Portia takes refuge in the garden when she can't take any more of Apollonia's tears or Cato's instructions. The fallout from the Emperor's war announcement has resulted in a lot of personal upheaval. To make matters worse, there is little time to process through it. For Cato will deploy in three days along with the rest of the Imperial Navy. But just for an hour, she wants to be alone to think.
Portia knows she won't find Darth Azamin in his garden this afternoon. As a member of the Dark Council, Lord Azamin is no doubt extremely busy. But she heads for the benches where they often chat. It's a comfortable, private spot. But unfortunately, with spring turning into summer on their humid quasi-jungle world, the nearby flowering hedges have attracted several dragonflies today. They buzz large and close. It's annoying. So when one insect remains persistent about orbiting her person, Portia zaps it with Force lightning. It is very satisfying.
And wait—someone's here! "Hello?" she stands to call out. "Who's there? Lord Azamin? Is that you?"
No, it's not Lord Azamin. She can sense this person in the Force. They are vaguely familiar, but Portia can't immediately place the personal imprint. Soon, she hears the soft crunch of footfalls on the garden path. Whoever this is, they are coming her way. So much for her secluded retreat.
And here come more dragonflies, too. Normally, they are useful inhabitants of a garden, but today restless, grouchy Portia considers them to be pests. Annoyed by their distraction, she whirls and, on a whim, indiscriminately sprays the air with more Force lightning. Dragonfly carcasses drop to the ground just as the mysterious newcomer emerges around a tall hedge.
It's not a servant sent to fetch her. It's Gaius Veradun.
"You!" she hisses her displeasure.
"Did I miss something? Has the war started already? Who are you murdering?"
She's not in the mood for this guy today. Portia plants her hands on her hips and demands, "What are you doing here?"
"I asked you first. What's with the Force lightning?"
"I was zapping bugs."
He blinks. "That was not an answer I expected."
"What are you doing here?" she snarls back. She's perfectly happy to shift the focus of her frustration from the dragonflies to him.
"Vindican's meeting with Azamin again. Azamin's giving him some old recording of a captured Jedi Master who fought a duel for his freedom in the Emperor's throne room."
"Yeah?" Does she sound as bored as she is? Because there's nothing this guy could say that she's remotely interested in.
"He lost. Supposedly, it's the only known footage of the Jedi fighting style. We're supposed to study it, I guess, as preparation for Korriban."
Whatever. "Go away!"
Veradun frowns and advances closer. "You've been crying . . . "
"Go away!" she dismisses him again as she wipes furiously at her eyes. She feels her cheeks redden, so she lashes out again. "Go away, Veradun!"
"It's Malgus now."
Right. She remembers reading on the newsfeeds how the Palace has decreed that all Apprentices who go off to fight will be elevated to Lord status before their official investiture. Typically, a Lord receives his Darth title at the end of his Apprenticeship when he is officially presented to the Emperor. But given the imminent invasion, things are being sped up.
Will Veradun comply with the request to leave if she uses his new title? Portia mutters, "Go away, Malgus."
It doesn't work. He keeps coming towards her rather than leaving. "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"
She's crying because her life is ruined. Because Apollonia has rejected the idea of a hasty informal wedding before Darth Traverse reports to his regiment next week. Her sister has planned the perfect wedding down to the very last detail and she refuses to compromise any of it due to an inconvenient war. Beautiful Apollonia wants a beautiful wedding and she won't let the Republic and the Jedi ruin the day she has planned for herself. She has opted for an extended engagement for the duration of Traverse's minimum two-year wartime deployment. Worse still, Mother and Cato are fully supporting her decision.
"What's wrong?" Veradun—no, Malgus—asks again.
The question prompts a fresh flood of tears that Portia tries but fails to hold back. "My sister's wedding is being postponed!" she wails. "For at least two years!" Just saying the words out loud gets her further choked up. For such is her distress.
The significance of the dramatic news is clearly lost on the Apprentice. He squints at her. "So?"
"So, I'm never getting married now!"
"Why not?"
"Because Apollonia has to get married before I can become betrothed. It's tradition!"
Malgus still fails to perceive the problem. "You're too young to get married. You're still in school."
