Apparently, all Sith Lords need a throne. They might be a minor warlord ruling over some small moon and not the autocrat of an impressive empire, but they still feel the need to project power and authority. And in their culture, that requires a throne room with all the trappings. The Sith not being the subtle sort, there is usually a lot of overcompensating going on. These guys feel the need to compete over who can put on the bigger, badder, more intimidating show. Yep, Meetra thinks as she plods in and looks around, this is pretty much what she expected.
There's the regal chair set on a looming dais. It's the focal point of the stone chamber festooned with expensive draperies. The place is big. Meetra estimates this is at least four thousand square feet of ego boosting real estate. Next, she mentally counts the guards who line the room's perimeter to provide the requisite muscled menace. Armed thugs are obligatory for Sith Lord status. Naturally, the space is dimly lit. The Sith do so enjoy their spooky atmospherics. This particular throne room is illuminated by burning torches that crackle and pop. The actual fire—harkening to the flames of war, no doubt—is a nice stylistic touch. It gives Lord Sion's Sith man cave some extra flair. Or maybe that's flare, Meetra smirks.
It's all very staged to her jaded eye. She finds the posturing more formulaic than effective. Evil is indeed threatening. But the scary part of the Dark Side has nothing to do with all this trying-too-hard window dressing.
But there's Lord Sion seated on his throne, enshrined on high doing his best Sith Emperor impression. He looks different than before, she immediately notices. He's far less naked. Today, Darth Sion wears a chestplate of shiny black battle armor that matches his boots. He's sporting not one but two lightsaber hilts displayed at his waist. His hands are gloved and his face is concealed. This time, he wears a full helmet, not the partial mask she recalls from Korriban. That mask had covered only one eye and one cheek, leaving the rest of his rotting zombie visage bare. But today, thankfully, Meetra doesn't have to look at all that gore.
In fact, not an inch of the man's rotting grey flesh is visible. That's a marked change from their initial meeting. Meetra remembers a bare chested and bald hulking male form that smelled and looked of decay. He had appeared like a monster from a scary movie. With shriveled discolored skin that was cracked and split to reveal the bloody sinew and bone beneath. Darth Sion had been shockingly repulsive. In the context of the abandoned Sith funeral world of Korriban, Meetra had at first mistaken him for a ghoul from a crypt tomb come to life courtesy of the Dark Side. Today, by contrast, he looks sort of ordinary. It's honestly kind of a letdown. In fact, what draws her attention most of all is the long-stemmed red rose that Sion holds. As she is marched in, the Sith toys with the flower absently.
The guards prod her forward into the forefront of the chamber. Meetra is presented to stand before the throne. "The prisoner, my Lord."
The Sith nods and dismisses his minions. "Leave us."
The six men with the Force pikes dutifully tromp from the room.
"Leave us," the Sith commands again.
This time, the twelve guards who line the walls also shuffle out.
The doors slide shut and now she and Darth Sion, the Lord of Pain, are alone.
Meetra stands tall and wears her best poker face. She too will wear a mask for this interview, like Sion. Truthfully, she hates the Dark Side penchant for masks. Sure, they're a literal symbol of deceit. But the truly annoying part is being unable to read Sion's expressions. It puts her at a distinct disadvantage now that she can no longer sense his thoughts and emotions through the Force.
For herself, Meetra clamps down hard on her feelings, lest they betray her. She blanks her mind as best she can. She might no longer have mental defensive shields from Force power, but she will thwart Sion's skills by giving him nothing of consequence to sift from her consciousness. Is it working? She doesn't know.
"Meetra Surik." The Sith says her name slowly with satisfaction. Meetra can almost picture his hidden smile. "You have caused quite a stir back on Coruscant," he declares in the electronically modulated droid voice that his mask produces. His Basic is perfect but slightly accented to her ears. "Denounced by the Supreme Chancellor . . . made subject to a decree of banishment by the Senate . . . expelled by the Jedi Order. You are an utter disgrace," he pronounces smugly. Then, Lord Sion leans forward on his throne and observes in a soft growl, "My, how you frightened them."
Meetra says nothing.
