Disclaimer: George Lucas owns Star Wars. I am not making any profit from this work of fanfiction.

Author's note: Ryn starts asking the right questions, and Anakin and Obi-Wan get a crash course in Lorethan culture.


CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Gunryth led them up the stairs and to a small room with three large hammered metal tubs. "We had thought there were but three men in your party," she explained. "Another tub is being fetched hither as we speak, and more water also. But here the four of you shall bathe and dress. Clean clothes are provided, though we had to guess at size." She pointed at a pile of garments, neatly folded, on a bench at the far side of the room. "Your own clothes will be clean by morning, though perhaps not dry." She stepped aside as two servants entered, carrying up a fourth tub between them. "Ah, good. Here we are. I will send maidens to attend you."

She started for the door, Evinne following, but Ryn hung back a few steps, anxiety written on her face.

"Try to look at it as a cultural experiment," she said in a rush. "Remember that ... serving ... is an act of devotion for us. But you can" ––

"Areth'ryn!" Gunryth's voice called from the other side of the curtain, heavy with command.

Ryn held her ground long enough to lock gazes with Anakin. "You can always say no," she whispered, and fled.


Gunryth left Ryn in the room that had sometimes been hers before, lavishly decorated in the bright blues and greens she'd loved as a child.

Still loved, really.

She ran her fingers, over vines embroidered in silver and thought blankly, Why do I never wear color?

Every piece of clothing she'd ever chosen for herself had been black.

What does that say about me?

It had always seemed so pointless to dress to please the eye that beheld her. There was no one to enjoy the sight. And dressing for her own pleasure had somehow never occurred to her mind.

In the Jedi Temple, it hadn't mattered. Not really. There was even a certain practicality to wearing dark hues.

There had been a time when Ryn had been genuinely uninterested in drawing a man's gaze. She'd been sent away from home so young: hardly knowing what to make of the changes in her own body. On Malastare, her sexuality in had been something she performed, not something she experienced. Just another act of public devotion. In her personal life, she had remained austere.

Thinking of it now, black –– the absence of color –– had suited her remarkably well.

Black had been the easy choice, the default setting.

She hadn't even realized it until it changed.

What if I'm a person in my own right?

She was appalled to realize her entire life had been defined by lack. By what she didn't have.

Family. Freedom. Anakin.

She trailed her fingers over the rich fabric. "I want color."

"Sorry?" said the girl who had come up with hot water.

Ryn stepped away from the tapestry and lifted her chin. "Can you find me some clothes in color?" She thought about Anakin staring at Gunryth in her brilliant silks. She doubted whether it was the color working in that case –– but then again, it couldn't hurt. There was personality behind that vibrancy.

"How can we be friends if we can't even be ourselves?" she'd asked Anakin, days ago, when she had finally begun to understand.

When they had first met, Obi-Wan had given them the awkward task of making conversation. Between Ryn's reticence and Anakin's resentment, it hadn't been easy. They had fumbled valiantly around the issue of droid repair, about which Ryn knew less than nothing, until finally Anakin, taking pity on her ignorance, steered the conversation into safer waters by resorting to a series of stand-by questions common among children half their age. (She'd discovered later that that he had chosen the questions specifically because he'd learned from experience that they worked as well in the Temple as they did on Tatooine, and therefore might reasonably be expected to work on a Lorethan as well.) He had uncovered her exact age, her birth date (she had the Standard conversion for that memorized from her chart), the prior existence of a pet (not a happy topic).

They were managing pretty well until he asked her favorite color.

She hadn't understood the question. Colors either were or they weren't, Or, actually, colors didn't exist at all, except in perception, the mind's way of interpreting light in the visible spectrum: so what did it matter whether she liked them or not? They were abstract. She had delivered a highly technical dissertation on the effects of visible light on beings' affective states, and wound to her conclusion with a sense of pride at having managed the answer to a difficult question without stumbling over her Basic.

Anakin had just stared at her for a long moment, torn between amusement and distaste, not sure whether to take her seriously. Finally, he spoke, with just the flicker of a smile. "So ... what's your favorite color?"

