Before Luke knew it, the hours turned into days, the days into weeks. Life in the castle settled into a routine, if a rather odd and peculiar one. He never did find the kitchens, but a breakfast, piping hot, was by his bedside no matter when he awoke. In the evenings, he joined the Beast in the Lavender Salon, a far more intimate spot for eating than the Crimson Dining Room, where they sat across a simple table meant to hold no more than four people.
At first their conversations were stilted, limited mostly to the weather (it was always sunny and warm on Diswalt, he soon learned). But as time passed, their discussions turned to deeper, more personal matters. He told her the more comical stories about growing up on Tatooine, causing the Beast to snort blue milk through her nose at his description of his uncle's face when Lars found the krayt dragon's egg Luke had hidden under his bed.
She, in turn, shared with him her favorite works of Alemanian literature and her love of Weinna classical music. It turned out the White Workers were rather skilled musicians after all. But the best thing about the impromptu concerts was they allowed him to sit back and watch the Beast as she listened. With her yellow eyes closed so she could concentrate on the music, he could almost pretend they just another young couple, spending their evenings getting to know one another.
Of current events in the galaxy, they both remained mum. The words Rebellion and Emperor never once crossed their lips. But thoughts of Leia and Han, of Threepio and Chewie, were always present in Luke's mind. And at times, he would glance up suddenly and catch the Beast looking at him with pity – or was it sadness? – in her gaze. Although she'd stopped calling him a prisoner and life in the castle was luxurious beyond his wildest imagination, he couldn't forget what he was – or who she was.
Except, perhaps, during his favorite time of day. Every morning, he would join the Beast in what he learned was called the Ivory Ballroom, where a very different dance than the one for which the room was intended took place.
The Beast knew how to wield a lightsaber, but she had a tendency to rely on brute strength and blunt use of the Force instead of technique and finesse. She confessed her past opponents – she'd stumbled over that word and he looked away – did not have the Force and so she was not accustomed to facing someone with Luke's abilities.
She was a very quick learner, however.
The red-violet blade came from out of nowhere. It clashed against Luke's blade, the harsh sound ringing in his ears, and twisted. Hard. His lightsaber flew out of his surprised grip, toward the far left corner. "Touché!" exclaimed Looma from his usual position in the door. "One point for the Mistress. Now you are tied, n'est pas?
Luke rubbed his wrist. "That was new," he said to the Beast. "I was expecting you to attack from the right. I left myself wide open."
She shut down her weapon and tossed her braid over one shoulder. "I kept my presence shielded. As you did in the last match."
"You also bided your time, waited for your moment," he pointed out. "You weren't as impatient as you usually are."
She smiled. She did that more often, he'd noted. It brought color to her pale cheeks, banked the strange yellow fire in her gaze. It also caused his stomach to do the most disconcerting backflip. "It's…strange," she said, appearing to pick her words carefully. "I've always known it best to strike fast at my enemies to cause fear. I let anger guide my arm. But lately..." Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. "Well. Perhaps there might be other ways to use the Force."
He knew it was ridiculous, but pride in his ability to teach, as he has been taught, swelled his chest. Even though she was a Beast, and he was no doubt only helping her gain more power to vanquish her enemies. Her enemies, who were his friends. But perhaps even a Beast could change its hide? To hide his confused thoughts, he walked to the corner and picked up his lightsaber. "Time for the deciding match?"
"Do you really have to ask—" She swallowed her last word as K'gworth pushed his way past Looma and into the room. He made a straight line toward the Beast, never once glancing in Luke's direction.
"Mistress, I am sorry to interrupt…" K'gworth whispered the rest into her ear. The pink glow left her face, her smile gone as though wiped off a transparisteel viewport with a cloth. When he finished speaking and stepped back, she ran toward the door on uneven legs, her usual grace missing.
"Beast?" Luke called after her. "What's wrong?"
She didn't answer, and soon disappeared from his sight. K'gworth stared after her, his shoulders slumped
"K'gworth?" Luke asked. "What did you say to her?"
K'gworth straightened his back and turned to face Luke. His moustache bristled, bouncing between his lips and nose. "This…this," he sputtered, "this is all your fault, boy!" He stomped after the Beast, his boots ringing on the polished stone floor.
"Looma?" Luke turned to the Gaulian, huddled against the doorway. "Do you know what is going on?"
"Non," Looma answered. He appeared to have folded over, like a wax candle left aflame too long. "But I must leave. You will excuse me?"
"Of course," Luke answered. But Looma had already exited, his shoulders slumped and drooping.
Luke waited for the Beast in the Lavender Salon that night like always, but she didn't appear. He went to bed without a glimpse of her. The same happened the next night. And the next.