"You have an enviable kill count even by Dark standards, several significant military victories to your name in addition to Malachor V, and enough simmering rage to match that enormous chip on your shoulder. From those qualifications," Sion muses wryly, "it seems that you are something of an honorary Sith Lord. I would congratulate you, but you seem miserable for it."
Meetra still says nothing. She'll let Sion do the talking while she observes. It's cliche, but true—bad guys love their soliloquies. If Sion talks long enough, maybe he'll get around to revealing what he actually wants. With the Sith, it's seldom what they profess at first.
Sion continues now. "As fate would have it, notwithstanding all of your considerable accomplishments at such a tender age, you're nothing now. No title. No position. No army. No fleet. No Force. No friends. No family. No home. No creed. You have no role in the galaxy's unfolding storyline now. You're nothing . . . You're no one . . . but not to me." Again, Sion leans forward and speaks in a confiding manner. Unseen eyes lock with hers from behind the mask. "I think you're just what I need."
Ugh. That doesn't sound good coming from the Lord of Pain. Some Sith Lords have trademark gimmicks. This one's trick is that he stays alive through pain. He channels his agony—and the agony he inflicts on others—to fuel his rage. That rage becomes power that holds what's left of his rotting, mangled once human body together. Darth Sion simply refuses to die, and the Force for some inexplicable reason lets him live. When months ago, Meetra struck him down repeatedly on Korriban, Darth Sion each time got up stronger for it. Even with Kreia's borrowed Force power, Meetra couldn't beat him. She suspects no one can.
He's alive and well now up there on his throne chewing the scenery with his amplified baritone rasp. "Ours was an ostensibly chance meeting," he purrs. "Imagine my surprise when I make my annual pilgrimage to Korriban and find you—the infidel—in our inner sanctum, deep within the holy ziggurat amid the tombs of our greatest warriors."
This part isn't mere rhetoric. The Sith seems legitimately angry for her trespass. He glares at her in expectant silence. So eventually Meetra nods and murmurs, "I meant no disrespect."
"Why were you there profaning our sacred space with your presence? What brought you to Korriban?"
"I was looking for someone."
"Yes, I know. A dead Jedi Master. For what purpose?"
"I came seeking knowledge."
"What knowledge?"
"Forbidden knowledge." Knowledge no Jedi on Coruscant could or would tell her. Knowledge of the Dark Side that no one raised in the Light should ever know.
This answer seems to please Sion. "You are curious about our ways?"
"Yes," she admits.
"Good." The Sith nods slowly and settles back on his throne. "We're going to get along nicely," he predicts, still twirling his rose.
"I beat your goons on Korriban," Meetra reminds him, mostly to reclaim some agency in the conversation. Sion has all the leverage currently, and being positioned as the damsel in distress doesn't sit well with Meetra.
"I let you get away," her captor counters. "I knew that our paths would cross again. The Force did not bring us together so that we would part forever."
And here it comes, the long, vainglorious lecture on the Force. Meetra girds herself for the coming manifesto. The Sith love to preach about the Force to anyone who will listen. These warlords have a rapturous devotion to their violent, malevolent god power. As ruthless as they are, they have an almost romantic regard for the Dark Side. Always determined, often obsessive, usually all-in. It's a very different approach that what she's used to. Meetra was raised a Jedi, schooled from a young age in concepts like control, discipline, and limits. She was told what not to do with her talent more than she was encouraged to explore it. For in her tradition, the Force is a tool to be used sparingly.
Darth Sion is seated and relaxed as he riffs his revisionist version of their prior meeting. "I asked myself—why would the Force send me a Jedi? And a broken Jedi, at that. What's special about you? Why are you here, Meetra Surik?"
"I am no longer Jedi."
"Yes, I know. They cast you out. Like generations ago when they cast my people out. That's what the Light Side does when it is angered: It rejects. It shuns. It withholds its vaunted compassion and much lauded love."
That's true. Meetra nods in a rare moment of agreement with her foe. She knows that the Order views her and Sion as functionally interchangeable now.
