"Be strong, live happy and love"
- John Milton, Paradise Lost
CHAPTER 29
Malaak walks with purpose across the east wing of the palace. It is barely past dawn, but he knows where the Emperor will be. The man doesn't sleep, and today Malaak thinks this to be a good thing.
The guards allow him entrance, and he sees his old friend sitting at the wide desk filled with datapads and papers, dressed in the same severe black uniform Malaak wears, looking as usual like the weight of the galaxy is upon him (which, Malaak supposes, it is.)
The Emperor looks up. He inclines his head in a gesture of understated curiosity. "You're up early."
"Thought I could be of some use."
"You're not sulking like the others?" Kylo says. "Lamenting about how I have forsaken the ways of the Sith?"
Malaak shrugs. "I know nothing of politics. I care nothing of politics. You say the Senate is the best way to go forward, then I trust you."
Kylo gives a rare smile. "Thank you."
And now to the crux of the matter. "But…"
"Yes?"
"My Lord, I was wondering. Has anyone told the princess?"
"Hm?"
"The princess," Malaak continues. He prays he does not sound as foolish as he feels. "Has anyone told her that the wedding's off?"
"I don't think so. I had my mother swear to secrecy until we could discuss terms, which won't be until later today. Why do you ask?"
"Someone should tell her."
"The princess?"
"Yes, the princess." This idea is starting to feel stupid. Dumber still as the Emperor studies him for a long moment, a shrewd smile crossing his face.
"Forget it," Malaak says.
"No, it's a good idea—"
"Forget it," he all but snarls.
"No—you should." Malaak moves to leave, but Kylo slows him with a subtle wave of the Force. "Forgive my indelicacy." He gets up and crosses over to where Malaak stands. He look at him, and Malaak feels that all his secrets are being laid bare. Kylo does not utter them, just studies his face with those sad, dark eyes of his. When he speaks, it is almost to himself.
"And you would have let me marry her," he says softly, "if I thought it was for the best."
Malaak stands with his spine ramrod straight. "It is not my place to determine."
What happens next shocks Malaak more than if the Emperor had thrown a punch; Kylo clasps his arm in a firm grip. "You are a good friend, Malaak. You have a noble heart."
"It is nothing."
"It is much more than nothing," Kylo says. He gives his hand a firm squeeze before releasing it. "Go. Tell her."
"You're sure?"
"Of course." The Emperor gifts him with another rare smile. "And Malaak?"
He stops by the door to hear his friend's parting words.
"Good luck."
Malaak waits impatiently at the red-lacquered doors. He presses the buzzer twice.
"I'm coming," a faint voice says. His heart is beating wildly. He has to ball up his fists just so he won't have the urge to do something stupid like carry her off (again).
The doors open. "General?—Oh, it's you."
It's hard to tell if those words are said in a good way or not, and Malaak wonders for the hundredth time whether she remembers any of their drunken conversation from when he returned her to her rooms. When she had curled up in his arms. When she had asked to be his friend. He can feel the tips of his ears grow warm, and he's beginning to feel stupid once more and so he blurts out—
"I have a message from the Emperor. Can I come in?"
Forehead creasing, she allows him inside.
She is dressed in only a pale blue robe that is cinched tightly about her waist and puddles on the floor. It looks to be made of silk or some other kind of shiny fabric. Malaak can't guess what might be underneath, but it doesn't stop him from trying and, for a moment, he is lost in speculation. That is, until the princess clears her throat.
"The message?" she says.
He snaps back to attention. "You don't have to get married."
Her brow wrinkles further. "Excuse me?"
"To the Emperor. He made a deal. You don't have to get married."
"But—" she looks stunned. "But the Resistance—"
"They'll still be safe. They made some kind of agreement where the Senate comes back and slavery goes away and to be honest it all sounds like bollocks but his mother likes it—"
"Leia," Elsa says. "Leia agreed to this?" Her face has turned as pale as her hair.
"Yes. Though it's not supposed to be common knowledge yet and I'd prefer if you kept it to yourself for the time being."
"Leia…" she says more slowly. "Agreed. To this."
"Yes."
"I…"
He was expecting thanks or a smile or maybe even (in his wildest dreams) a hug. What he does not expect is this: The princess bursts into tears.
She cries loudly, awfully, the sobs wracking her body, and they do not appear to be happy. Malaak is confused. "Is this not good? I thought you'd be pleased to be free."
"Free?" She lifts her blotchy face to look at him. "You think that I am free? You don't understand anything!" She sinks to the sofa and buries her face in a cushion.
