AN: Note to self: never try to write a story during AP history class. Last year, I was very bored while my prof was covering the Cold War when I started writing a short story about some Adumari OCs of mine. I got the first two parts done, then it died, because I realized that it was just a SW gender-bending knock-off of Jane Eyre.

Violence is Not a Virtue

It figured that the head carpenter would choose me to be the scapegoat. I was the youngest member of the work team, eighteen years old but looking much younger thanks to my neglected, dust-covered mop of hair. It wasn't unusual for the other men to single me out for punishment when someone screwed up. Maybe I gave off the aura of a victim, attracting bad luck like a light draws glitnats. Maybe I just had cursed stars deciding my fate.

"Ke Maideri, we're two days behind schedule. Go tell Madame, but be careful - she's been in a bad mood lately."

I wasn't looking forward to the task set before me. Iarla Bacherr, perator of Halbegardia, bore a reputation second to none. For not only was her father a foreigner, but she had been raised on exotic worlds like Mon Calamari and Corellia. She had a strange accent, odd habits . . . and that wasn't the worst part.

During fits of rage, her abusive tongue and tendency to violence were inconceivable to her relatively sheltered subjects. Madame Iarla possessed a vocabulary that put pilots to shame. Her subordinates were constantly in fear of her abrupt mood swings, which could be triggered by anything from a squeaky floorboard to a hiccupping chambermaid.

I wasn't any different. Standing before the entrance to Her Lady's private study, I was shaking – literally trembling. I used to pride myself on my unfaltering courage; but now? I was scared of a woman. I knocked tentatively, heard a peevish "Enter" in response, and stumbled inside.

I took a long look at Iarla Bacherr – partially to satisfy my own curiosity, but mostly to survive the other men's interrogation when I returned. She was utterly unlike Adumari women: dark-haired, ivory-skinned, with a symmetry and purity of form that reminded me of an old engraving my mother had of the Goddess of the Night. Her mouth was curled down indolently, her lashes brushed against aristocratic cheekbones – they lifted, and her eyes caught me. They were pale and light, a shocking mix of blue and grey, burning with a passion that contradicted her overall languid expression. She was not what I would have called beautiful; yet striking, gifted with an allure that made it difficult for me to lower my gaze.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but—"

She rose slowly and stalked towards me. She was unbelievably tall – her head was equal with mine, and I was known for being of great stature. I swallowed uneasily.

"What do you want?"

"Ma'am, the head carpenter has sent me to tell you that—"

"If you have bad news, don't be oblique."

I toyed with the ruler on my belt. "The work team is behind on the grand hall repair, ma'am. It is hard to refinish the wood molding, as you know—"

Iarla's cheek twitched. "How far behind are you?"

"Two days."

"Dammit." Her skin began to flush, and I noticed a tightening about her mouth that did not connote good humor. "Kriff the heavens above. Kriffin' hell. How long have you known this?"

I took a few steps backwards. "Several days, ma'am."

Her eyes blazed and roamed around the room wildly. "Tell your krelling boss that I want all efforts increased twofold. I don't care if everyone works overtime with no pay. Shavit, I need that finished in a week's time!"

"Yes ma'am. I'll try, ma'am."

She began to inch towards a porcelain vase, and I sighed. If I got bashed in the head with an antique, I would not be responsible for my actions. Madame Iarla Bacherr might be a spitfire demon, but if irritated my temper broke most bonds of convention. I hated how others maltreated me, and occasionally my exasperation expressed itself in my actions. I prayed that she wouldn't throw it – and for a second, I thought she didn't have the nerve. Then, those bright, mad irises glinted irefully; she grabbed the ceramic pot impulsively, and hurled it at my unfortunate head.

Panic must have slowed my reflexes, for the object collided with my left temple before I had time to move. I felt keen pain, the trickling sensation of profuse blood, the accelerated bounding of my heart. Adrenaline rushed through my veins, and I snapped. Lost all control, all restraint. It wasn't proper, but sithspit, I was pissed off. What right did she have to chuck things at me? Nobility and elegance couldn't excuse the rudeness of the matter.

"I'm a human being, not a wall, you little wench. I'll ask you not to throw things at me."

Iarla stamped her foot indignantly, and started towards a glass globe. "Don't you tell me what to do!"

I ran forward and grabbed her wrist in a vice grip. "I can say whatever I like. I'm injured thanks to you, you impish jade! Now listen to me, ma'am: if you attempt to knock my brains out again, I won't be this gentle. I'll make you forget your own social standing."

"Kriffer. I hate you. Let me go!" she bit out, trying to wrench herself away. I tightened my hold, hoping that her stupid hand would be crushed. "Let me go!"

"The work team will finish when they're ready, ma'am. Perhaps in the meantime you can acquire some manners."

I twisted her arm backwards, and laughed as the tears rolled down her red face.

"You kriffin' man, I'll kick your arse to damnation!"

"Ma'am, nothing could be worse than having to converse with you."