Sion keeps up his history lesson. "Those Dark Jedi who were marooned in the farthest then known reaches of space met a likeminded humanoid species. The red ethnic Sith shared their Force sensitivity. They intermingled to create an empire here on the far side—on the Dark Side—of the galaxy."
"You're not a red Sith." At least, she doesn't think Sion is. But really, who can tell at this point?
He answers, "I have much Jedi ancestry." It's something of a boast mixed with a taunt. "That surprises you? It shouldn't. To this day, thousands of years later, there are those among the Sith who look indistinguishable from your own kind. They could walk into a Jedi Temple and no one would be the wiser until their lit their saber. Beware," Sion leers, "for someday we may walk along your streets and no one will be the wiser for it."
"You used the Mandolorians for that already," Meetra observes sourly.
"Indeed. Why fight your own battles when there are local malcontents willing to do it for you?"
Whatever. Enough of this small talk posturing about the past. This is all very interesting, but it's not what Meetra wants to know. Being the impatient and direct sort, she comes right out to ask, "What do you want with me?" Meaning why hasn't he already killed her like the rest of the Jedi he hunts.
Sion regards her steadily from behind the mask. Finally, he reveals almost begrudgingly, "I want you out of my head."
"What?" She's not following.
"I could handle this problem expediently. I could kill you. That would resolve the issue permanently. But you intrigue me."
Meetra is confused. "I can't be in your head. I can't do that any longer." She used to be an expert on telepathy and an inveterate mind reader. But no longer.
Darth Sion disagrees. "You do it all the time. I assumed it was an intentional ploy, but now I'm beginning to think it's unconscious. You don't even realize it, do you?"
Realize what? "I don't understand . . . "
"Neither do I. Why is the Force connecting us like this?"
She squints at Sion and shakes her head. Again, she disagrees. "We're not connected."
"Then how do you explain your persistent static in my head?" Her captor is clearly annoyed by her protests. He complains, "You crawl within the recesses of my mind, but your chatter holds no precise thoughts. You are like a ghost, haunting me with your presence but coy about what you want."
"You're wrong! That's not happening!" Surely, she would know if it is-right?
"In fleeting moments, I sense that you need my help. Like a siren, your pain calls to me . . . It made you simple to locate."
This is news to her. Dismaying news. "We're not bonded . . . we can't be," Meetra sputters. "I can't hear you . . . I don't sense you . . . unless . . . "
"Unless what?"
Meetra gulps and speaks her suspicions aloud. "You're Kreia's errand boy. This could be her doing. Perhaps she bridged our minds . . . " It would be just like that treacherous zealot to toy with them like this. How Kreia enjoys engineering Dark-versus-Light confrontations to watch what happens.
Sion immediately objects to her characterization of his role in Kreia's insurgent Force-hating faction. He crosses his arms in a defensive posture and reminds her, "I accept that jihadist bitch's help from time to time when it suits me, as do you. But I am not hers to command."
"I won't let her use me," Meetra herself now disavows any allegiance to the former-Jedi-turned-Sith Kreia/Darth Traya.
"No," Sion decides after a long moment, "this isn't Traya's doing. She doesn't know about this. If she did, she would be jealous. She's obsessed with you. You know that, right?"
"If Kreia—Traya—likes anyone, it's Revan," Meetra grouses. "He was her student. She loved him like a mother. His downfall shook her to the core." It's part of why Kreia fell to the Dark Side, Meetra believes. And Revan's plight is most certainly the origin of her current philosophy of the Force.
"She thinks you're her student now. She's transferred all that love to you."
Meetra's eyes narrow as she frowns. "It's not love." More like obsession.
"I'm glad you see that," the Sith replies. "She thinks you have achieved her misguided ideal by turning away from the Force."
"She's wrong," Meetra answers flatly. "I haven't achieved anything. I am not something anyone should aspire to become."