Malaak's temper, which was never very good to begin with, slips entirely. "What in the kriffing hell are you on about?"
This gets her attention. She sits up. She glowers at him, the same way as during their first meeting and Gods, she looks beautiful when she's mad. He has to work to keep his face similarly annoyed.
"I am not free," she snaps. "I will never be free. If it's not the Emperor, it will be someone else. My father can't wait to sell me to the highest bidder. At least here I would have done some good!"
"Fine!" Malaak snaps back. "I thought I'd be giving you some good news but you seem determined to make a tragedy of everything. Marry the Emperor. Don't marry the Emperor. Did you ever think that you could just say no? Tell them all to kriff off, for fuck's sake!"
Elsa gasps, whether at the language or the sentiment, he's not sure.
"I'm leaving," Malaak says. "This is what I get for trying to do something nice. For trying to help a friend," he says with pained emphasis.
Her eyes grow wide as saucers. "You remembered that? I thought—I thought it was a dream. I was so drunk."
"You were drunk, and it was no dream. But if you want to go and cry for the rest of your life go ahead."
"I…"
"So long, princess." He slams the door loud enough to rattle the chandeliers.
Rey is standing in the kitchen garden of the knights' barracks. Or what used to be. Now it is covered entirely in needle blossoms; purple flowers carpet every surface—even the stone walls. She can see bobbing heads amongst them belonging to Selena's sons, Umir and his older brother Rohak, who have decided that this is the best possible place in which to play. Rey worries that they might burrow too far into the blossoms and never be found again.
"What the kriff happened?" she says.
"You," Maz says. "You have a talent for making things grow."
She and Selena stand on either side of Rey, who has called them here for a specific purpose that has nothing to do with the garden. Unfortunately right now all any of them can do is continue to stare at the flowers.
"But that was three days ago!"
Maz shrugs, "What can I say? You are good." She peers at Rey through her giant goggles. "Did you do anything special with the Force? Some kind of spell?"
Rey thinks back. "No." Not that she can remember.
"Well," Maz says, "I suppose we'll just have to cut them back so they don't take over. We could start making liquor."
Rey can think of a better use. "We should take them with us." The other women look at her with questioning faces, and Rey realizes she has yet to explain. "I asked you here because I need your help. I'm… moving," she says, and she can hide her smile no longer.
Maz and Selena are brought up to date on the developments of yesterday. Maz listens with a satisfied smile as Rey describes the deal Ben offered Leia, and Selena practically swoons when she hears the details of her engagement (well, most of them. The particularly lascivious bits Rey leave out—though somehow she suspects Maz knows them anyway.) Rey thinks back to this morning, when she woke up in his arms and sent him out the door with a kiss, promising to see him later but also making him promise in return that it would not be before nightfall. He frowned but did not argue, admitting he might not make it back until the following day if negotiations struggled (which led to a demand for another kiss, delaying his departure until well after sunrise.)
It is not long before the trio are outside the doors to the Emperor's chambers, the single box of Rey's possessions held between them; her wardrobe is still in the process of being moved, and only after Selena's careful instructions to the household droids on the packing and care for each garment. The imposing Imperial Guards move aside as soon as they see Maz.
"My boys!" she greets them, forcing them to bend down to allow her to kiss them on each check. They look like great demonic puppies kneeling for a loving pat from their owner. Rey knows that Maz has spent a lot of time with them but has never asked for details and, after watching this exchange, vows to herself that she never will.
The guards, obedient servants of Maz that they are, let them inside at once, not even noticing Rey and Selena. They stand upon the threshold to the cavernous antechamber, and Rey gives her companions a moment to take it all in.
Maz is the first to speak. "The man likes black."
Rey and Selena dissolve into a fit of giggles. This is, perhaps, the understatement of the century. Everything is the same oppressive color. Black walls, black ceiling, black carpets, black sofas and chairs and desks. Black fireplace. The room is enormous and the furniture is comfortable but there is no decoration, nothing to indicate that a person lives here, and the bedroom is much the same.
"You see why I need your help," Rey says.
They get right to work. With the assistance of her "boys", Maz orders all the furniture moved out of the antechamber, replacing it with more colorful pieces that she has pulled from Gods know where in the palace. She has them hang beautiful paintings on the walls. The black drapes are taken down from the windows and deep gold ones take their place. The walls and ceiling and floors remain black but there is color on every surface now, softening it, making it more livable. It looks like a home now, Rey thinks, and the thought makes her want to cry.
In the bedroom, it is much the same. Selena dedicates herself to organizing the closets, and Rey finds a small dressing table she moves into the bedroom and uses to hold her dearest possessions: her broken lightsaber, the Jedi texts and Ben's grandmother's necklace. Maz wants to get rid of the carved ebony bed, but Rey worries that may be a bridge too far.