"I'm seventeen!" she huffs. "Half of my friends already have unofficial informal understandings between their families' and their groom's families'. I'll be an old maid!" she cries dramatically before succumbing to an unladylike hiccup.
"Do you have an informal understanding?" Malgus wants to know.
"N-No. Cato wanted Apollonia and I to wait until we were of age before considering marriage."
"And then he decides?" the Apprentice asks. "How does this betrothal stuff work?" As an outsider, he's unfamiliar with the mating rituals of the upper-class.
Portia schools him. "Lords will approach Cato to express their interest. Maybe Mother will reach out to a few families quietly to prompt them to come forward."
"And then what?"
"We decide which candidates to pursue. Cato will request those Lords to present a formal proposal."
"Is that like a resume?"
"It's more than that. Usually, it includes their financial profile, their career prospects, and a detailed genealogy that includes midichlorian counts. Darth Traverse gave us letters of recommendation from his old Master and his commanding officer too, I think."
"That's a lot of due diligence . . . "
"It's customary and I'm worth it," she informs him curtly. "Marriage is not to be undertaken lightly."
"Okay. Then what?"
"Do you really want to know?" Just talking about this topic makes her bad mood worse. She doesn't like being reminded of all the exciting things she will have to wait even longer for now.
"Tell me."
"Well," she scowls, "next we narrow the list to three or four prospects. Mother will arrange private meetings with the Lords—chaperoned, of course. Sometimes, there are small social occasions planned with others to make the meetings feel more relaxed. Once things get serious, there will be separate meetings with the Lord's family members as well. We all met Traverse's family," she remembers aloud. "There was at a brunch after a Temple ritual. It started off awkward, but it turned out fine in the end. I really liked his mother . . . "
"So, what happens when you narrow the list of suitors?"
"Then I choose."
"You choose?"
"Yes, I choose. Well, technically I will tell Cato and Cato will inform the Lord that he is selected. But I make the decision. Cato just pretends that he makes it and we all play along."
"I see." Gaius Veradun looks a bit bewildered.
"It's like everything else involving the household," Portia informs the hayseed random who clearly knows nothing about the social dynamics of the life he has been thrust into. "Ladies make the decisions and the men pretend they're in charge and take credit." That pretty much summarizes the Sith patriarchy, she thinks. There would be a lot fewer betrothals, Academy admissions, and Apprenticeship offers extended if women weren't around to arrange things behind the scenes.
"Once an understanding is reached, the marriage is submitted to the Palace for approval. When it is approved, the match is usually announced at a betrothal dinner and the wedding follows several months to a year later."
Veradun—well, Malgus now—is still trying to understand. "So, your issue is that you can't start this elaborate process until your sister is married?"
"Horrible, isn't it?" Portia slumps down on the garden bench. "I'll be almost twenty at the very earliest. And that's assuming there are young single Lords still around by then. What if the Jedi kill them all?" she gulps.
He smirks. "I guess you'll have to marry a Jedi."
"That's not funny!" Portia fumes. "I don't want to marry some widower old enough to be my father or a Lord who's missing a limb or has to wear a mask. But I don't want to be an old maid either . . . Oooooh," she moans, "my life will be ruined if I end up like that . . . "
"Then wait for me."
"Whaaat?" Her head snaps up to regard the Apprentice with surprise. Outrage, too.
He ignores the reaction and presses, "Wait for me. You've got the time. You're only seventeen."
"Wait for you? You're dreaming!" she scoffs.
"Yes. I do dream of you. We could be good together."
Does he not understand? Could he really be this naive? "A girl like me would never marry a colonial random." He is too far beneath her. The very idea is preposterous.
"I'm going to be more than just a colonial random," Malgus digs in, "I'm going to be a hero. You heard my Master say that we're going to Korriban."
"Talk to me after you slay the Jedi, not before."
"I will be successful," he argues. "I might not have rank or fortune now, but I will soon. There will be lots of war prizes to be won once the war gets underway in earnest."
Oh, come on! "You don't get this, do you?" she jeers. "Vindican's going to win the war prize and the glory for Korriban. Other Lords, more senior Lords, more trained Lords, more prominent Lords, Lords who are Masters, are going to win the rest of the money. Do you really think any of them are going to let some nobody kid like you steal their glory?"
"You'll see. The rumor is that Vitiate will be paying bounties for dead Jedi. I'll be getting plenty of those," the Apprentice boasts with his irrepressible confidence.