Sion grunts his agreement. Then, he rants, "Beware Lady Traya and her pointless negativity. Foolish woman, she hates the Force—it's nihilism at its zenith! The Force is why we are here. The Force is life! You cannot abolish it—why would you even want to try? Traya blames the Force for our individual failings, choosing to ignore the gift of free will that all sentient beings are granted. The Force might assist in our predicaments, but usually the far greater cause are our own decisions." Darth Sion pauses to emphasize his next point. Wagging a finger at Meetra, he denounces the woman who was once a revered Jedi Master. "Darth Traya is evil. Any teaching that abhors the Force is evil."
"We agree," Meetra concurs gravely. She raises one eyebrow, cocks her head, and now challenges the Dark Side zombie, "Why are you her ally then?"
Darth Sion is a true Sith, pragmatic in his loyalties. He gestures away with the long-stemmed rose he still holds. "She is a means to an end. Nothing more. At most, a temporary transitional figure."
Wary Meetra nods and wonders: Is Sion looking to use her to exert control over Kreia? Has she become the pawn in a Sith faction power play?
"So . . . back to my problem," the man on the throne now refocuses the conversation. "What do I do about you? I had intended to kill you, but now I wish to understand our connection. The Force wills it, so it must be important. And so, I have a proposition for you."
Meetra eyes him. "I'm listening."
"I will help you face your Darkness. I will help you understand and control it. It might help you to regain your Force sensitivity."
Sion has her full attention with that offer. Meetra studies his inscrutable mask even as she reflexively pushes back. "What makes you think that's possible?"
"If you have the power to occupy my mind, then you still have plenty of Force. You just can't access it. Your fear holds you back."
"Fear . . . "
"Yes, fear. Anticipatory fear is what led you to cut yourself off from the Force, or so Traya says. Is she correct?"
Grimacing Meetra doesn't answer. This topic makes her very uncomfortable.
Sion lets the silence hang heavy in the room. Then, he prods, "Well?"
Lifting her chin, Meetra asserts her own take on what happened: "It was self-preservation." When thousands of voices cried out in terror at their mass murder, the disturbance in the Force they caused was too much for Meetra to handle. She remembers girding herself for a painful mental flinch. But somehow in the act, she managed to completely shut herself off from the Force. Years later, this is still a difficult thing for her to discuss. But Meetra doubles down as she glares into Sion's mask and again grinds out her version of the truth. "It was self-preservation."
Maybe a better Jedi with more inclination to sacrifice would have acted differently. Maybe she was cowardly by not facing up to the consequences of her own actions. But amid all that awful death, Meetra had wanted desperately to live. And like any normal person, she recoiled from experiencing the pain of the extreme losses caused by the mass shadow generator weapon.
The Sith nods approvingly. "I understand the will to survive. You did what you needed to do in the moment, both for the Republic and for yourself. But in the process, you turned away from your power—you surrendered it. That harpy heretic Traya sees this as the ultimate goal. She exults you as her paradigm."
"She's wrong," Meetra sighs. There is no triumph in living separate from the Force, no enlightenment . . . just a pervasive feeling of emptiness. And also, a gnawing, inescapable shame. For which is the greater sin—is it her using a super weapon in an ugly 'ends justify the means' rationalization? Or is it her hiding from the immediate repercussions of that decision? Sure, she later went back to Coruscant to face the Council. But in the moment, Meetra couldn't face the souls she condemned to death. And now, as a result, she exists distanced from the Force, her heart and mind turned away from her god even as she is desperate for a reconciliation.
Her captor seems to appreciate her predicament. Maybe that's because her story is luridly public. Or perhaps it's because she's in Sion's mind right now spilling her thoughts accidentally. He tells her, "I see your situation as a tragic waste of potential."
"And you think you can help me?" Even Meetra can hear the hopeful note in her voice. If Sion didn't already sense that his pitch is working, she just gave it away.
The Sith now stands and begins a leisurely descent down from his high perch. "I can help you make sense of your pain," he promises. "I can help you use it. I know everything there is to know about pain. Let me help you," he coos.
Meetra now starts to panic inside. She is suddenly overwhelmed with dread. For nothing this man could ever promise her could sway her save this single, potent lure. He will help her find her Force. Damn this crafty Darksider. This is a temptation she cannot resist.