"But these," Maz says, "have to go." She strips the black silk sheets off the bed. Rey begins to protest, but Maz remains firm. "We must live outside the cliché, my dear." Rey doesn't know what this means, though she is past the point of arguing. They too are replaced with a deep gold like the drapes, just as soft as before but warm and sunny as Rey herself.
Maz has the Imperial guards bring up huge armfuls of the purple flowers, and soon they adorn vases on every surface, the entire chambers filled by their sweet, light fragrance. The sun is setting now. Selena is bundling up her boys to go home, and Maz has sent her faithful boys away. Rey kisses Selena goodbye and thanks her for her help, and bends down to do the same for Maz. Instead Maz waves Selena out the door with a smile.
"There is something I want you to try," she says and produces what looks like a dried piece of bark.
"What is this?"
"Molodark root. It has long been extinct. This root was fossilized and preserved before its homeworld was destroyed."
"Why are you giving it to me?" Rey asks.
"I want you to make it grow."
"Grow?"
"Yes," Maz says.
"How?"
"No idea. But I want to see how far these powers of yours go. Just give it a try." She kisses Rey on the cheek finally. "I am happy for you, my girl. I am happy for that brooding boy, too."
Rey misses her brooding boy. She tries something and reaches out with the Force.
Ben?
For a few seconds nothing, then she feels his surprise. Are you okay? Is everything thing all right?
I'm fine, she tells him. Just practicing. She feels his fatigue. You want dinner? I can order something—
No. Going to be here for a few more hours.
You need backup? She feels bad for not having been with him today, but they agreed it was best to present this decision—to the Resistance and First Order alike—as being the Emperor's and the Emperor's alone.
No, he tells her. Stay where you are.
Okay, she thinks. Come home soon.
She feels him smile. I will.
There is no excuse for rudeness, Isolde.
She can hear it in the voices of her tutors, her teachings, her horrible etiquette instructor that her fifth stepmother hired the summer before she turned eighteen. Rudeness was not allowed. Nor was one allowed to show true feelings. A placid smile and a thank-you note was all that was required. But what if the situation called for a note of apology? Heaven help us, the particularly nasty instructor said, but if you have given offense then you must rectify immediately. A thoughtful gift and a heartfelt speech will do the trick nicely. Elsa thinks upon this as she makes her way through the dark palace.
Leia is up late tonight in negotiations. Elsa knows none of this firsthand, of course; she received a note shortly after the brutish knight left confirming what he'd said—explaining that an alternative resolution was being explored by the delegation and that Leia or Basta Shan would be over to see her once there was something to share. Elsa hoped that it would be the former and not the latter. She never liked Shan from the first—and that had been nearly ten years ago, as his eldest daughter had been in school with Elsa. She never liked his smooth words or the way his eyes seemed to linger on her. He was a man of immense wealth and power, and he was also between wives, which was something Elsa's father pointed out on more than one occasion. That's why she was so eager to take up Leia's offer of service to the rebellion. If she had to marry, it might as well be for a good cause—and to someone who wasn't thirty years her senior.
But if the brutish knight was right, then it looked as if those hopes had been dashed, and she was back to where she started.
She shouldn't say brutish. The knight has a name. She remembers it well. Malaak. She remembers being all kinds of ridiculous around him two nights before. She hopes he has forgotten but after this morning that seems rather futile.
Elsa wraps her cloak around her more tightly; she does not wish to be seen. The palace is strangely quiet. There are no grand feasts or receptions; everything lies in wait, as if knowing the fate of the galaxy lies in in the discussions currently happening behind closed doors. Elsa is not important enough to be involved and so she is left on her own.
It is the way of decorations, she thinks. At least it gives her time to apologize.
She has been to the knights' barracks three times now; it is one of the few places in the palace she is familiar with. She knocks timidly on the back door and, when no one answers just as timidly lets herself in. The kitchen is deserted and so she explores further, discovering the main chamber, a long stone hall with a giant fireplace at each end.
Three knights sit around a long table nursing large tankards of a black-looking ale. One is young and pale, one is older and even paler, and the third is dark-skinned and somewhere in the middle by age. It is the latter knight who speaks.
"Malaak! You've got a visitor!"
This startles Elsa. The knights have still not acknowledged her, but the older pale one is grinning, his mouth stretched like a ragged yellow crescent moon. Great thudding noises can be heard upon the stairs and a door flies open as Malaak appears, a terrifying looking laser cudgel pointed at the three. "I told you codswallops to leave me—"
He stops short when he sees her. He lowers the weapon and switches it off.
