Author's Notes: I'm going to be scanning some of my rough Eclipse fan art soon for my lil Fanlisting site – some of it's spoiler stuff, though, so if you choose to look at it, it's at your own risk. I've put up a couple of polls, too, just for a spot of fun, to see what you have to say about certain future issues – so I'd be grateful if you dropped by and voted in them, in the 'Fan Corner' section. ^_^
And I have a dilemma – when does Bail Antilles become Bail Organa? And which is he in Episode II? He was Antilles in Episode I, but now I'm not so sure…I've called him Antilles here, on a side note, but I'm confused… o_0
Shadow-Angel: I've popped the Gunray scene in here. It perhaps should have come earlier, but hey, no matter!
Strider's Girl: Bit of an understatement, Dooku being old for Padmé, but it's original – and there's nothing better than shocking your readers! ^_~ There's another bit of Padmé and Dooku interaction at the end of this chapter for you.
Merrymoll & Padawanmage: Okay, this freaked me out – you both said the same thing, in so many words, that you didn't know where my story was going! But I'll tell you both that I have more direction now than I did when I first started writing this fic! Honest! You ought to see my pile of notes!
SKYwalker-Blue: A cookie? Sure, have one! *tosses Kris a cookie* 0_o
Diabla: I'm sure you weren't the only one who thought that – I'll ask everyone actually at the end of this chapter! And exams went very well, thank you! Nice of you to ask. u_u
Disclaimer: I'm not even gonna bother… ^_~
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"ECLIPSE"
Part 15
A long, lush stalk of native Neimoidian bamboo stuck out of the reptilian maw of Trade Federation viceroy, Nute Gunray. He was lounging back in the private mud bath of the Neimoidian chiefs, relaxing his feeble body in it murky and viscous waters, now that he was safely back on his home planet of Neimoidia; this large bath was for the use of the upper-class aristocracy only, and was a favourite pastime of the rich, considered both relaxing and sophisticated.
Gunray was up to his waist in the thick, gluey mud, leant back onto the edge of the pool, upon which two young, red twi'lek slave girls sat, massaging his weak, rounded shoulders from behind, their legs hanging over the pool's edge and partially submerged in the sludge. Accompanying Gunray was his aide from the recent Separatist struggles, his old ally (turned paranoid schizophrenic), Rune Haako, and the highly regarded master of the Leningraade Hive, Catarsis Lenin. All four were just having a soothing rest in the mud pool, talking over recent political events with one another within these apparently comfortable confines.
Nute calmly removed the bamboo shoot from his mouth with one of his thick, scaly hands; the insides of the stalk were filled with dark, black tobacco, glowing and smouldering with a low flame. The Viceroy went on to smoothly send a smoke ring from out between his lips – he was such a different character within the safe boundaries of his own home, and with his own favoured company, being both composed and collected.
Haako disturbed the peaceful murmuring of the bath's bubbling mire, deciding to continue with the conversation that had recently waned, "So, you think these Separatists will give us what that…Sidious could not?" he asked; he spoke the name of 'Sidious' quietly and with dread, a chill rushing up his spine, as though he were almost afraid that the Sith Lord might have heard his words and appear to scold him.
Gunray, however, was unflappable; he slouched further back against the wall, the twi'lek masseuses continuing their work, "Well, I hope so," he replied steadily, "It has to be better than what the Republic are giving us at current – the taxing on trade is getting beyond implausibility! They are doing nothing for the good of commerce."
"And is this 'Dooku' as powerful as the Senate's panic suggests?" Haako continued.
Gunray made an uncertain and disapproving gesture, "Powerful, yes, and intelligent," he admitted half-heartedly, waving about his smoking bamboo shoot in gesture, "But I'm not sure that his ambitions are in the right place…"
He took a further puff from his stalk-pipe, before blowing another smoke ring from out of his mouth, sighing contently as the masseuses continued to successfully relax the feeble muscles within his shoulders.