But she gamely tries. "I am disgraced, not fallen," she informs the approaching Sith. "I didn't go Dark for Revan, and I won't go Dark for you. I may no longer be Jedi . . . I'm not really sure what I am now . . . but I will never, ever be Sith." She won't be Sion's Apprentice or assassin or whatever he's looking for.
He nods slowly as he keeps walking forward undeterred. "I will help you, but I don't want to change you. I like you the way you are now. With no allegiances other than yourself and the Force. Not Light, not Dark, but grey."
Grey? Meetra doesn't really agree with that summation of her character, but she presses for the rest of the deal. "And in return?"
"I want you to show me the Light."
She blinks. "You want to experience the Light?" Did she hear that right?
Sion comes to a halt before her. They stand a few paces apart. "I want to be healed. Permanently healed. I can't do that on the Dark Side."
"Oh." That is not an objective Meetra would ever anticipate from the Dark Side addicted Lord of Pain himself. He revels in his agony . . . er, right?
"Traya wishes to negate the Force because she sees its two sides in perpetual conflict. Her solution is to reject the Force altogether. But she's wrong," Sion again insists. "I wish to embrace the Force, to experience it in its fullness. All of it."
"Dark and Light . . . " Meetra whispers.
"Yes. You come to me a Jedi curious about the Dark Side. To me, to a Sith curious about the Light. You're an anxious guilt-ridden mess with a bad attitude and I'm a perpetual wreck precariously alive. We are not so different—"
"We are very different!"
"Only superficially," he chides. "Meetra Surik, you are broken. No, do that deny it. You know it to be true. I look at you and I see a wounded soul in a beautiful body. Whereas I am a whole soul in a crippled form. You are my inverse, if you will. Light to Dark, Jedi to Sith, female to male, Republic to Empire. That cannot be a coincidence. Do not see us as adversaries, see how we complement one another . . . how we might help each other."
Wary Meetra takes a physical step back. If nothing else, she will literally distance herself from Sion and the appealing bargain he presents. "You want to use me!" she accuses.
Sion doesn't deny it. He merely downplays it. "We will both benefit. You do want your Force back, don't you?"
Uncomfortable Meetra shifts her weight where she stands. That she's even thinking about this scheme is humiliating. A good Jedi would never consider this bargain. They would immediately rebuke Darth Sion for the Sith devil he is. But who is she kidding? She was a terrible Jedi even before the Order threw her out. And now, there are no more rules to break and no more people to disappoint. She might as well intrigue with the zombie Sith. Who knows? Maybe it will help her learn how to thwart him in the long run. And if it enables her to regain her Force, then all the better. Maybe if she does regain her power, she can kill him.
Meetra knows she has nothing left to lose at this point. That makes her equal parts impulsive, reckless, and dangerous. What's worse—she doesn't give a fuck about those shortcomings. She's let all that go. So, if this unholy alliance causes a disturbance that the Council Masters sense back on Coruscant in their meditation, she's cool with it. Let them stew in their sanctimony while she takes risks out here in wild space. Meetra refuses to apologize for wanting her Force back.
Sion is inscrutable behind that unblinking mask, but she's pretty certain he knows exactly where this is heading. So rather than put up a show of saying no just to say no, Meetra starts asking questions.
"You, Nihilus, and Kreia are hunting Jedi. Why would you want to help me regain my Jedi powers?"
"You're no ordinary Jedi. You don't live by their Code. You're not one of them. Not any longer."
That's true. But she flushes at his words and asserts, "I honor their ideals."
"No, you don't. You saw for yourself how democracy and the Jedi Order failed your people and failed you in particular. Whether you will admit it or not, what you, Revan, and even Traya are looking for is change. You and the rest of the Revanchists started out trying to change the Jedi Order from within. But that isn't possible. At this point, the Jedi Order must be destroyed for things to move forward. It's the same on the Dark Side—we need change as well."
"That's a lofty explanation for a Jedi purge," she accuses. "For genocide!"
"We're not going to compare notes on mass murder, are we?" Sion purrs back with a goading tone. "Because on that point, you win."