Just how delusional is he? Already in a bad mood before she received his insulting, incredibly inappropriate proposal, Portia decides to set Malgus straight on a few more things. "You'll be cannon fodder!" she sneers. "Guys like you will be sent to the frontlines to lead the infantry and take the risks, while the more senior Lords with commissions above you will take credit for all the success. Do you not understand how this works? Are you really this clueless? You're expendable."
"Azamin chose me for Korriban," he reminds her proudly.
"Lord Vindican was chosen, not you! You're tagging along as the Apprentice."
"You're wrong. You'll see." And now again, he renews his suit. "Wait for me, my Lady."
She doesn't make any pretense of letting him down easy. Instead, she is brutally honest in her assessment. "What could you possibly offer me? You have no money, no family, and no achievements. You're the random who no one likes who someone at the Palace had to order Darth Vindican to take on as his Apprentice." Did Malgus know that? If not, he does now. "So I ask you again, what could you possibly offer me, a Metellus daughter?"
"Love," he volunteers. "I could offer you love."
"Love? You're looking for a love match? You really are a peasant." Portia leaps to her feet and marches a few paces away just to put some distance between them. And this way, he won't be looming over her, looking so commanding.
Malgus is undeterred by her harsh words. He brushes off her scorn and doubles down on his ambitions. "In time, I will give my Lady plenty of status, plenty of wealth, and all the devotion she could ever want. Wait for me. Say no to whoever approaches your brother."
"As if—"
"No matter who they are, I will be the better choice," he overrides her. The Apprentice is always doing that—speaking over people to make his point. "Take a chance on me," he urges.
She shoots him a look over her shoulder. "You don't lack for confidence, do you?"
"No." He sighs and looks away as he grumbles, "Sometimes, it feels like I'm the only person who believes in me."
"Yeah? Well, that sounds like a club I don't want to join." Portia tosses her hair and lifts her chin as she coolly rejects him once again. "Find some other Lady Malgus."
But yet again, the persistent Apprentice won't accept that she's not an option. "It's you," he whispers softly as he takes a few steps closer. "She could only be you." He must be feeling as covetous as his words announce because in the moment Malgus' eyes shine the bright feral yellow that signals Dark intent. It's . . . well . . . mesmerizing. And, embarrassing as it is to admit to herself, something deep within Portia thrills to be so wanted, even if it's by this penniless loser.
"I . . . I . . ." she babbles, suddenly uncertain what to say. For there is an authenticity to this Apprentice that is utterly disarming. This is not a nuanced young man who will become a sly mastermind of deceit in the chess match that is Sith politics. Gaius Veradun is way too overt. Blatant, even. It's a brashness that is both off-putting and fascinating for Portia. He doesn't care who he offends. In fact, he seems to relish it in a 'bring it on' attitude that pits him against the universe. It's very ballsy. This guy dares anything and everything. It's ironically very quintessentially Sith . . . except it's coming from a colonial random poseur instead.
As she stands there speechless at his words, he hovers ever closer until he pretty much stands over her. Is he going to kiss her? He wouldn't dare! Would he? He might. Panicking Portia stands transfixed. She's afraid to linger this close to him any longer, but afraid to move away and end the moment. Oh, this is sweet torment! She is stuck. Veradun's hot breath is on her cheek as her heart pounds in her chest. His deep set yellow eyes—so close!-drill into hers and she cannot look away. Suddenly, this obnoxious young man's pull feels magnetic.
Is he going to kiss her? Cato will kill him if he kisses her. Does the random know that? Would he care? He seems like that kind of guy who just might do it anyway. The normal rules don't apply to him, Portia recalls him telling her.
But the Apprentice doesn't kiss her. Instead, he reaches for her hand. She watches, holding her breath as he lifts her trembling fingertips to his lips. It's a courtly gesture, far too smooth for a boorish guy like him. And so unexpected.
She stares at him, her mouth a round 'oh' of surprise. She's charmed, despite all intentions to the contrary.
He must sense progress because he digs deep into his Lord's cloak with the other hand. He produces a comlink that he presses into her palm, bending her fingers closed around it.
"Here," he tells her, his voice a husky whisper as his lean pale face crowds her. "Message me."