"You mean that he has ulterior motives to just boosting business?" Rune spluttered in a swiftly ascending panic – his nerves had never been the same since the Nubian blockade ten years ago; he'd almost embraced his arrest when it had all ended, desperate to get away from the grasp of the mysterious Darth Sidious. To now hear that another ally of theirs had 'ulterior motives', things which Sidious had undoubtedly possessed in spades, unnerved the frail Neimoidian enormously.
Nute shrugged leisurely, confident that he hadn't fallen into the same trap again with the Count as he had with Sidious before, "He may, or may not. It's just the dealings of late with Senator Amidala that I'm angry about."
Haako shuddered at the name, allowing himself to sink low down into the mud bath, whilst Catarsis picked up the conversation, "That thorn still in your side?" he rasped in his deep, throaty tone; 40 bamboo-cigars a day for the last forty years had done that to his voice.
Nute groaned irritably in the manner of an ill-tempered old woman, "Oh, you wouldn't believe it!" he exhaled languidly, wildly gesturing with his hands, before he replaced the simmering stalk of bamboo into his jaws; "The main impetus that had me joining that former Jedi's movement, besides the overwhelming profit it guaranteed, of course, was the fact that, in my contract, I agreed to sign up all of my forces to that man in exchange for Amidala's head."
"And instead?" Lenin asked in a knowing anticipation, grinning toothily; two of his incisors now peeped over his bottom lip, looking completely out of place on his flat, docile face, due to the fact that they had been filed into sharp, ugly-looking points.
"And instead he's got her to sign and join!" Gunray bawled, accidentally spitting his pipe out of his mouth as he yelled; he watched the bamboo shoot fly through the air before him and land upon the surface of the mire, before it slowly began to sink down into its depths, the thick liquid quickly consuming it and smothering out the meagre fire lit within; Nute ignored it, and continued with his complaining, "I don't wish to be part of the same movement as that– that–"
"Why has he bothered to sign her up?" Catarsis inquired, interrupting the Viceroy before he went off on a rant about how he was being 'unfairly and unjustly treated', something he did all too often, "Naboo is a pathetic planet – it makes no immense profit, has little in ways of produce worth trading –"
Gunray shook his head, "I don't think Dooku's thinking about the planet in this arrangement…" he seethed blatantly, suggestion rife in his tone.
"Then what's he up to? He may as well persuade Antilles and his pacifist prigs to join him," Lenin went on.
"Bail?" Gunray spurted; he rapidly shook his head, "No, Catarsis, you missed my point. I really don't think that it's Naboo that the Count's after."
Lenin blinked obtusely.
Gunray rolled his eyes – Lenin was a powerful and popular Neimoidian, but occasionally, he felt, he was a little on the slow side; "He wouldn't ask Bail to join – he doesn't need Alderaan, and Bail can't, definitely can't offer him what Amidala can."
There was no sign of a tag-on from Catarsis yet.
Nute was tiring of this, "I know the Count's lightsabre's bent, for the sake of the Force, no…"
Bubbles rose up before Rune's head, now half submerged under the surface of the mud, as he chuckled to himself furtively, his quick-wit cottoning on to what Nute was saying.
It was a few more seconds before Lenin finally saw what Nute meant, "Oh," he slowly nodded, "OH! I see…lust and desire for a lady…"
Nute made a gesture of relief, shaking his head discreetly toward Lenin's density.
Catarsis then shook his head, chuckling, "I thought that humans were obsolete in that department long before his age…"
Gunray shook his head once more in gesture, "He denies anything on the 'hormonal' side, but I do not believe him. He has no other reason to need Amidala; Naboo is a complete waste of space in the Confederacy."
"Quit, then," Catarsis suggested, splashing back into the pool and completely submerging for several moments before his head alone resurfaced again.
Gunray seemed to twitch in uncertainty for a moment, before he carried on; "I cannot," he answered unquestionably, shooing off his twi'lek masseuses who were now proving an irritant to him, "I've signed to him, and if I took off now, and did not return, he would come after me – he's no pacifistic Jedi, not at all…I'd give him credit for that fact if it didn't potentially threaten me."