Meetra cringes, just like he knew she would. But he moves on, shrugging off the point. "When we're done, it will be time to purge the Sith. Starting with Emperor Vitiate," Sion plots. "You can get behind that task, surely?" he coaxes.
Meetra immediately understands what's afoot. Of course, Sion seeks to usurp his ultimate overlord. He, like every Sith Lord everywhere, wants to rule. These guys desire power above all else. There's nothing they won't do to get it. It's cliche, but true: the Lords of the Sith are ever on brand as the devious, backstabbing power-hungry sort.
But toppling Vitiate has special appeal: "Vitiate has Revan . . ."
"Yes," Sion confirms. "Our Emperor has a fascination with the man, I am told. Vitiate too has begun to question the supremacy of the Dark Side. That's a sure sign that I'm on to something. You and I . . . together we could be the change the galaxy needs."
Is Sion sensing her trepidation? He backs off a bit now. "I'm getting ahead of myself. First, we need to get your Force back."
"What would that entail?" Meetra wants to know.
"You would need to work with me. To let me in your head. To share your knowledge freely. To trust me."
To trust him. That might be the biggest leap of faith of all. "Never trust a Sith," Meetra mutters the age-old maxim that is words to live by. After all, Sith Lords have long been known to have a glancing relationship with truth.
"I'm no ordinary Sith," Sion counters. "Moreover, I'm uniquely positioned to help you."
That last part, at least, is true. Meetra knows that she won't get a better offer.
"What have you got to lose?" Sion prods insidiously. "You have everything to gain. You have the Force to gain. You do want your Force back, don't you?" The mask nods up and down approvingly as he cajoles, "It's only natural for you to seek to restore your power."
Thoroughly tempted Meetra starts bargaining. "I won't be your Apprentice. I will not support you against Kreia. Or against your Emperor for that matter. And I will not help you to entrap and kill Jedi."
Sion easily dispenses with all her haggling. He preempts it entirely by capitulating. "Very well. Set whatever conditions you wish. Or set them as we go. It matters not to me. Whatever you want, we are agreed."
Agreed? Wait—what? "I never said—"
"We are agreed. This need not be a treasonous political plot or an ecumenical religious alliance, if that's what you fear. You may set all the boundaries you wish, and call our relationship whatever label you desire. I shall consider us to be fellow aficionados of power," Sion muses. "Friends with Force benefits, if you will."
"Friends?" Meetra echoes in dry disbelief. That is never the word she would use to describe her and Darth Sion.
But the man insists. "Yes, friends."
The Lord of Pain approaches closer now, waving a gloved hand at the shackles that bind her wrists. They open to fall away harmlessly to the floor at her feet, making a loud clattering sound. Meetra's eyes follow them. She looks down at her wrists and flexes her fingers. She's free. Well, sort of.
Sion must be in her thoughts again because he looms closer to tell her, "The chains that bind you are not those on the floor. They are in your heart and in your mind. In time, I hope to set you free from those as well."
"O-O-Okay," she breathes out shakily. And just like that, Meetra makes an impulsive, ill-advised deal with her enemy.
Sion is still holding the long-stemmed rose. He presents it to her now. "My Lady." He executes a quick, courtly bow from the waist and offers the bloom. "I look forward to our success."
Is she supposed to be charmed? Does Sion fancy himself to be a smooth ladies' man? Meetra awkwardly accepts the flower, unsure what to make of the gesture.
"We will be good together," the zombie Sith Lord assures her. "Come," he urges as he walks her towards the back of his throne room, gesturing with his hands to open the doors with the Force. All the guards he previously dismissed await him now crowded into the small, adjacent antechamber.
"Escort this lady back to her cell," the Darth Sion instructs.
"Yes, my Lord," a guard answers. "But shouldn't the prisoner be cuffed?"
"There's no need for that," his Master responds. "She has decided to stay."
Meetra shoots Sion a peeved look. Maybe she should have seen that little manipulation coming. The Sith are known for making you complicit in your own downfall. But whatever. She tosses her head and steps past the loitering throng of armed thugs. "I know the way," Meetra mutters as she sweeps out, forcing six men to leap to catch up while Sion looks on.
