Immediately after her dinner tray is whisked away, Meetra is marched to her appointment with the resident Sith Lord. Which setting will it be tonight—the throne room or the rooftop greenhouse? It turns out to be neither location. This time, Meetra is escorted by her silent parade of guards deep within Fortress Sion.
This must be the residential portion of the facility. The utilitarian building materials from the detention block give way to decorative stone patterns, intricately carved wood paneling, and ornately cast fixtures. The bright glaring floodlights from her cell are gone. Here there is recessed, ambient overhead lighting and soft, inviting lamplight. There are woven rugs underfoot, art hangs on the walls, and plush, handsome furnishings can be glimpsed through the open doorways she passes. Darth Sion lives well, Meetra surmises as she shamelessly gawks, for what she sees is more akin to a palace than a fortress.
Exotic and luxe are the only words she can use to describe these interiors. Their design is very different from the sparse, often rustic, simplicity of the Jedi aesthetic. This place is over-the-top expensive in a way that would put an Upper Level Coruscant penthouse to shame. But the strong, often clashing color palette and the mix of curvilinear patterns with geometric designs . . . wow, just wow . . . It's a cacophony for the eyes. Meetra isn't certain if it's awful or amazing, but it sure is confident in its gaudiness. And that too strikes her as very foreign. In the Republic, the richer you are, the more refined your stylistic sensibilities tend to become. Core world corporate moguls often live in ultra-edited, superbly chic, one-color hideaways where less is more. Not so Lord Sion. Apparently, more is more on this side of the galaxy.
Has anyone other than her ever seen a private domicile of the enemy? Meetra feels like someone has pulled back the curtain on upperclass Sith domestic life and given her a peek inside. But wait—is this place typical? Meetra has no context to judge. And well, whatever. She's getting impatient. "Hurry up, will you?" she complains to the plodding guards. "This is taking too long." She doesn't want the extended tour.
The guards finally come to a halt before an imposing set of double doors. This is her destination. When the doors slide open, Meetra is ushered in. The guards remain stationed outside as the doors slide shut again.
Where is she? This looks like a communal living room. Like a place where people might relax and hang out once the day is done and the evening meal is finished and there's nothing to do but talk and surf the holonet. It's an expansive room, handsomely appointed . . . and empty. So, what is this-a game of hide-and-seek? Irritated, Meetra stalks forward through the open doors at the far end of the room.
She enters yet another living room, but it's clearly a far more personal space. It's quite dark, but weirdly cozy. The dimness isn't threatening, it's inviting like a candlelit restaurant. Music is playing. That's unexpected. The tune is slowly rhythmic and melancholy melodic. And that just enhances the relaxed vibe of Darth Sion's Sith man cave.
The man himself stands at the far end of the room silhouetted against a crackling fireplace hearth. Fire must be his thing. Meetra remembers the torches lining the walls of his throne room. Sion's facing away again, like he received her once in the greenhouse. Does that posture mean he's mad? Well, good. Because she's mad, too. Hours of overhearing his bloodlust today have her full of outrage that she intends to vent.
She stops clear across the room. Physical distance feels like a good thing in this circumstance. Who talks first? Does she talk first? She hopes so, because she has plenty to say.
Sion beats her to the punch. With his back still turned, he greets her with a dubious claim. "There is more to me than violence."
"Yes, I know. There's roses." She eyes his helmet glinting in the firelight and makes a flippant, sneering demand. "Got another one for me?"
Sion turns to display that he has indeed picked her a trophy bloom. "For you, my Lady." He beckons her forward.
She approaches mostly to show that she's not intimidated. She's disgusted by Sion, not intimidated. Definitely not intimidated.
He presents the beautiful red rose. This one is especially gorgeous. Meetra dutifully reaches for it and he snatches it back from her grasp.
Was that supposed to be a playful gesture? She's not amused. She immediately disdains the gift. "Keep it." She turns away and starts walking.