She raised her other hand to slap me; I caught it mid-swing and jabbed down on one of her pressure points. She dropped to her knees ungracefully and growled in a combination of pain and anger. I released my grip, smiling smugly as she fell to the ground with a loud thump. My head still throbbed, but I felt satisfied. I had endured one of Iarla Bacherr's rages – in fact, I had proved myself her superior. I walked towards the door triumphantly.

"I'm sorry. Would you like a tissue?"

I spun. Iarla was kneeling, her eyes calm and full of – was that embarrassment? She waved a scrap of white fabric sheepishly.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "When I'm upset, I just can't contain myself. Will you please take it?"

I crept towards her suspiciously, snatched the tissue, and dabbed at my cut. It didn't seem to be especially deep, but there was far too much blood for a simple gash. She stood awkwardly and took the hankie out of my hands.

"You need to apply more pressure. Take deep breaths, and relax your facial muscles. Let me see what I can do."

I felt a sharp, grinding push against my forehead; Iarla continued to mumble curses under her breath. As the seconds passed, the sensation began to increase, then abruptly stopped. She rubbed the linen cloth across my face and laughed softly.

"That seems to have done the trick. I knew there was a reason why Daddy taught me first aid. Isn't it a shame I have such good aim?"

"Perhaps." I backed up and studied her coolly. Her choler had passed so quickly that this worried, joking Iarla Bacherr seemed a stranger. "If you'll excuse me, ma'am—"

"Please, one minute." She ran a critical eye over my appearance. "What is your name?"

I bowed respectfully. "Haldan ke Maideri, ma'am."

Her lips twitched into a lop-sided smile, out of place with her regal demeanor. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. ke Maideri. From this point onwards, I appoint you my official representative of the carpentry department." She glanced at me again, then straightened haughtily. "You are dismissed."

I rushed out of the room, slightly confused. Iarla Bacherr undoubtedly had a shifting personality. Any more ponderings were soon lost as I became absorbed in my work.

"Did she blow up on you?"

I nodded my head, and smirked. A group of fifteen men had cornered me after my shift ended, eager for information about the infamous Madame Perator. "You could say so. She tossed a vase at my head." I pulled off my bandage to reveal the wound.

A murmur of disbelief ran through the gathering, and Farfex ke Delmur, the crowd's spokesman, frowned. "Bless my ancestors, she certainly slashed you. Will you be OK?"

"Yeah. It's just odd how quickly she flared up."

Farfex leaned forward. "I don't know where Madame gets that from. Her mother was strong-willed, but generally sweet-tempered. Must have come from her father's side. I've always said that Lady Juliene should've stuck with her own folk."

I tried to pay attention, but found it difficult to keep my eyelids open. "Colonel Bacherr was, what, Coruscantian?"

"Commenorian," Farfex corrected. "My wife was the cleaning maid once when he and Lady Juliene visited during the Harvest Feast, and she heard the Colonel using some absolutely coarse language to elaborate on his general opinion of Adumari customs. Did Madame Iarla curse?"

"Oh, yes. It was like I'd hit a profanity pipeline that couldn't be switched off."

The men groaned. A younger carpenter stood and waved his hand dismissingly. "But doesn't her appearance make up for that? So she talks like a man. At least she still looks like a decent woman."

"She's awfully tall," Farfex noted. "And she's got the weirdest eyes. No good Adumari has eyes like that. Lady Juliene, now – she was gorgeous. Long blonde curls, and always a smile on her face. Madame Iarla is just creepy."

I raised an eyebrow. "She reminded me of Selene of the Moonlight; more a deity than a human. That tantrum she threw wasn't quite normal – and would you believe it? After the whole ordeal, she asked for my name and then said I was the 'official representative' of the work team. I can't figure it out."

"Strange." Farfex's forehead scrunched in thought. "Maybe the fact that you didn't run away in terror made her more willing to listen to you. I don't know. But Haldan, I'd be careful. She's a peculiar woman – very curt and fitful. I'd always be on my guard. She's very much a foreigner, and that makes her dangerous."

I winked. "And we're trusting her to guide Halbegardia?"

"Of course. With politics, you need a leader with some edge. Watch yourself, ke Maideri."

"Oh, I'll be careful." I patted Farfex on the back, and began to shake hands with the others as they gradually filed out. "I do have an advantage, though."

Farfex looked lost. "What?"

"I know how to swear in three different languages. Iarla Bacherr seems limited to colloquial Core Basic terms, so I can cuss her out in Antiquated Halbegardian with no fear of either comprehension or retribution. This could be amusing."

AN: Yes, I gave up here. In case you can't tell, Haldan and Iarla were fated to get together around page 25, and live violently after ever – with the help of Wes Janson. And you can tell how heavily influenced I was by Jane Eyre at the time – the carpenter spokesman, Farfex, was more or less a reference to Mrs. Fairfax, housekeeper and unwanted-advice-giver from Brontë's novel.