Six months ago she hadn't even understood the question. Now the answer seemed desperately important.

Ryn gestured at the vibrant wall hangings. "I want color. Blues and greens. Like this."

The housegirl stared at her, much as Anakin had done. "I ... will try, Ri-Domna."

"Areth'ryn," Ryn said automatically. "And thank you."

She glanced at the oversized bed, draped in sea blue, and thought about the flimsi-wrapped package in her utility belt. Thought more about sinking into all that soft blue luxury with Anakin's weight on top of her.

If he liked color, she was going to give him an eyeful.

And if he didn't ... maybe she'd find something she liked for herself.

"I'm a person," she said with determination, because things weren't real until they were spoken. "I am not defined by lack."

The housegirl looked as dubious about this as Ryn felt, so Ryn waved her out.

"It's a start, anyway," she told herself, and stripped for the tub.


While Ryn was busy with her adventures in self-discovery, Anakin was dealing with some problems of his own.

At first, things were going fairly well, even if they were slightly awkward. Four young women had come upstairs with kettles of piping hot water, which Anakin figured they were going to use to heat the cooler water already in the tubs. It seemed reasonable, at least.

He wasn't crazy about getting undressed in front of strangers, but Makesh and Obi-Wan and Engine all seemed to be okay with it, so when a gently rounded young woman with golden hair and a welcoming smile urged him to give her his clothes for washing, he just blushed and said, "Sure. Can you just ...?" Turn your back, he wanted to say, but he couldn't, because everybody else was submitting to being undressed, with varying degrees of enjoyment.

She laughed delightedly. "Are you shy? You are!" She bounced closer to kiss him on the cheek. "Oh, but I hope we get to know each other so much better."

"Uh," said Anakin, and she laughed again.

"All right then," she said, demonstrating Ryn's tendency to exaggerate her 'r's. "My name is Bridein, and my task is to take care of you tonight." She smiled up at him. "However you choose."

"Uh."

She tugged gently at his tunic. "Would you prefer to undress yourself?"

"Uh," said Anakin a third time. "That ... would be good, thanks."

Bridein flashed another encouraging smile. "I'll just turn my back then, shall I?" She spun around without waiting for an answer.

Anakin shucked his clothes hastily and shuffled past her to the tub, but when he reached for the soap, thinking himself safe for the moment, he looked up to find Bridein standing at the foot of the tub.

Anakin raised his knees to his chest, hunching over. "Wha"–– he began, but Bridein dropped her flimsy robe.

"Wha –– I –– uh ..." Anakin glanced at Obi-Wan for help, only to find his master engrossed in a similar predicament.

Bridein reclaimed his attention by stepping gracefully into the tub. "Here," she said, taking the soap gently from his hands. "Let me help you."

"Master!"

"It is ... all right ... Padawan," said Obi-Wan. His voice sounded strained. "The Force ... will be with you."

What? thought Anakin blankly. Oh no no no no no ...

Obi-Wan was trying to explain to his own helper how he, as a Jedi, generally chose to abstain from this kind of intimacy, even with strangers.

Anakin wasn't sure, but he thought it might have been the even with strangers part that had the woman in his tub confused. It was certainly confusing the hell out of Anakin.

He turned back to his own tub, reasonably certain that at least he couldn't do a worse job of explaining. But in the seconds he'd been distracted by Obi-Wan's problems, his own had gotten worse. Bridein had managed to get her hands soaped up, and now she leaned forward and started lathering his chest.

"Ahhh," she murmured, sliding her hands over his skin. "You're very ... mmm ... fit." She shivered in evident pleasure, stopped what she was doing, and looked him in the eye. "What should I call you?"

"I'm, uh, Anakin Skywalker," Anakin said, remembering belatedly that it had been rude of him not to give her his name when she gave him hers.

Bridein smiled in satisfaction and leaned even closer, bumping her breasts against his updrawn knees. "Tell me, Anakin Skywalker," she purred. "May I wash your hair?"