"Didn't know you had a date, old man," the youngest one says.
Malaak turns back upon them with a ferocious glare. "Out," he shouts. "Out, you maggots! Or you'll be wishing for a Sith hell by the time I'm done with you!"
The knights do not move, and, after a great deal of kicking and cajoling, Malaak ushers her out and back to the kitchen.
"Pox-marked moldwarps," he mutters. "May they be cursed six days before their mothers bore them."
Elsa sits at a chair he pulls out for her. The door has been shut on the moldwarps, and it is quite cozy and quiet in the kitchen. "You have a lovely talent," she says.
Malaak gives her a sharp look. "For what?"
"For cursing." Elsa place her elbows on the table, and looks up at him with bright eyes. For a moment Malaak does not appear to be following the conversation. Then, he shrugs.
"Doubt you could learn," he grumbles. "You need years of practice."
It takes her a moment to realize he is joking. She laughs. "Well," she says, "thank you for not cursing at me." She reveals a parcel from under her cloak and places it on the table. "This is for you."
Malaak examines the small tin. "What is it?"
"It's tea."
"Why?"
"Because I owe you an apology. I'm sorry for being so rude this morning."
He shrugs again. Elsa is starting to realize that his shrugs are a kind of language, that he is more comfortable with the movements of his body than the words in his mouth, and she likes that about him. It feels more honest.
"You were trying to be nice and I was awful. You didn't need a first-row seat to my histrionics."
"Your what?"
"Histrionics. It means—"
"I know what the word means," he says, and Elsa blushes at her foolish presumption. "What I meant to say is why? Why is someone as lovely as you so sad about good news?"
It is Elsa's turn to shrug now. "I told you. My father will require me to marry."
"You can always tell him to fuck off."
She laughs. "Is it really that easy? Can we change who we are with a few well-placed words?"
Another shrug as if to say—it works for me.
Elsa stands. "Would you like to try some? The tea, I mean. It's very nice."
His brow furrows. "I'm not much a of a tea drinker."
"It's good with brandy." She knows this from filching through her father's liquor cabinet. At this, her surly knight raises his head.
"I have brandy."
"Then go get it."
She makes the tea strong and sweet, pouring a big slug of brandy into each mug. Malaak takes a sip and smiles, and Elsa feels as if she has won a great prize.
They drink for a few moments in silence before he speaks. "You should do what you want."
"About what?"
"About your life. If you don't want to get married and be a princess, then don't."
Elsa places her mug down, both hands wrapped around it. "What else would I do? I'm not trained for anything else."
A one-shouldered shrug. "What do you want to do?"
No one has ever asked her that question before. No one has ever implied that she might have a choice.
"I… I don't know," she says. "I've never thought about it."
Malaak nods. "Time to start."
Could it really be that simple? She looks at this mountain of a man, with his tattooed skin and his forbidding expression and his vocabulary of shrugs, and Elsa decides that she wants to make him smile again. Not exactly a plan for an entire a lifetime, but maybe it's a start.
"Would you like some more tea?" she says.
"Yes." Malaak pushes his half empty mug towards her, and Elsa obliges.
"Me too."
It has been a long day.
It is far after midnight when Ben returns to his rooms. Ten hours of negotiations with the Resistance, interrupted only for a brief interlude of telling Hux his intentions (and watching the man practically detonate in front of him). Everyone is unhappy. Everyone wants concessions.
He is still thinking about a clause that needs to go into the fledging constitutional draft they are working on, allowing a tie vote to be cast in the wake of subcommittee gridlock when—
Ben finally stops to notice his surroundings.
His first thought is that he must be drunk. Except he doesn't drink. He hates the feeling of surreality, hates the loss of control. And right now, he is staring both in the face.
Someone has come in and attacked his rooms. A horrific, opulent display of color, it has wiped away the memory of all that was cool and black. An enormous painting covers the far wall, a riot of blues and greens and yellows all churning together to form a volatile starry night. Similar paintings grace every wall, each with more colors than the last. Gold curtains hang from the floor to ceiling windows and the black sofas and couches and chairs have been replaced with the same garish spectrum. Needle blossoms cover every surface—their large purple bulbs surrounding him with fragrance and another shot of color into the already frenzied landscape. He remembers the tired tale his mother told of his birth—for sleep and fertility, Mallatobuck said—is this some kind of a message? Where is she? he wonders. She is quiet tonight.