Sion now starts plucking off the flower's petals and tossing them aside. "She loves me . . . " He tears off another petal. "She loves me not . . . "
Meetra turns and coolly raises an eyebrow. "Tell me I'm not the 'she' in that game."
"She loves me . . . " Sion picks another petal and flings it leisurely. Meetra watches it float to the floor.
"You know, this is pretty heavy-handed flirting." And it's very provoking.
Sion plucks again at the rose. "Alas, the Exile loves me not . . . "
"Damn right she doesn't." Meetra puts her fists on her hips and furrows her brow. Is he getting this? She's not charmed by these overtures.
"I'm out of practice flirting," Sion calls as he casually tosses aside the entire rose and starts advancing on her. "It's been two hundred years. And I've never flirted with a woman who I wasn't married to."
"How quaint. Look, if this is you in a good mood, I think I prefer you grumpy."
"Who's grumpy now?" he coos. Is he teasing her? Meetra's unsure. The obscuring mask puts her at a distinct disadvantage.
"That prisoner did not suffer in vain, nor did the others I dealt with during the flight back. I am much restored. It benefits us both. Now, come," Sion commands, offering his hand. His gloves are off and it looks completely normal. "Let us set to work. Show me your healing skills."
Meetra crosses her arms and stands her ground. "If you think I'm going to heal you after—"
"You will."
"I will not!"
"You will," he counters again mildly. "Come, my dear, come get your Force. It will be pain free this time, I promise. I haven't felt this good in over a hundred years."
Really? "You are that healed?"
"Yes. It is remarkable. I think your presence today might have helped. True bonds are rumored to amplify power—"
"I don't feel the bond."
"I do. It's real, and it's powerful. Come and feel it." He beckons again with an outstretched hand. "Feel the bond and heal me, my Lady." he cajoles.
"No, thanks." She refuses to help this cruel zombie monster who tortures.
The Sith is displeased. He rumbles, "I don't take no for an answer."
Meetra lifts her chin as she answers that implicit challenge. "You can't beat Force healing out of me."
"I have no intention of harming you," Sion responds smoothly. "I will harm another prisoner instead. If you will not heal me, I will be forced to seek pain to sustain me. Another prisoner will scream all night while you sit in your cell next door, smug in the knowledge that you have shunned me and withheld the Light from an undeserving Darksider."
Meetra stiffens at the ultimatum.
"Go ahead," Sion coyly invites. "Sit in righteous judgement of me and condemn another to lingering torment."
This is no idle threat, she knows. Sion will absolutely follow through.
"Healing costs you nothing, am I right? Such a small act of mercy that will save some poor wretch from a night of agony."
Meetra glares. "I hate you."
"Now who's flirting?" he chides.
"I think I might really hate you," she doubles down on her icy disdain. "You are very good at manipulation."
He takes it as a compliment. She can almost sense the smirk behind his mask. "Leverage is everything."
She nods slowly. "I'll remember that."
"Would it help if I played the penitent?" he goads. He's mocking her ruthlessly now. "Show me the Light. Be my mercy," he croons. "How I hate that I must live like this. End my suffering with your compassion," he beseeches with ugly glee. Sion breaks character now to announce, "There. That's my best Jedi flirting. Did it work?"
"I definitely hate you," Meetra decides. "I hate that cynicism in you . . . and in me now." Through gritted teeth, she snarls, "Do not underestimate the power of the Light Side."
"Prove it, Jedi."
Feeling trapped, Meetra looks away as she concedes defeat, "I suppose I have to, don't I? Or else I'll have another life on my conscience." She already has far too many.
"Heal me, and we'll all be better off. Most especially that prisoner. It's a three- way," the Sith insidiously reasons. It's hard to argue with his logic. Sion's offer is a cunning use of the carrot and the stick. He's offering her a chance at using the Force and threatening another to earn her compliance. He has her beaten, and they both know it.
