raw and given to her rage. Oh, for a blaster! She stood mere inches away from the man who hunted the Resistance, the man responsible for Amilyn's death. General Armitage Hux bowed and kissed her hand, and she felt his lust and his covetous regard. Oh, for a blaster, for even a blade! She could have killed him where he stood. She could have turned her gown purple with the rivers of his blood.
And then there was his master—
"This is your cousin, Ben."
Being five years old, she thinks he seems tall for the grand age of ten, with big ears and long skinny limbs. His clothes hang loose from his awkward frame, and he looks at her with a serious expression. His dark eyes make him seem older; his mouth rests in a sullen and permanent pout.
"Will you play?" she says and shows him her doll.
He shrugs out of his mother's hold, a book in his hands. "Can I go now please? I promised Hosna."
Leia nods, and he leaves. "I'm sorry," she tells her. "I'm sure Ben will be around to play with you later."
Ben is not around. Isolde is the only child. The adults wander around her like giants, and she is lost in their gigantic land. There is no fun sitting down and playing on one's own. She seeks adventure. There is a whole castle to explore. Large colorful rooms and bustling people of so many different species. Music and laughter and shouting and noise. No one sees her. She pretends she is invisible. She starts to believe that it's true. She makes it as far as the basement and a maze of huge kitchens. Steam and smoke and heat and delicious smells. The cries of languages she does not know, though she suspects they say bad words. She wanders around through legs like cloth-bark trees. She finds a stressed droid making the finishing touches to pastries. He does not notice her there. If she climbs up on a rail between the counter's legs, she can reach the surface. She wants to try a purple one. It reminds her of her stepmother's hair.
"What are you doing?"
She nearly falls, but something stops her. She feels herself gently ease down to the floor and turns to find Cousin Ben. He sits in a corner with his book and a plate of food.
"I want a cake," Isolde says. "The purple one."
"Just ask G-Eight. He won't mind."
"Master Ben, I do mind." The droid has seen her now. "These are meant for the afternoon tea your mother has—"
"It's just a dumb cake. And besides, Isolde's a guest too."
Isolde is amazed that Cousin Ben knows her name. But even more amazing is when the purple cake floats from the counter and into her hands. It is a delicate creation shaped like a bird. Isolde thinks that is why it must be able to fly and decides she wants to keep it.
"Are you not going to eat it?" Ben says.
She shakes her head.
"Fine." He pulls a face and rolls his eyes. "You better go back upstairs. Your parents are causing a commotion because they don't know where you are."
"They are?"
"Yeah. They're pretty noisy."
She doesn't hear anything. Still, she wants to go find them, but all she can see are the legs of people and the wheels of droids. She is lost. She might never see them again and then what shall she do? The fear grips her belly and makes her want to cry.
"Don't worry," Ben says. He stands and brushes crumbs from his clothes then offers her her hand. "I'll take you."
—No longer the boy she remembers. Besides his ears (hidden behind his hair) she will concede he has grown into his looks. But those looks speak of darkness, a gaping hole from which no light can escape. He remembered her ("Did you ever eat that cake?") but his gaze offered nothing more than politeness and recognition. She gave him her most luminous smile and believed it in that moment, for Leia had warned her of his sorcerer's ways, that she must always conceal her true feelings, that she must never appear to be anything other than the docile, would-be bride of a restless Emperor.
She should have had a blaster, Isolde thinks, looking around the horror of her red chambers, but instead she has this.
"Bluebird. I am in the nest. Do you read me? Over."
The communicator crackles with static in her palm. Fashioned into a large costume ring, one of the stones glows green to indicate someone on the other end.
"Elsa." It is Leia's voice. "How are they treating you?"
"Formally."
Leia snorts. "I raised him well. How was your introduction?"
"Formal too. He remembered me. I think that was the only thing to pique his interest."
"He may be pale, but he is not bloodless. Don't give up yet. Have you anything else to report?"
Isolde remembers all she saw the night before. Where does she start? "He helped the Jedi girl."
"Rey? You saw her? Is she well?"
She is a goddess, Isolde thinks. "She left the gala early. But later she had him and one of his knights help her put Maz Kanata and another knight to bed. They had been drinking."
"My son and Rey?"
"No. Kanata and the knight. The whole operation appeared to be conducted in secret. Also, there had been some kind of fight."
"How so?"
"Ben and the knight who helped were both injured and had damaged clothes. I think it might have been over the girl."
"Can we use this to help us?"
"I think so." Isolde sits cross-legged and holds the communicator close to her mouth as she whispers, "I think he is not bloodless but only for her."