He takes a few steps further and sees her, curled up on the biggest and loudest and most yellow sofa situated in front of the fire. He collapses onto a blue sofa opposite, stretching out and spreading his legs and draping his long arms across the back. He looks at her.
She is a balm to his spirit. Wrapped in a long-sleeved black nightgown, she looks like a small raven amidst a giant haystack. She sleeps peacefully, without dreams—he can sense this now—and he is jealous of her rest.
She must sense him too, for soon her eyes blink open.
"Hey." Her voice is scratchy.
"Hey," he says. He glances around. "You rearranged my stuff."
She yawns and stretches like a sleepy cat. She smiles like a sleepy cat too. "I made it better. Don't you like it?"
"It looks like a pigment freighter exploded."
"It's happy," Rey wrinkles her nose at him. "I like happy."
And I like you, he thinks, but Gods, this is a lot to take in. "And the flowers?"
"They smell nice."
"And the art?"
"Maz picked it out."
Of course she did. "I suppose you've had a go at the closets, too."
"Selena sorted them. Said you should add more variety to your wardrobe."
"I like my wardrobe just fine." He remembers hearing of such things, a category of sentient troubles that he is aware of but has never experienced: sharing one's space with another. At first the thought rankles; he does not like to share, he likes his space, has never had the necessity of having to put up with another, he's an only child for kriff's sake, why does the sofa have to be that obscene shade of yellow—
His must be loud in his thoughts for she is laughing.
"What?"
"Are we having our first argument?"
"We argue all the time."
"No, I mean about this stuff. Silly stuff." She straightens up. "And I like this shade of yellow."
"It's a terrible—" he stops himself. The luxury of what they are fighting over hits him. Not Dark versus Light, not together or apart, just… the color of a sofa.
"I like it," Rey whispers.
"Hush." He tries to glower. "Come here."
She does. She pads silently across the floor and curls up against him. She is warm from sleep and smells like a better version of the wretched needle blossoms. Her head is against his chest and she plays with the buttons on his tunic.
"How did it go today?"
Ben closes his eyes; his head sags back against the cushion. "Not great."
"But the Resistance—they're going to accept?"
"Yes."
"And Hux?"
"I think he's going to redouble his efforts to kill me in my sleep."
"If he so much as touches one hair..." her thoughts trail off into a murderous tirade that only he can hear.
He smiles. "All that, huh?"
Rey shifts against him. "I am… fond of you."
"Fond?"
"A bit. When you aren't insulting my sofas."
"I would never."
She swats him, and he pulls her fully into his arms. Just the weight of her against him, the steadiness of her heart and her breathing and every care seems to slip from his mind. He strokes her hair. She's worn it loose tonight.
"So I guess this means you're moving in," he says.
She nuzzles his neck. "You're not going to be able to get rid of me."
"Is that my robe?"
She pulls back to look up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "You want it back? I was warming it up for you."
Suddenly the conversation has shifted entirely, and his body, which a few moments before was longing for sleep, is now longing for something else.
"I might need it," he says, voice dropping an octave.
He feels cool air against his chest; Rey is unbuttoning his tunic and he is pushing the robe off her shoulders. Her skin glows like honey. Her breasts deserve a sonnet. He moves to take off his gloves but she stills him.
"Leave them on," she says. "Just for tonight."
He was hard before but thinks he could cut glass now. She works the rest of his tunic open and kisses him, gasping as she feels his leather-clad finger circle a nipple.
She leans into his touch. "If we're going to live together, you need to learn how to share."
He lowers his mouth to follow the path of his finger. "Share what?" he says.
She finishes unbuttoning his tunic. "Your warmth."
"You may have it."
She presses her lips to the side of his neck, to the broad expanse of his chest. "Your body."
"You own it."
She is working the fastenings of his pants now. "Your soul."
"Is that what we're calling it now—Rey," he gasps as she slides onto him.
She moves, finding the rhythm she wants. He places his hands on her, black leather on sun-kissed skin. She purrs her approval.
He's so caught up by her movements that he almost doesn't hear the next thing.
"And the yellow sofa stays."
"Only if I can fuck you on it."
She smiles and bites down where his neck meets his shoulder. "Please," she whispers.
That is all he needs to hear. He picks her up, the two of them still joined together, and proceeds to do exactly that.
It is not until long after, when the sweat has cooled from their bodies and she's lying atop him like a sated cat, that he speaks again.
"I think we should do that on every piece of furniture I don't like."
Rey lifts her head. "How many are there?"
"All of them."
She swats him and kisses him and ends up burrowed tight against him. She goes still, and he thinks she has fallen asleep until he hears the softly spoken words, "Welcome home, Ben Solo."