The two twi'leks quickly disappeared out of the chamber at their master's command, slipping silently out of the far door, as Rune continued with the discussion; "He'll tire of her, Nute," he smirked, raising his mouth above the mud, "Let him have his fun. It won't occupy him forever. He's leading a cause he believes in – the former Nubian Queen is a convenient bit on the side, I'm sure."
"Say what you will," Gunray shrugged, having decided already that he didn't like the Count anymore, "But he should put the CIS first."
"Who's to say that is isn't?" Lenin pondered, smirking indicatively, "He may be doing what he's doing for the Confederacy, firmly instigating a strong form of dominance over the lass – I've seen it happen many a time in the hives; Adolphus of the Marxin Hive used his intimate relations with many females to bind them to him.
"The Count is a politician, and doing what they do best – laying the foundations for blackmail, should he ever need to use it."
Nute still wasn't convinced, "Maybe…" he huffed; it seemed too farfetched for an elderly, ex-Jedi, human to go to such lengths.
"Well, he's caused a riot in the Senate by getting Amidala to join him, no doubts there," Gunray's aide, so far silent, now spoke up."
"A 'split' may be the better term," Haako added.
Nute wafted a hand toward them both, disinterested, "As long as Lott keeps on the right side in the blasted Senate, I don't care what happens in there; there's too much talking by people who don't know what they're talking about!"
Rune and Nute's aide exchanged partially astonished glances – the Viceroy had said something relatively intelligent for once! They weren't going to inflate his head further by telling him that, though.
"So, what now? Are your droid supplies being replenished?" Catarsis went on, "You lost a lot back on Geonosis."
"The Count will be paying for our replacements, I assure you of that!" replied Nute indignantly, "He promised to cover much of our artillery costs, and the Geonosian conflicts were all his fault."
The aide was careful not to mention that more battle droids would have been lost had Gunray had his way, and sent more troops out against the Republic; it was Dooku who had advised against it.
Nute had gone on to mumble various obscenities to himself concerning Dooku, running one finger round in the mud angrily before him, when, suddenly, a weedy-looking worker Neimoidian paced into the room, his globular, red Neimoidian eyes bulging out his thin, worn face.
"What is it?" Catarsis snapped irritably at the thin boy, regarding him with a heavily haughty disgust, his brow wrinkling in revulsion; the Neimoidian society was very much dog-eat-dog; the Neimoidians' grub offspring usually did all in their power to kill their siblings, and hoarded food for themselves, becoming, when they grew, the greedy yet successful upper echelons of society; the weaker ones, meanwhile, who did manage to survive their brothers' and sisters' onslaughts in the nests, became the slaves, servants and workers of the Neimoidian hives. Their culture was as simple as that.
The thin creature swallowed, his body trembling, then stuttered tentatively, "Have message for the Viceroy."
"What is it?" Gunray asked, equally conceitedly, the worker a piece of insignificant filth in his eyes.
"Viceroy's message has been relayed to Count Duku…return transmission re-requests that Viceroy Gunray reports for meeting…via tran-tran-transmission…to Count's base on Se-Se-Serennu…for further instructions."
Gunray nodded, understanding the worker despite his flittering and nervous tone, "At what time? In 'Central-Coruscant-Time-Zone'."
The weakling shuddered, "Erm…7:00am sir, his time…so, er…that'll be…9:00am, sir, CCT…" The shabby Neimoidian then bowed in submission, as though Gunray were doing him the courtesy, not vice versa – he knew nothing more than his situation, though, so he accepted it and the way things were.
"Fine…dismissed," the Viceroy continued languidly.
The thin, scrawny boy quickly scuttled away, desperate to get out of his superior's arrogant gazes.
"Looks like Dooku is wasting no time," Haako noted aloud, "It has hardly been two days since the Geonosian conflicts, and you now have but two hours before you contact him again."
"Bit short notice, eh, Nute?" Catarsis said lightly, "But efficient for a human – gotta give him that."
