Thank you, Athena, hope you'll like this one as well.

And more is right here, Farore. Yes, I thought it interesting to bring some other characters into the scene and not only Obi-Wan, Anakin and a couple of others.

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"There is a reception tonight. Get ready," Palpatine ordered, and Nais heard the door to her private boudoir swish close behind him. Not so private, in fact.

A reception. Slowly she rose from the low ruby-red couch, almost loath to leave its silky comfort, and walked over to a tall wardrobe, turning on a fan as she passed it and letting the cool air wash over her, basking her bare skin in gentle waves. Opening the tall mirror-doors of the wardrobe with both her hands she stood there stock-still like a graceful marble statue, inspecting her possessions. Her hematite eyes swept the clothes critically, with almost boredom of a spoilt woman of fashion. Light as feathers her fingers ran through the fabric. Finally she chose three items and threw them onto the chair. Shifting the mirrors so that they focused at the center of the boudoir she stood between them and scrutinized herself.

Slender hips, high breasts, porcelain skin, white and delicate, almost translucent... and what's that? His bite! Damn! She rubbed at the spot, knowing it won't help, then turned her attention to the garments on the chair.

White flowing silk with pearls, embroidered into it in an elaborate design. She lifted it to her lips and breathed in a light aroma of gentle flowers. So light, so pristine... too pristine for a courtesan on a meeting of politicians. She looked up above the soft silky material and her eyes met those of her reflection in the mirror.

~Could I ever guess – back then when I was that little girl who could watch fashion shows for hours on end – could I guess that 'Chancellor's aide' and 'courtesan to a Sith Lord' are synonyms?~

She wasn't sure what the word 'Sith' meant exactly, and for her it implied him, Palpatine – Sidious. Yes, he had told her his 'shadow' name. And not because he trusted her - there was no such word in his vocabulary - but because he knew - as did she - that she would never be able to escape him or harm him. She was a strong woman - most of all in spirit - but not strong enough to stand against Sidious. And the Dark Lord seemed to take exponentially more pleasure in her subjection, in subduing her.

A rebellious nature, once in a while she made a daring and desperate attempt to escape her gilded cage – only to have her chains press harder on her. He called her his 'wild cat' and tormented her, and played with her like with a captured prey – sometimes like a big sated and that's why good-natured dog, sometimes like a hungry disheveled wolf with glowing eyes.

Such passion was unexpected in a man of his age, but he time and again proved the old saying that looks deceive. The body of a man who had – inevitably – started to age held the spirit of great power and hellish intensity. She was his possession, his plaything to toy with to amuse himself. And she was powerless to change anything. But she kept trying and would do so until her last breath. She would try to destroy him.

Destroy him! It sounded so sweet! Absently her fingers found a marble statuette on a low table and clasped it tightly. How much she wanted to hurt him! To bring him pain! Her fingers squeezed the statuette tighter until her knuckles became white. To spit into his face. To throw this statuette at him, to see his heard smash with squelching sound...

Just throw it!

Shrill ringing of broken glass startled her out of her bloodthirsty haze. What had she done? A beautiful crystal vase was lying on the crimson velvet carpet in sparkling pieces, like tears she didn't have. A vase HE had given her not as a gift – there are no gifts for things. He had simply given it to her, had put it into this room. She smiled almost triumphally, and there wasn't a wee bit of regret in her smile. Droids would clean the mess...

A small victory. Meaningless, but victory nevertheless.

As her eyes fell onto the chair she remembered what she was supposed to be doing. With a sigh she lifted the white dress from the floor and laid it aside onto the couch.

Red one? Throwing it over herself she contemplated the long dress – flowing material, leather insets. It would accentuate all the right places... But red? She swept the room with her gaze. Would red haunt her everywhere? If it was his favourite colour it didn't mean she had to like it too. And it certainly didn't mean she had to wear it. With a resolute wave of her hand the red dress was lying next to the white one.

That left the green dress. Dark-green velvet, austere, but exquisite. Yes, this one.

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The ship – a small dot in the vastness of hyperspace – was making its way to Tar Adnom, Obi-Wan's homeplanet. The panorama outside the viewport was neither multifarious nor of any interest: only streaks of light – billions of stars turned into lines with the power of speed. And still the young Knight kept his vigil, sitting in a chair at the viewport. His eyes – the blue-gray pools of troubled thoughts – never left an unseen spot somewhere in the non-existent infinity. The lights were down, symbolizing the night and letting the Padawan to take his rest and the Master to wander in a fairyland of thoughts.

Anakin was sound asleep on one of the sleep-couches, snoring quietly. He shifted slightly and murmured something incoherent into the cool air of the room. Disturbed, Obi-Wan looked at him, but the boy seemed to be far in a dreamland. Not trusting his eyes in the dark room the Knight resorted instead to the Force. Gingerly he reached into the bond – a tiny spot in his mind, shining with life and energetic vibrancy Anakin radiated. Delving into the sensation, he reached deeper, then sighed.

Just a dream. Not even a nightmare. Slowly extricating himself from the mental contact, Obi-Wan returned to his thoughts. But another notion had already made its way into his mind, demanding attention. What if he contacted his mother? Tar Adnom was in two days' journey from Coruscant. What if something happened to her before they arrive? Would he never see her again? Or was it more like never see her at all – for he could barely remember her face.