"Then try to appeal to his pragmatism. See what else you can find."
"I will."
"May the Force be with you," Leia says, and the line goes silent.
Isolde dresses. A droid serves breakfast in her rooms. She has been granted an audience with the Emperor late in the afternoon but in the meantime has been granted free reign of the palace.
There are spies everywhere, and Isolde knows she is not really free. She feels like a sacrifice, a fatted cow being prepped for an elaborate feast. But unlike most beasts to the slaughter, she has volunteered.
The day is bright. She wanders the gardens and enjoys the scenery. She pretends to at least. She listens to the conversations of passing ladies. They are critical of the Confessor, whoever that is. "Don't you mean concubine," one of the women jokes. They disapprove of certain fashion choices. They also disapprove of the Emperor's sudden exit. "It is not how you win the favor of the court. But I suppose he had a certain itch that only a desert rat could scratch." Here they giggle. Isolde dreads the thought of having no other friends than these.
She follows the trail she took the night before, appearing to drift mindlessly between the many courtyards the way she would as a child. She sees the wooden gates that lead to where the Jedi and Maz Kanata live. No one is around or seems to mind that she has come here. So she lets herself in. She looks up to the roof where the two drunken bodies had been brought down by the gift of the Force. She had felt its darkness and power and had seen the glow of yellow eyes. In the sun, she reminds herself that no light lives here. Except for the last Jedi. Isolde is desperate to meet her.
Should she knock on the door? Or make sure it is safe first? She decides to check around the side and look through a window. She almost does until a large hand covers her face and an even larger arm wraps around her waist, lifting her from the ground.
This is not a normal hangover.
Malaak has never known such pain, not in his days of training under the sadistic Snoke. Not since Jedi history examinations under the judging gaze of Luke.
He dares not open his eyes. It is too light. Lighter than the smile of Lady Rey. Lighter than the fireworks that sparkled on the beach as he held Jana's hand.
He will kill that blasted pirate and eat her for breakfast. If only he didn't feel so sick.
He staggers to his feet and makes it to the refresher. He does not remember making it back to bed. The last thing he can recall is loudly singing from the roof with the pirate on his shoulders, the remaining drops of her whiskey spilling onto his bald head. His skin is sticky now. His blue tattoos appear washed of color. His eyes are injected with red.
"Bloody pirate," he grumbles. He splashes cold water onto his face. There were other voices too. The Lady Rey and Ms. Selena and another. Luke? Why should he remember him?
Use the Force. Feel it flow through you.
I do, Malaak thinks. I feel it now. The Lady Rey sleeps. Maz snores. The sun is too bright and there are more people in the palace and sometimes it gets too noisy. Sometimes he gets bored. He does not like being stuck with babysitting duty. But the Emperor requested him. "There is no one else I would trust with this." And he cannot deny his master. He would do anything Kylo says.
"Not like that."
Master Luke scratches out where Malaak has written from memory the laws of the Jedi. "Did they not teach you Basic at school?"
Malaak does not want to say he did not go to school. He is the oldest of the padawans and the least educated. Sometimes he thinks Luke likes to remind him. Sometimes he can tell Luke thinks he is not good enough.
"Why don't you teach him?" Ben says.
Ben is hunched over a desk with a calligraphy pen in hand. He does not look at his uncle, but Malaak sees the look that Luke passes over him.
Luke sighs. "I am sorry, Malaak. Keep trying. Patience and practice—"
"—is the way of the Jedi," Ben finishes. "Excellent lesson." Alec and Vadanav both snigger. Malaak wants to join in, but he is in trouble enough.
"Ben." Luke stands over his nephew. "A word."
Malaak does not see Ben for the rest of the day. After saber practice (his favorite lesson), Malaak finds a quiet spot under a tree and attempts to read.
It isn't that he can't read. His mother taught him. He and his seven other siblings, beneath a tree that was bigger and greener and more alive in the Force than this. He knows all the symbols and how they should appear. But his brain always struggles to make the connections. It takes time but eventually, yes, he can—
"What are you reading?"
Ben is standing beside him. Malaak never heard or even felt him approach.
"A Student's History of the Jedi Temple," he says. He has lost his place now, and closes the book. "There is a test tomorrow."
"Revisionist crap," Ben says. "I wouldn't worry about it."
"If you say so, but I failed the last one."
"What have tests got to do with anything?" Ben lowers his long frame to sit down beside him. "Luke can't think of anything better to do. He's making it up as he goes along."
"You don't think he knows what he is doing?"
Ben snorts. "What I think is irrelevant."