He must be in her thoughts because he approaches closer to purr, "You were intriguing as the bad girl of the Jedi, but you're even better as the good girl taking the hit for Team Light Side to heal me. Plus, look how my threat to torture absolves you of concerns that you are acting out of selfishness by wanting your Force back. I am offering you a guilt-free proposition."
"I really do hate you," she mutters.
"No, you hate what I do. There's a difference. Hate the sin, not the sinner," he reproves. Is he mocking her again? She isn't sure. Because he sounds half serious. "Show me your compassion, give me your Jedi universal love," he posits. And now, he whispers huskily from behind the mask, "Healing me will demonstrate that I was wrong about you. You're not nearly as Dark as I thought."
Annoyed at being so expertly—and thoroughly-outmaneuvered, Meetra decides to get this over with as soon as possible. "Alright," she grumbles, "let's do this."
"How does it work?" he asks. "I have read laymen's accounts of their experiences with Jedi healers, but never seen it for myself."
"What am I healing exactly? Give me something specific to heal."
"The original wounds to my torso are the most troublesome."
"Okay. Let's see."
The request gives him pause. "You need to see . . ."
"Yes, you zombie fucker. I need to see. You don't heal with telepathy."
"But you're the squeamish sort."
"Yes. Yes, I am," she sighs and admits the truth. She might as well. Her mind is apparently a sieve to this man thanks to the bond she cannot sense.
"Is this more Jedi self-sacrifice?" Sion chuckles. "You will reluctantly look upon my sad rot to save some unknown prisoner?"
"Shut up and take that armor off," she snarls.
He laughs again. It's a goofy, dorky snort amplified by his headgear. Clearly, the Sith is enjoying her discomfort. He gushes, "I love how prickly you are. You have a smart mouth and a soft heart. You're so full of Darkness and yet you keep reaching for the Light. So steely you are . . . and yet so malleable. Never change, my dear, never change. I adore your contradictions."
"Get to it."
"Yes, my Lady. Right away, my Lady. Start here." He holds up one arm.
"Me?" she blinks, taken aback. "Wait—you want me to do this?"
He nods. "Undress me."
"Fuck you!"
"Is that an invitation?" he leers.
She rolls her eyes. "I liked you better lecturing from your throne." Happy, gleeful Sion—teasing, flirty Sion—is too disconcerting. Thankfully, his sardonic humor is more mischievous than truly threatening. He's laughing at her but he wants her to laugh too, and that weirdly reminds her of Revan.
"The vambraces first," Sion instructs. "Then the cuirass."
Recalling her desire to get this over with, Meetra starts fumbling with the armor that protects his arms and elbows. It's different from the gear she's seen before, but she figures it out. Sion offers no information to help, she notes. But maybe that's because he likes her touch. She gets both of his arms bare easily enough, revealing the black long-sleeved shirt that lies beneath. It smells strongly of antiseptic—it's pungent enough to make her eyes water. But the plus side is that she doesn't smell his usual decay. Does that indicate he truly has recovered to a large extent? Meetra hopes so. Because she's not at all confident that she can satisfy his expectations for Force healing.
With his arms free of their stiff protection, Sion flexes and stretches. He quips, "My Lady, how you disarm me," while she watches.
Meetra groans. "No puns. Puns are banned. They remind me too much of . . . of . . ." Of Revan. She doesn't say the name out loud but Sion probably senses the thought in her mind.
Shaking off the momentary nostalgia, Meetra resumes the task of removing his armor. The chest plate comes apart in two pieces, front and back. The Sith lifts off the front portion and she stands behind him to catch the back part. Laying it aside, she looks Sion over. He's still wearing the thick black undershirt. It's padded over the torso. Is the shirt too thick for her to heal effectively through? Meetra frowns. She is far from confident about her healing talents. She's mostly mended superficial cuts on her own body. For anything significant, she went to the medics for traditional medical treatment.