The thought opened the door for anxiety to creep in. She wasn't Force-sensitive, as far as he knew, but he had heard that a contact between close relatives was possible even if only one of them could access the power of the Force. And what relative is closer than a mother?

Determined, he closed his eyes and centered himself. As always the Force was there to cradle him in its warm embrace, to stroke him and nurture him, offering consolation should he need it. He dived deep into the Force, knowing what he wanted to find. Time matters not in the Force but time had passed and – nothing. There was no trace of Tanarine Nobbs as though she didn't exist at all. Frustration swept him in a torrent of emotion almost palpable in the fine shimmering web of the Force. Why couldn't he sense her? Maybe it was all a lie, and relatives couldn't be contacted?

He reached for his brother next – and immediately found Owen, his presence dim and blurry in the distance, but there, in his mind. Why couldn't he find their mother then? He reached for his father to confirm the theory and…

What was that?

A freezing stab of fear pierced his heart, freezing his insides. Something dark materialized in the Force, reached for him – curious – only to vanish abruptly as a shrill shout sliced through his meditation.

"Master?"

Anakin?!

"Anakin? What's wrong?"

The Padawan's face was ghostly white in the uneven light of stars, twisted with worry as he stood before Obi-Wan. "Master, you were talking and… shivering. Are you alright?"

Only now Obi-Wan noticed the short tremors that still rocked his body. Taking a deep breath he struggled to calm himself. "I'm fine, Padawan." He could only hope his voice wasn't too shaky.  "Why are you awake?"

"I was… um… talking to Master Qui-Gon." Obi-Wan frowned – sometimes Anakin insisted he could talk to Qui-Gon in his dreams or meditations. But it wasn't possible. The boy wasn't connected to the deceased Master in any way, and if Obi-Wan couldn't see Qui-Gon or hear him why would Anakin? Why would Qui-Gon visit Anakin and leave Obi-Wan alone?

But deep in his heart, in a place he tried to conceal even from himself, Obi-Wan knew – or thought he knew – [i]why[/i]. Perhaps, that knowledge had been born on that dreadful Council meeting or, maybe, it had always been there, originating from the first rejection…

Anakin threw him apologetical look as if saying 'I'm sorry you can't talk to him too."

"He was telling me something… I… I forgot. And then he said I must wake up. He said you needed me." The boy looked uncertain, almost afraid.

"No, Anakin, everything's all right. It was just a dream you saw…"

"It wasn't a dream," Anakin protested. "Master Qui-Gon [i]was[/i] there."

Obi-Wan sighed. "Anakin, Qui-Gon is dead." Oh, how hard it was to say those words! The words that cut his heart like thousand knives. "You better go back to sleep." Sensing a pout on Anakin's face, Obi-Wan smiled faintly. He guided the boy to the sleeping-couch. "Sleep well, Padawan."

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The huge hall blazed with artificial lights as the reception stretched well into the night. People and aliens alike, dressed in parade outfits of all colours and styles – sometimes simple but elegant and sometimes intricate and variegated – were gathered in small groups, engaged in small talks or full-blown political debates. Servants sailed between them soundlessly, serving snacks and drinks. Here and there lights, sneaking around the vault of the ceiling, highlighted a gathering of people – some listening intently, some gesticulating in passionate heat of a debate.

As a god of feast Palpatine moved through the crowd effortlessly, dropping a word or two here and there. He spotted two beautiful women, standing separately, and approached to greet them.

"Master Gallia, Master Billaba," he said, lowering his head in a polite bow. "I am delighted to see you here."

"The pleasure is ours, Chancellor," Master Billaba replied guardedly, her hazel eyes giving away nothing of her feelings.

In his thoughts Palpatine paused to admire her – strong and beautiful – the very embodiment of a Woman. Enigmatic. Her being a Jedi only added to the image of almost perfection.

"Forgive me my curiosity but where is Master Kenobi? I am used to seeing him on such occasions." ~How are you going to explain the absence of you top PR-darling?~ He thought with a mental sneer.

"I'm afraid he had to leave the planet, Chancellor," Master Gallia replied not yet coldly, but ice shone in her azure eyes, saying 'not your business'.

For a moment Palpatine contemplated her, then with another bow he excused himself.

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Nais stood on the balcony that encircled the hall, overlooking the crowd below. The official part of the reception was long since over, and she preferred to hide herself in the shade of the balcony's drapes, watching, staying unseen. Soft footsteps alerted her to another's presence, and a moment later a hand lowered to rest on her shoulder.

"What are you watching?" said the familiar voice – the voice she once loved, the voice she now hated.

"A man over there." She pointed down in the direction of the one who had caught her attention. "He's been standing there for half an hour already. And he doesn't seem to be a politician." ~Not only do you use my body – you use my perceptions, too,~ she thought tiredly, feeling bitterness raise in her throat.

"Ah, that! Wonderful, just wonderful." Palpatine seemed to be pleased. "That, Honey, is Count Dooku – a former Jedi and a very useful man, if you know how to use him properly."

The smile on his face could make any heart freeze.

~Sometimes he doesn't need his cloak and hood to look like a Sith Lord,~ Nais thought.

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