"Did you get in trouble?" Malaak says.
"No more than usual." He reaches over and takes the book from Malaak's hands. "I can tell you all the answers. Luke hasn't changed that test since he wrote it."
"I've still got to write them down."
"What makes it hard to write?"
Malaak's never had the problem asked of in this way. Normally the implication is he is illiterate and a fool.
"What's in my head," he says, "I can see it, but it takes me too long to put it down on the page."
"And the same goes with reading? But almost the reverse?"
"Yeah."
"Then we just have to figure out a way for you to do it differently."
"You think that's possible?"
"I think it's always possible to find a different way. But doing the same thing over and over again when it isn't working? What's the point?"
"Like Luke's test?" Malaak says.
Ben gives him a rare smile. "Exactly." He stands. "Look, a few of us are meeting tonight. It's started to become a regular thing. Reading and discussing things not always Light-side approved."
"Does Luke know?"
"What do you think?" Ben says. He tosses the book back. "Or would you rather study for a redundant test?"
Malaak throws the book over the cliff. "I'm in."
He needs to get out. He is going to be sick. He needs fresh air and a vat of caf mixed with bacta. He makes it to the front door unnoticed and around to the back of the building. He empties the contents of his stomach. There is only bile. At least there is a water trough he can drink from. He leans over the side and dips his head all the way in.
When he resurfaces, he senses something. Someone approaches. They do not stop by the door. They are moving around the side, towards where he is.
He presses himself to the wall and edges to peer around the corner. A tall figure with silver hair. He moves quickly and places one hand over their mouth and another around a tiny waist. It takes no effort to raise them from their feet.
"Can I help you?" Malaak says. Legs kick out; he holds the slim body tight against him. A woman. Her silver hair smells of a flower he cannot place. Her teeth gnash at his palm. They pierce his flesh. "Ow!"
"Unhand me!"
"You are trespassing."
"I got lost."
"A likely story."
She lands a kick to his shin, and his grip on her loosens enough that her feet can touch the ground. She twirls to face him. "Do you know who I am?"
She is beautiful, Malaak thinks. Like winter. He has only seen snow once before. He did not know anything could look so pure. He feels himself staring. He grabs her arm before she can run away.
"It is of no matter to me. You should not be here."
"Let me go!"
"Come with me!"
"No!"
He considers dragging her by her hair, but it looks like silk and he is afraid to destroy it; afraid he might be distracted by its softness. Instead, he picks her up and throws her over his shoulder.
"Put me down!"
"Not a chance."
She struggles against him, but his arm is locked firm; she is too flimsy to let fall, he thinks and marches them out the gates of the knights' compound.
"I think the Emperor would like to meet someone who spies on his Confessor."
"I was not spying!" She stills her movements. "The Jedi is his…? But the Emperor… he knows me."
"He does, does he?"
"Yes! I am a princess!"
"You sure act like one."
"You don't understand, you fool!"
Malaak growls, and this quiets her. "Watch your tongue."
"Watch your hands," she says more mutedly, and he can feel her lean her elbows in resignation against his back.
His procession continues in silence. He ignores all the looks they get. He is only interested in bringing her before his master for appropriate judgement.
"You should not have spied on her," he says. They are close now to the reception room that the Emperor uses for his office.
"I was not…" She bites her tongue and rethinks her words. "Why not?"
Malaak tightens his grip and says, full of warning, "She is who the Emperor holds most dear."
He stops before a set of doors. Imperial Guards block his way. "Move. This concerns a matter of security." He sets the woman down, keeping hold of one arm. "I bring an intruder found spying on the Emperor's Confessor."
The guards move aside. The woman murmurs, "You are making a huge mistake."
"Let the Emperor be the judge," Malaak says.
They go inside. Kylo is standing before his desk. He has a black eye. Rey is seated in a chair to his right.
"My Lady," Malaak says, "I thought you were sleeping."
"I…" Rey struggles to speak.
"And my Lord—was there a fight I did not know about?"
Kylo sighs. "You were too drunk to remember. And why is she here?" He gestures to the woman, who is staring at Rey.
What are her intentions? Malaak thinks and regrets bringing someone before the Lady Rey who might put her at risk. "I found her spying outside the knights' quarters," he says.
The woman struggles in his hold. "It is not what you—" The woman cannot talk; she cannot move. Malaak senses the will of the Force is keeping her still.
"Ben, what is this all about?"
"You can let her go, Rey. I'd like to hear her talk." He approaches and studies the woman, who gasps as she can once again move. "I should have known," he says, "but tell me, dear cousin: was it my mother who put you up to this?"