Sion is irrepressible. The man doesn't quit the quips. Standing there without his armor, he announces, "I am defenseless against your beauty now."
"Shut up, lover boy," she snaps. "That shirt is a little thick, but let's try it on for now—"
"I'll take it off."
"That's not necessary!"
"I insist." In one fluid motion, Sion yanks the shirt up and whips it over his helmeted head.
Meetra, who is still standing behind him, now gets a good look at his wounds. They are outwardly closed, not fresh and gory. But still, they are enormous and located on the left side. How could he possibly have sustained these stab injuries to his heart and lived? It's easy to see why his attacker didn't bother to take his head and left him for dead.
Sion says nothing. He's waiting for her to speak.
"This is a saber wound. You were stabbed in the back."
"Shot in the back too. That one's lower down by my hip."
"They twisted and dragged the sword tip on exit," Meetra realizes aloud as she cringes in reflexive sympathy. "Someone really wanted to finish you." And well, who could blame them, she thinks as she continues inspecting her patient.
Sion's not notably tall, he's of average height for a human male. But the Sith has impressively broad, muscled shoulders. Seriously, he has shoulders for days. It gives him an exaggerated inverted triangle for his upper body. Meetra had always assumed that visual was the bulking effect of the armor, but that's not the case. For a walking corpse, the Sith is surprisingly buff. Look at those bulging biceps and triceps.
"Do I compare favorably to Revan?" Sion asks.
Meetra blushes at her gawking. "You're more like Alek," she appraises. "He was the muscle of their pair."
Curious and doing her best to seem nonchalant, Meetra walks around to view him from the front. And wow, look at that six pack. Meetra is supposed to be viewing his wounds she will heal, but she's too distracted by his chiseled chest. Because yeah, his injuries are massive but so are his pecs. How is that even possible? She wonders.
"I am remarkably healed in the last ten days. Before then, you would have shuddered to see me."
She nods. "You look pretty normal except for the wounds. Is the rest of you this improved?"
"Yes."
"And where are the other major injuries?"
"Where I was shot on my right hip and a stab to the artery on my left thigh."
"None on your head?"
"No."
"So when I saw your hands before and there was shriveled skin with bone showing—"
"That was secondary decay. It waxes and wanes with my power. With enough pain and meditation, I can heal it completely in most places. But it comes back again. I believe that's because the mortal wounds remain and continually fester. The decay eventually blooms . . ."
"I see." Yuck. Well, at least it's gone for now. "Jedi healing involves the laying on of hands while you invoke the Force. Are you alright if I touch your wounds directly?"
"I figured as much." He gestures to a pump bottle lying on a nearby table. "Use the antiseptic on your hands first. Infection is inevitable, but the longer I forestall it, the longer I feel better."
"Right." Meetra sighs. She definitely has her work cut out for her. Those gaping stab entry and exit points look intimidating.
"Let us start with you merely feeling my Force. You did it before, but this time it will not hurt."
"Okay." Meetra cleanses her hands and then gingerly clasps them with his. They stand together facing one another in the dim firelight.
"Meet me in the bond . . . Feel the Force flowing through you . . . " Sion intones softly.
The connection isn't immediate, but it is much easier than last time in the garden. She reaches for the bond and is rewarded.
"It has strengthened," Sion guesses, sounding pleased.
"I think you're right . . ." Meetra affirms as she rides the wave of sensation that comes with activating their special connection from her side. This time, instead of a sudden rush of pain, it's a flood of private thoughts. Meetra wants to ignore it. She's not looking to pry into Sion's mind. She knows enough about the man to know that she doesn't like him. But the bond blurs the boundaries of her psyche and his. Meetra is aware of Sion in ways she doesn't want to be, but can't stop.
He feels . . . happy. Happy and hopeful in a way he hasn't been in a long, long time. He's relieved as well. Relieved that seeing his flawed body did not immediately repulse her and relieved that she's cooperating to heal him. He thinks her healing—however rudimentary it might be—will be more lasting and effective than healing through torture.