Haako nodded in a discreet agreement, though he did feel an uneasy weight in the depths of his heart – this 'swift efficiency' didn't half remind him of Darth Sidious… And that fact in itself was unsettling.
Gunray didn't seem to express any concern, "Efficient or no, he'd better have my droids replaced, and a good plan of revenge on those blasted Republicans! I will not be constantly made a fool of for the rest of my life through lost battles!"
The Viceroy then slowly allowed himself to submerge down below the mud's surface; truth be had, Haako wasn't the only one with apprehensions…
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Anakin was beginning to lose his patience. Barely ten minutes had he been sat in the dining hall, prodding what was supposed to be his breakfast, and already gossiping young Padawans, who stared blatantly at his metallic arm, surrounded him on tables to both his sides.
He cast his eyes threateningly over all parties daring to look upon him; the Younglings didn't seem to take any note of he, himself, though – they were just gawping in a combination of horror and amazement at Anakin's synthetic limb. It was something that frightened them more than anything, in all honestly; these young Jedi had believed, like many of their naïve age, that Jedi were almost completely invulnerable. Anakin's arm was evidence to them that Jedi were actually vulnerable, and also evidence of the horrific injuries that could be inflicted upon them in combat. The thought kept crossing their minds that maybe one day they would be the ones losing a limb in lightsabre combat, and that thought unnerved them greatly, casting a dark and ominous shadow over the future they had once counted as so bright.
'No one can kill a Jedi'
'I wish that were so'
Anakin was too incensed, however, to even bother to consider how innocent the Padawans' stares actually were; far from being as prying and disdainful as Skywalker's clouded mind contemplated, they were actually very scared and upset, just as he would have been when he was their age.
He grunted angrily at their intruding eyes, and tried his best to finish his breakfast quickly, making an impatient haste to jam every last drop of the stuff down his throat; he had decided already that he was going to return straight to his training today. His dreams and visions about Padmé had come again last night, and had done nothing to console his already confused and restless mind. They had only increased his feeling of urgency to find her, and had made the notion of patience that the Chancellor had inaugurated upon him seem far less significant; Anakin couldn't care less about allegiances anymore – the line between the Republic and the Confederacy was blurring all the time. He really didn't want to betray the Chancellor, but he didn't want to risk completely losing Padmé. And the further away that they got from the time of the Geonosian conflict, the more desperate he was becoming about saving his beloved.
The dining hall slowly began to fill with more and more Padawans and various other Jedi, all greeting the morning with a good breakfast. There weren't as many Jedi as usual in the hall, with the impact of recent events having taken a large toll on their already dwindling numbers. However, the buzz was still noticeable in Anakin's currently touchy self.
A few young Jedi sat cautiously at the end of Anakin's table; they looked briefly at the famous Chosen One, and at the equally infamous arm that he now sported, before digging into their breakfast.
Ani shook his head – he'd had enough of being stared at; true, his horrific injury had only happened a few days ago, and the grim excitement that had emanated about the halls of the Jedi Temple in response hadn't yet calmed down, but he'd rather not have the attention. He'd been a loner anyway ever since his arrival, his background and circumstance differing so much from most of the other Padawans, all of which had been in the Order since they could remember, unlike him. Many Padawans had often tried to befriend him, and occasionally they're efforts had worked, but because Anakin often became so tiresome, people frequently felt both irritated and uncomfortable around him, so left him to himself.
No one knew better than Obi-Wan of exactly how tiring Anakin could sometimes be, but Obi loved Anakin like a son, and understood, as a Master, that he had to do his utmost to give his Padawan the best possible chance of achieving knighthood in the future. Kenobi had persevered and pushed himself to the limit on many occasions in order to try and give Anakin the best, and keep him on the right path – but this in itself was becoming increasingly hard for the poor Jedi…
As the seats around him filled to bursting point, and the loud buzz of chatter wholly filled the cavernous halls of the large chamber, Anakin took one last mouthful of his breakfast, tossed his spoon into his bowl, and shot off to return his plate to the kitchens. He swiftly then left the dining hall, and stormed quickly down the corridors beyond, putting his mind back on his training task – he had begun his titanic training quest yesterday with the basics of Dooku's favoured Form of combat, the notorious Form II, using all of his downloaded information from the Archives. He'd made little progress, however; but little progress was better than none at all. It was difficult teaching yourself from words on a page, but it was better than merely being idle, like Master Kenobi seemed to want him to be…
He could do it – nothing was beyond him. He was the Chosen One.