Wait—what? "What is this?" She opens her hand to stare openmouthed at the small personal communication device. It's the expensive kind that reaches long range across systems.
"Send me pictures. Tell me what you're up to. Keep in touch. You don't know it yet, but you're going to miss me."
Is he serious? He's serious. Portia reads sincere intent in his long, lean face. He's as earnest now as when he speaks about his lofty ambitions. But perhaps, she realizes, she just became one of his career goals.
Portia balks at his hopefulness. "No! No! I couldn't!"
As usual, he will not accept 'no.' This young man is habitually aggressive. "Do it," he commands simply, like she's some kind of servant or subordinate.
"No!" She thrusts the comlink back at him, shaking it at his chest. "Take it back!"
He responds by retreating with his hands raised and palms showing to her. He's smirking, drat the wretch.
Angry, she stamps her foot and tries again. "Take it baaaack!" Then, she hisses at him, "Only you could be so bold!"
"It is a gift. It's yours to keep. Use it."
"This is—this is—" She's about to tell him off and maybe give him the dragonfly treatment with some Force lightning. But she senses Darth Vindican's approach. Fearing to be caught in a potentially compromising situation for which there is no easy explanation and no upside, she shuts up fast.
Portia fumes and glares hard at the Apprentice as Julia's father now appears accompanied by old Darth Azamin. The two Sith Masters must sense her intense indignation because they exchange glances and regard her curiously.
"Is something amiss?" Darth Azamin's ancient but still sharp eyes note the evidence of her recent tears. His questioning glance darts to Malgus and lingers. Lord Azamin is silently accusing. Such is the Sith elder's gravitas that he can cut you with a mere look.
"N-Nothing is am-miss." Flustered Portia declines to explain, and opts to flee. "I was just leaving. Good day, my Lords," she mutters as she ducks her chin and heads quickly around the hedge to wander back towards her family's villa. She has Gaius Veradun's comlink clutched tightly in her fist, hoping no one notices.
But curious as to what is afoot, she stops walking just far enough from the trio of men to ostensibly give them privacy. She's still well within earshot.
Darth Vindican is speaking now, addressing his Apprentice. "Lord Azamin and I have discussed your participation at Korriban—"
His pupil rudely interrupts, as usual. "I'm coming with you, Master."
"You can command the trooper strike team while I—"
"I'm coming with you to kill Jedi."
"Gaius, that's a job for a Sith Master and you have only had a few months of training—"
"It's enough."
Old Azamin intervenes in this bickering. "Son, no one will think less of you if you sit this one out." It's gently, but firmly said.
But as usual, the Apprentice can't—or maybe it's won't—take social cues. "I'm all in," he insists.
The renowned Darth Azamin must rarely receive pushback from any Lord, let alone some random colonial Apprentice who clearly doesn't know his place. Truly, Veradun's attitude is the zenith of disrespect. But the sage veteran Azamin takes it in stride. "I appreciate your zeal. It does you credit. But even a great talent such as yourself requires training. The Empire will have need of your abilities in the future. There will be other opportunities for you to contribute."
Veradun growls back, "There is only one Korriban."
Darth Vindican audibly sighs. "You see, my Lord, he is stubborn like I told you . . ."
"Umm, yes, I see. I am not surprised. Your mind is made up, Veradun?"
"Yes, my Lord. I will not fail."
"This task is 'aut cum scuto, aut in scuto,'" Azamin croaks out bluntly, using the Old Sith military phrasing for 'do or die' that reflects a time before lightsabers when ancient Dark warriors fought with traditional swords and metal shields. "There is no failure, there is only death. So, I will ask you again: is your mind made up?"
"Yes, my Lord," the Apprentice immediately affirms.
"Very well, then. Take him with you to duel the Jedi," Azamin decrees. "Let him have his chance."
"My Lord, I will not fail."
Azamin sounds thoughtful now as he observes, "The Force is with you, Gaius Veradun. What is your new title?"
"Malgus. Darth Malgus."
"Very good. Come back a Jedi killer, Lord Malgus, and I will get you presented to the Emperor for your formal investiture."
"Yes, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord."
Portia hurries off now, not wanting to get caught eavesdropping. She quickly heads back into her home and stashes Veradun's comlink under her pillow.