He likes the feel of her hands in his. He hasn't held a woman's hand in decades. Not since one of his torture victims surprised him by asking to hold his hand as she lay dying. Dying is this man's worst fear. He watches others die—he makes others die—regularly. But he himself is terrified of his own demise.
"I'm sorry," Meetra yelps, knowing she's learning things he doesn't want her to know.
But Sion merely nods. "It's always like this. You don't get to choose what thoughts you hear and you can't turn it off. When the bond is open like this, there is no privacy."
Yikes! That doesn't sound good. What is Sion learning through the bond from her? Meetra doesn't want to think about that.
Instead, she focuses on the feel of the Force. A layperson will never understand it, but the hyperawareness the Force brings is comforting on a fundamental level. Even now, as cognizant as she is of Sion, Meetra also revels in the unseen energy around her. It emanates from the fireplace—the heat, the warmth, and the crackle and pop. It's in the weight of the air she breathes, and in the ambient sound of the soft music. For so many years, her mind was accustomed to processing all of these extraordinary sensory inputs nonstop. Then, when her Force sensitivity abruptly went away, her mind's eye felt blinded. Her inner world dimmed. Meetra felt significantly diminished as a person. That shortly thereafter she became a public disgrace just compounded the loss of identity.
But no longer. Standing a captive in the Sith Lord's private chambers, Meetra feels renewed and inexplicably freed. The Force balms her mind and lifts her spirits. She feels content for no other reason than that she feels herself again. And really, isn't that what Sion's hoping she will do for him? That she will heal him so he can be the man he used to be? Right now, he's healing her, she realizes. And he's not doing anything other than allowing her to share his power.
Who deserves healing? Who merits compassion? Those are hard questions. Many back in the Republic would brand her the villain that she considers Sion to be. They would deem her unworthy of help. But the Jedi have long taught that all are worthy of love and compassion, even if they are a long shot at redemption. Meetra has never been a fan of moral relevance, but she's experienced enough to know that life is rarely black and white. She also knows that people can—and do—change, both for better and for worse. Revan is the prime example. And that's why offering second chances has long been a Jedi maxim. The problem is that the magnanimity the Jedi preach to others is not granted to their own. There was never going to be any path to forgiveness for her. Why? Because she's a Force user and that puts her in a different category than the average criminal.
A Jedi who goes Dark is little different than a Sith in the Council's eyes, and the Sith are considered too dangerous to be left alive. The Sith are, quite simply, an existential threat. That view justified their indiscriminate slaughter at the end of the Great Hyperspace War. The Senate and the Order had by that time come to believe that the exile of the original Dark Jedi was a mistake. The only way to beat Darkness once and for all is to destroy it, the Republic decided. Except, as Meetra and the rest of the galaxy now know, Darkness didn't die with the loss of the war. Darkness persisted on the far side of the known universe, biding its time for a resurgence.
But, as Meetra repeatedly told the Council, she's not a Sith. She's never wanted to be a Sith. Some of the Masters believed her, and that earned her the clemency of a sentence of exile, rather than death. Ever since, she has persisted in limbo. She's not really Light, not really Dark. She's something in between that defies the moral categorization of the prevailing Force orthodoxies. Is the Light-curious Sion her analog amid the Sith? Could that be the reason the Force connects them like this? And is she being as intractable to Sion as the Council was to her if she refuses to help him?
Who will Sion become if she heals him? What will he do with his life as a normal person again? And if somehow Sion succeeds in helping her get her Force back independent of this bond, who will she become? What will she do if she's granted a second chance?
Sion knows what she's thinking. "I made myself this way, but it was never the goal."
Yes, she knows. "Your goal was revenge."
"I achieved it."
"Yes. So, what's next?"
"I want to depose Vitiate."