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"The Separatists seem to have split into their own mini-factions; they're clearly regrouping. We'll have to wait until they become a visible, single force again until any attack against them will be effective," Windu mused, sat in the apartment of Senator Bail Antilles.
"And they'll be wary of us," Bail added, standing by the large windows over the other side of the room, "After seeing our artillery, I doubt they'll want to attract too much attention." He clasped his hands behind his back and paced along by the window, thinking, "They'll move fast along vulnerable yet useful planets, accumulating as many more signings to their movement as possible, I am sure."
"Are you suggesting that we should deploy part of the fleet to the Outer Rim?" Windu queried.
"Only to parts of it that have planets worth defending," Bail reminded the Jedi Master, "It's no use guarding the likes of Colla and Nal Hutta, which have no influence on the Republic Senate whatsoever."
Of course," Mace acquiesced, pausing for another moment's thought; "But what about Naboo?" he then asked in a low tone, his eyes focusing sharply onto Bail, "It's been signed to Dooku, but –"
"But not verified as part of the Confederacy," Antilles finished, "I see your point – the Count will undoubtedly have to pay them a visit some time."
"We need to catch him," Windu quietly murmured blandly, "We just have to."
"It's getting him that's the problem – he's a slippery ol' creature, always falling through and evading our grasp," Bail smiled gloomily; his eyes turned out toward the brimming traffic, cramming the skylines of Coruscant outside.
"What do you make of Senator Amidala's turn?" Mace suddenly queried, his voice rife with concern, "It makes absolutely no sense to me."
Antilles could only shake his head, "Something's not right…Padmé wouldn't join him unless her situation was absolutely desperate," he said without a doubt.
"What did Dooku offer her that made her sign?" Mace mused to himself, rubbing his chin in thought, and looking blankly into space, "There is some foul play abroad – I sensed that much when I was last in his presence."
Antilles turned to Windu promptly, "Or," he announced in a grave voice, "What did he offer to take away if she didn't sign…?"
Mace sighed, shaking his head, starting vacantly at the floor – at one time, he would have denied that Dooku had the capacity to do any kind of blackmail of the likes of which Bail now seemed to be suggesting, but after the Geonosian conflicts, he'd seen a change in his old friend for the worse, and all of a sudden, blackmail was not such a farfetched proposal on the Count's behalf…not farfetched at all.
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A hazy, unsettled morning greeted the Count when he stirred the next day. He'd hardly slept last night at all (though he was at a complete loss as to why) so he felt mightily groggy. To make matters worse, his chest wound had decided to throb and seep for much of the night, so it was a stinging, sticky mess now, causing him much discomfort.
He rose long before even Mrs. Tarso who, as per his orders, which she'd received through her husband yesterday, got breakfast ready sharply, before the crack of dawn, once she had arisen. She seemed to be her normal, bubbly self, though Serenn couldn't help but notice, as she ushered about him whilst he sat at the head of his dining table, that she seemed to be careful to avoid the subject of Padmé; the tension hovering around the subject must be more tangible than he'd previously contemplated.
The light of the dawn filtered in through the blinds of the windows whilst Dooku inanely prodded his breakfast, his mind wandering far and wide as he stared blankly into the pulpy mass that was now in his dish; why was he feeling so…'low'? It wasn't like him at all to wallow in self-pity and reproach himself.
"Is Miss. Amidala awake yet?" he asked Edna, dropping his spoon suddenly into his bowl and looking at her directly as she placed a cup of mineral water before him.
"I don't know, sir," Edna replied, standing back and looking upon her master benignly, "But she wasn't well yesterday, so it may be better to let her rest for the time being."
