If Lethe had had a human coloration, she would have said she felt herself 'go white to the lips.' However, she was green, and when her skin blanched the result was usually the unpleasant shade of a yellow-green pickle.
Lethe scowled at Grandmaster Satele Shan. "You sent Rhiabe after that maniac again, didn't you?" she asked, her voice low so it wouldn't wobble. It took all her efforts not to present the question in an angry hiss.
Lethe had to mothball her own instinctive cringe from memories of the events last time Rhiabe faced that madman. The most catastrophic—for her, at least—was when Rhiabe, being sucked under by a darkness greater and more profound than any either of them ever imagined, severed the Force bond they shared as twins. Like an animal chewing off a foot to escape a trap, the Emperor hadn't managed to affect Lethe through her connection to Rhiabe.
The fallout of that severance had taken weeks to learn to live with, and only then had Lethe realized how much she depended on having Rhiabe out in the galaxy somewhere. Strong, brash, unchanging Rhiabe, with her good nature and occasionally overpowering willingness to fight the good fight. Neither Lethe nor most who knew the twins had realized just how much strength Lethe drew from the fact of Rhiabe's presence.
And the one day, it was gone, torn away.
Lethe shivered inwardly. But the bond was back, had reattached. It wasn't as strong as it used to be, took more effort to make use of, but it was there. However terribly the Dark Side had mauled poor Rhiabe, whatever the Emperor did to her, the link had reestablished. It was a reason to hope, so Lethe clung to it.
"Barsen'thor," Satele declared, inclining her head.
"You sent my sister after that maniac again, didn't you?" Lethe repeated, this time her voice was colder, harder.
Satele sighed, looking tired. "Yes, Lethe. Rhiabe was sent to finish what she—"
"What she?" Lethe interrupted, more sharply than she meant to. "Forgive me, Master Shan, but Rhiabe didn't start this asinine venture. She was simply told 'you will.'"
Satele's expression didn't flinch, didn't waver in the slightest. "Do you really think Rhiabe would have turned down a chance to face her foe again?"
"Did you give her a choice?" Lethe retorted.
"It's over and done," Satele said firmly.
"Did the Council vote on this, or did you make the decision unilaterally?"
Satele seemed to count silently to ten. "The Council did not vote on the matter. And even if we had, you would be expected to recuse yourself, because you are her sister."
"Oh no, Master Shan. I wouldn't dare recuse myself, because it seems to me the Council lacks a certain concern for their personnel where Rhiabe is concerned," Lethe respondedicily. "She is damaged, but that does not make her disposable."
Something behind Satele's eyes snapped, visible even over the holo. "That's not true, and you know it. Sometimes battles must be fought."
"But not by you, I notice." Lethe took comfort, a kind of vicious pleasure that she'd elicited any kind of reaction from the ever-icy Satele.
"Rhiabe is fine. She and her crew—all alive—are returning to Coruscant. Perhaps you would like to join her there?"
"I will," Lethe answered.
"The Council is going to vote on whether to grant her the title of Master. Perhaps you would give your opinion now?"
Lethe gaped at Satele. She did not even try to censor herself in the name of diplomacy. "What idiot came up with that idea?"
Satele arched her eyebrows, silently answering the question.
Lethe did not retract her question, nor did she apologize for it. "I think that would be a horrible idea. Rhiabe is injured, she needs time to rest and recuperate, to heal. Making her a Master will just make her angry, and she doesn't need more of that." More than that, she and Rhiabe were in agreement: it was ridiculous for Lethe to be a Jedi Master—and a member of the Jedi Council—when she was only twenty-two!
More than that, Lethe was aware of the sludge-like dark currents lurking deep in her sister, felt certain that giving her the title of Master would only cause Rhiabe more pain, more distress. She'd been Sith for nine months, she carried deaths and betrayals, campaigns against the Republic and who knew what else. Giving her the title of Master would only reinforce her awareness of the gulf between what she had been and what she was expected to be.
"If you really seek to honor Rhiabe, Master Shan, then let her remain a Knight, fielding missions within her scope of talent," Lethe said quietly. "Otherwise, you'll only do more harm than good." She wouldn't, for worlds, betray Rhiabe's trust by pointing out that she sometimes caught whiffs of the grief, the remorse, the self-loathing that drove Rhiabe.
Satele nodded slowly. "Thank you, for your candor."
"If you want to thank me, you'll take this ridiculous notion off the table," Lethe noted peevishly.
"Is there anything else?"
"No, Master Shan," Lethe answered automatically. "Thank you for your time."
"They sent her back after the Emperor?" Nadia asked, fingers of one hand against her mouth, aghast.
"It seems so," Lethe answered, sending out soothing currents through the Force towards her Padawan. "I think we should set course for Coruscant immediately, don't you?" Coruscant was, after all, their next destination anyway. What did it matter if they showed up a few days early?
"Did you know?" Nadia asked Praven, who stood in one entryway, looking somber.
"…Rhiabe gave me reason to suspect something was afoot," he answered carefully. "But I didn't pry."
"What did she say?" Lethe asked, biting her lip.
Praven sighed. "She simply wished to hear me say that I would look after you."
That was so classically Rhiabe. She worried so much about everyone else, and never, ever worried enough about herself.