Yes, he pretty much said that in his throne room. "Can you do that?"
"I can try. You are welcome to help. He's your enemy as much as he's mine. And," the Sith reminds her as he keeps spinning his web of lures, "deposing the Emperor might free Revan."
Meetra says nothing. She doesn't have to speak. Sion knows what she's thinking.
"You know you want to help Revan."
It's true. She won't bother denying it to a man who reads her mind.
"I'm not asking you to help me kill Vitiate, just to heal me. Only you can empower me to take a shot at regime change."
"This is about power," she accuses. "You want to kill your Emperor to seize power."
"He's been entrenched for a thousand years. He has served his purpose. It is time for my people to move forward."
"And you think you are the one to lead them?"
"I am not alone. There are others who will join me."
"Let me guess-this is another faction you seek to join?"
"This is not the usual plot. My brother-in-law is highly placed. He could get us access for the assassination."
"Your brother-in-law? How is he still alive two hundred years later?"
"He is exceptionally strong with the Force. I married up. My wife's family is very prominent."
"I see."
"Think about it. There's no need to decide now. Let us focus on healing me first." Sion's still wearing his mask, but Meetra can swear she senses him smile. "I like this. I like you feeling my Force. It makes you so happy."
She sighs out the truth. "I have missed this."
"I can tell." The Sith surprises her now by announcing, "I want to take this mask off."
"Don't bother."
He protests, "I want you to see me, to know me . . ."
"You're in my head, I'm in your head. Isn't that enough?" Meetra feels the need to set boundaries—even stupid, arbitrary boundaries—right now. They help her feel more in control. "Look, you're half naked already. Keep the rest of your clothes on."
"My face is healed now. I'm not who you saw on Korriban."
"Leave the mask on, will you?" she complains testily. "Don't ruin this." This feels good. Just holding hands and sharing the Force with Sion feels good. Sure, the bond is weirdly bizarre. Awkward and intrusive, too. But the Force . . . the Force feels amazing. She could stand here communing with the Force with Sion forever. It just feels right. Like a homecoming of sorts.
"I'm glad that you're in less pain," she blurts out. "I don't condone what you did to heal . . . I hate what you did to heal . . . But I'm glad you're healed." She doesn't like to think of anyone being in pain like she felt from Sion. It's why she found his torture today to be so upsetting.
"I do what I must," Sion responds gravely. He's making no apologies. But he's also not gloating over his sadism. "If you can heal me, perhaps I will no longer need to inflict pain so frequently."
That statement actually sounds hopeful. Meetra lifts her eyes to the concealing mask.
"I meant what I said earlier," Sion sighs. "I hate that I have to live like this. The weakness is galling."
"I will try my best to heal you now," Meetra reluctantly promises, "but I am years out of practice with the Force and I was never very skilled to begin with, so—"
"Just do your best."
Meetra keeps lowering expectations. "This will take more than one attempt."
"Do your best."
"Alright." Wary Meetra takes a deep breath and attempts to focus. She loosens her hands from Sion's and tentatively rests them against his chest.
"You're warm," she says aloud with some surprise.
"You're trembling," he makes his own observation, adding, "Don't be afraid."
She is afraid. Afraid to fail and anger him. Afraid to succeed and enable him. Afraid that this man will drag her down into his Darkness and his plots and the worst fears of the Council will be realized as she continues her string of bad choices. She started out a hero, but she will end up the villain . . . like everyone already thinks she is anyway . . .
Sion's in her mind, hearing her doubts. "Don't be afraid."
Meetra nods, closes her eyes, and attempts to summon the Force to heal. Will Sion's borrowed power obey her command? Will the bond allow her to do more than experience his Force—will it let her use his Force? And for the Light?
It does.