"I can't afford to," he firmly rejoined, rising straight to his feet from his chair, "I'll be addressing my colleagues shortly, and I'll need her with me." All of the Separatist parties had finally gotten in contact with the Count after his request for them to do so prior to their fleeing from the Geonosian conflicts; it'd taken the Trade Federation until late last night to finally get a message through to him, though.
"No, sir, sit down," Mrs. Tarso asked him fussily, placing her hand onto his arm, gesturing for him to retake his seat, "I'll go and get her for you."
He looked at her for a moment, his face expressionless, before he shook it steadily in a negative motion, "No," he sighed, brushing his servant's hand off of him gently, "I think that the young lady and I need a good talk." He then nodded courteously to his servant, before leaving his half eaten breakfast and the large banquet chamber unperturbedly, walking off to collect Padmé.
Edna exhaled lightly, nodding discreetly to herself.
Serenn didn't knock on Padmé's door when he finally reached it – he just walked straight into her room quietly, making as little noise as possible, something he did deftly; one's aptness at stealth had often meant living or dying on missions with the Jedi, so he had learned that skill well.
Amidala was already awake, it seeming that she neither had slept much last night; she was stood out on the balcony, looking across the chilly, misty morning that hung over the plains before her.
Dooku's gaze tightened slightly as he silently closed the door behind him, before pacing noiselessly across the room, and halting in the threshold between the chamber and the balcony beyond, the glass door of which had been left ajar by the young lady. He stared at the back of her for a long time, certain that she knew he was there and that she was just playing ignorant. She made no move in this pause, no single acknowledgement of his presence, no motion in fear, anger or distress.
The Count resolved to make himself known in a way that would forcibly engage her, so, stepping to her side and leaning over the balcony rail that she, too, leant across, he stared hard at her face, prompting a pressurising aura to arise in the space between them. She still didn't turn to him, her eyes notably red and tear swollen, a sight which was becoming all too familiar on the poor Senator's pale visage, and she only continued to stare out longingly ahead, watching the equines in the distant fields frolic around without restraint.
"Are we taking the 'I'm not talking to you' approach?" he asked grimly, turning further round toward her and leaning upon one elbow on the banister of the balcony.
She swallowed – he watched the lump descend down her throat – but still said nothing, and still made no movement.
"Yes?" he queried in a cruel, toying manner, pushing himself back to his full height off of the rail, and lifting a hand toward her.
Suddenly, she rapidly recoiled, leaping back a space along the terrace, "Don't touch me," she hissed, glaring intently toward him with her sore eyes.
He smiled, merely amused by her antics, and raised both of his hands up in a contemptuous gesture, "Understood, my dear. I don't want another slap."
Padmé remained in her on-guard position, her brow furrowing toward him irritably.
"You need to be ready by 6:45am," he went on plainly, "We have a meeting to attend."
"A meeting?" she asked quietly, this all seeming very sudden; she'd been so wrapped up in her own uncomfortable affairs for the past couple of days that her mind had somewhat pushed the political conflicts of the galaxy to the back of her head, making her almost forget who she was and what she stood for.
"Yes," Serenn slowly nodded, as if to an infant, "You are still part of the Confederacy –"
"But my planet!" she suddenly proclaimed, a ton of thoughts and concerns bursting forth from their resting places in the recesses of her consciousness, where they had lay dormant for the past forty-eight hours, "My people, my –"
"We'll come onto that," he interrupted her with assurance, his hands now gesturing downward, beseeching calmness in her.
"Oh, will we 'come onto it'…" Padmé snarled bitterly, purposely taking his words the wrong way.
He gave her a brief, stinging glare, "I advise you not to take that tone with me," he thundered in an ominously tame manner.
She shook her head, turning away and leaning over the balcony handrail again, letting the fresh air of daybreak brush her features soothingly; "I want to go home," she said bluntly, not realising quite how woeful a level her tone had suddenly dropped to.
He strode behind her and placed his hands about her waist; she inhaled sharply in reaction, preparing to recoil…but she couldn't; the numb, overriding coldness of his unreal and sinister control swept through her rapidly once more, commanding her limbs to his will and keeping her absolutely immobile. Swiftly, the desperate frustration that she had so often felt in this man's presence of late began to build up again, responding to her feeling of alarming helplessness.
"Please don't…" she whispered toward him pleadingly, her breath jarring in her throat at every inhalation. She couldn't see him, but she knew that a grin had now arisen on his face – she could just sense it.
"What do you think I'm going to do?" he asked her pitilessly, maintaining his outwardly affectionate hold of her.
"Something you more likely have no right to do," she rejoined brusquely, turning her head a little toward her shoulder in an attempt to somewhat engage him.
His breath tickled the back of her neck as he snickered silently behind her, "Like you have the right to draw a lightsabre on my turned back?" he inquired rhetorically.
"I had good reason," she retorted.
He dug his fingers a little into her sides, and asked her, with an element of frustration in his tone, "Oh, we're back to pointing empty fingers again, are we?"
"Why would I point 'empty fingers'?" she asked incredulously, "Who do you think I am?"
"Good question," he rejoined sinisterly, sliding his hands round to her abdomen, and holding her tightly back into him; he lowered his head to the side of hers, and continued, whispering quietly and threateningly down her ear canal, "Maybe someone needs a good reason to damn me? Perhaps someone's suddenly begun to panic at the thought of reactions she will receive from her fellow Nubians and Senators, and feels that making me the enemy is the only way out…?"
"Don't be ridiculous," she said quietly, though, had to admit, his words had affected her. She shook her head in an attempt to clear it, adding, "I don't make false accusations…"
"I mentioned no names," Serenn chuckled derisively, "And you wouldn't do anything of the sort, now, would you? Oh no, not Padmé – because you're just perfect, aren't you?"
She decided not to reply – she couldn't get anywhere with him – and she now realised that her feeling of being restrained had somewhat ebbed, so she managed to raise her hands over his and attempt to pry them off of her; "Well, let me go and get ready, then…" she asked him passively, trying to loosen his hold on her stomach.
He swiftly slackened his grip, but, as soon as Amidala had had chance to turn around, he shot his arms out to either side of her, and gripped the balcony rail hard; she yelped in shock, trapped between his two arms, the barrier behind her, overhanging the grounds below, and his body.
"You are a feisty little one," he murmured curtly, shaking his head in a soft yet sinister gesture toward her, "But I'll warn you now, before you try and cut my head off again, I can be a very nasty piece of work when I want to be."
She swallowed, arching herself back away from him as far as she could, feeling the railing dig into her back as she ached to get some space between their bodies; "You have two faces, Dooku," she whispered hesitantly, "And I'm not sure which is the real one…"
He snickered vilely, "Wouldn't you like to know?" he chortled sardonically, "Now, be a good girl…I don't like threatening my colleagues, but they sometimes need putting into their places."
"Or someone needs putting back into theirs," she added riskily.
He grinned again, shaking his head in another contemptuous motion, "Cheeky girl," he smirked, though his tone bellied his expression, being both tense and tight; he lowered his head even closer to hers, adding, "Remember, my dear, I have other ways of hurting you if you don't cooperate, that are much more inventive than a little slap round the face."
She maintained eye contact with him, trying to hold her own as she sank down further before the barrier, his glare bearing down on her with a terrible strength; she felt sick again, her unease returning and churning about in the form of nausea.
"We will go to Naboo soon, Padmé," he said straight, slowly releasing her from his enclosure, drawing his hands back to his sides, and standing erect before her, "Don't worry – I'm sure it'll assent to my cause, though one way or another…"
He turned on his heels and paced away; "I expect to see you in the dining hall within ten minutes," he added before he left as swiftly and as quietly as he had come.
TBC…
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NB: On behalf of Diabla, how many people, at the end of the last chapter thought, "Hit [Dooku] again Padmé - but some snap into it!" ? ^_^ LOL