The Sith lets out a long, low sigh at the feat. Meetra herself barely notices for her mind is instantly blanketed by a rush of peaceful calm. It quiets her senses and allows everything else to recede. In the distant background, she is aware of Sion breathing, talking, exhorting even, but all Meetra knows is the pulsing, vibrant swell of the Light. It soothes the mind, placates the soul, and renews the body. It's simply magical. Spellbinding.
Oh, how she has missed this communion with her god the Force. Meetra rededicates herself now with gusto to the Light that cast her out. Take me home, she beseeches the power that binds the universe, forgive my trespasses. I have sinned through my fault, through my most grievous fault, but now I am born again in the Force. Thank you for this bond that is a second chance to make things right. Even if I can't do that for those I have wronged, let me do it for Darth Sion tonight. Heal him so that he will no longer prey on others. Let there be no more victims for the Dark zombie . . .
Is it working? It feels like it's working. Why did she ever resist healing Sion? This feels so good. It can't possibly be wrong.
Her patient seems to agree. "Oh Force, by all that is h-holy on Korriban, don't stop. Meeeetrrrraaaaah, don't stop . . ."
She doesn't stop. But she is panting with exertion now. This level of concentration requires ultimate focus. How long has this been going on? She doesn't know, for her sense of time and place are lost. She knows she can't hold it much longer. No, just a little bit longer. How long is that? She can't tell. Meetra is increasingly disoriented as she keeps channeling the Force to heal.
Sion is groaning deep in his throat and clutching her closer. "D-Don't stop. Never stop," he rasps. It's a harsh command and a pitiful plea, and it sounds bizarre coming from his voice modulating mask. But the point is clear—he loves this feeling just as much as she does. "I never knew the L-Light could feel so goooood," he marvels.
Meetra doesn't stop, and that's a mistake. She takes things too far, too fast. For soon, she has the sensation of drowning. Meetra has dived headlong into the Light and surrendered to its hypnotic power, and now she cannot draw herself out. She's tangled in the bond, not using the Force directly on her own like she was taught. But even this feels strangely fine. And so, as Meetra continues to heal, she yields some of herself. Where does she begin and end? Right now, she overlaps with Sion. And that means her life force ebbs little by little as the life force of her patient renews. She's moved into treacherous territory beyond healing another and into harming herself.
The depletion happens fast. But luckily, one of them is still present enough to sense it.
"NO!" With a mighty shove, Sion breaks their physical connection. The hard push comes as a surprise. It sends Meetra reeling back, struggling to remain on her feet. It interrupts the bond and ruins her concentration. And that abruptly ends her meditation with the Force. Meetra finds herself standing opposite Sion halfway across the room.
"NO!" she wails her instant disappointment and indignation. "No! Please no!" Don't leave her, Force! Not now! Not again!
Meetra is bereft of her power once more. She had a taste of the Force through the bond and now it's gone. In the moment, she relives her panicked confusion in the aftermath of Malachor V when she accidentally made herself a wound in the Force. And that causes Meetra to lose what little Jedi calm she has retained. She is hysterical suddenly. Eyes shut and screaming that she wants the Force back, dammit! For she feels dead again inside without it. Is this emotional outburst childish? She doesn't give a fuck. She will rage, rage against the dying of her Light and she doesn't care what anyone thinks. So what if she's crying?
Only one person understands, and it's the Sith Lord who she just tried to heal. He experienced secondhand the rapture of her reintroduction to the Force. He knows on a visceral level how important this is to her.
"Easy, easy," Sion soothes as he crosses the room to wrap strong arms around her. His touch encircles her body in warmth even as it passively rekindles the bond. "That was . . . it was . . . that was intense," he finally decides on a word and it's an understatement.
"More . . ." Meetra goes there. She can't help it. She wants more. Now. Like an addict ready to relapse, she's all-in for another hit of Force. Bring it on.
"No, not yet! Don't heal," alarmed Sion instructs, "just feel for now. Feel the bond, feel the Force. Just be with me."
Whimpering, hiccupping Meetra is only too happy to comply. She lays her head on his bare shoulder and sags into his chest. She burrows her mind into the bond, snuggling her consciousness into his welcoming Force. It's not the same feel as actively using his power, but it's something.
"Good. Goooood," he approves as she relaxes. "We must be careful," Sion tells her hoarsely. The man sounds stunned at what just happened. He's holding her like she's the most precious thing in the universe. It feels nice. "The bond magnifies power, just like the legends say. We are a true dyad, a pair bond for the ages. And while that is very powerful, it is dangerous too. You are not some prisoner I can use to heal once and let die. I need your power."
"I need your Force," she growls back at him, still upset that he spoiled things. The dyad works both ways, Meetra is realizing. Both of them want something the other can give.
"We must be careful," Sion cautions again, "lest you hurt yourself. Darkness taken to the extreme can consume you. I see now that the Light might be the same. That was . . . you were . . . it seemed . . . "
"I'm fine," she argues back, annoyed at his reticence. What is there to be afraid of? "The Force won't hurt me. Let's try it again—"
"No." He is firm. "That's enough for tonight. You deplete yourself."
"But—"
"Go slow," he overrides her. "The Empire wasn't built in a day." Still sounding awed, Sion worries, "If Kreia learns of this . . . if Vitiate learns of this . . . there will be trouble."
"But did it work?" Meetra wants to know. "Did I heal you? Even a little?"
"Yes. You did more than I hoped. Ah, Meetra, you are simply amazing," Sion gushes and the bond betrays how much he means it. "We must learn to use this. To control it. In battle, this could be a formidable tool," he plots.
She doesn't care. "I just want my Force back." She done fighting the good fight. She's over saving the Republic. She's selfish now, wanting to care about herself. And yeah, she might be down to try to rescue Revan, but she's not interested in getting dragged into the low-grade wars that persist among the various Sith factions.
"Power like this has a purpose," Sion muses. "It is for more than just us. We are favorites of the Force for certain . . . "
Is Sion about to start pitching her his Sith revolution? Meetra's not interested. "I just want my Force back."
"Very well," he declines to press the point. "Are you alright? You had me worried," he frets as he strokes her hair. It feels good, and that has her lingering unnecessarily in his embrace when just holding his hand would give her access to his Force. Maybe it should feel weird to be in Sion's arms, but is it any weirder than being in his head? Everything about this bizarre relationship is inappropriately intimate. They are enemies, she's his captive, and they are neither friends nor allies. But somehow, she's perfectly find being in his arms feeling his touch that gives her the Force again.
"I'm fine," she speaks into his chest.
"You really had me worried there for a moment."
"I'm fine. Quit asking."
"As you wish. We should stop for tonight. You should get some rest." Sion sounds reluctant about that decision, but committed. "The guards are waiting to escort you back to the cell. Tomorrow, keep trying to trigger the bond yourself. Find me and find my Force," he counsels.
"I hate that cell," Meetra complains. "It's boring and cold."
"It is a necessary precaution. You must appear to be my prisoner."
"For how long?" she demands.
"We'll discuss that when I'm healed."
Yeah? Well, fuck that. Meetra pulls back from the embrace and informs Sion, "Your deadline is when I get my Force back. Because once I reclaim my power, there isn't a cell on this moon that will hold me."
"So fierce," the Sith chuckles at the boast.
"Damn right. And don't forget it," Meetra snaps. But then, she ruins it by hiccupping and wiping her runny nose.
Sion laughs again.
Meetra doesn't see anything funny about the situation. "Next time you send me a rose," she grumbles, "don't place it on a napkin. Wrap it in a blanket. Well, goodnight." She starts to stalk away towards the door when Sion starts negotiating.
"The only way you don't sleep in the cell tonight is if you stay here with me instead," he calls.
Meetra's not that desperate for freedom. She keeps walking.
"It's an open offer."
Meetra keeps walking. "No, thanks."