It's a Tuesday afternoon and Portia is back at the Temple for the foresight circle. The old Ladies are chatting away, waiting for the priest to arrive to convene the group. And that means Portia is subjected to more of their stories. Today's tale is more entertaining than most, fortunately.
The storyteller is Lady Interdict—no, wait, maybe it's Lady Subvert—Portia gets them mixed up. All these dowagers with grey hair and wrinkled faces look the same to her young eyes. Portia regards them as interchangeable. But in any event, the droning narrator finally gets to the good part. And now, she has Portia's full attention with her tale of forbidden love.
"It was a done deal at that point. What the Force joins together, no man can put asunder. Not even the Emperor."
"Wow . . ." Portia blinks at the boldness of the move. This old crone must have been quite a firecracker in her youth.
The old Lady shrugs. "It was either kill one of us or live with it. And really, the damage was done. Even if my father and brothers killed Severus, at that point I was no longer marriageable. Not to a young Lord who'd expect an untouched virgin, at least."
"Wow . . ." These grande dames are turning out to be way more interesting than Portia thought. Who knew that old people lived such scandalous lives? She herself has never heard of an unsanctioned secret marriage among the upper class.
Her lurid curiosity must show because another old dame intervenes. "Stop it, Issa. Portia's a young impressionable girl. You'll be giving her ideas."
Lady Whoever-She-Is brushes off the point. "It was long ago. And all's well that ends well. Severus and I have been married almost sixty years now."
"That's not my point," the reproving Lady holds firm.
"Weren't your parents angry?" Portia wants to know.
"Oh, yes. My father was livid. He threatened to take his sword to me. My mother was more understanding. I think she liked Severus from the very beginning but didn't let on."
"What was the issue? Why wouldn't your parents give their blessing?"
"Severus had an uncle and a cousin who were proscribed."
"Oh!" Portia's eyes widen even further. This story just got juicier. Being proscribed is way worse than being a random like Gaius.
Lady Whoever-She-Is sees her reaction and chuckles. "Yes, well it was a rather significant taint back then, as it is now. My father wouldn't hear of me marrying into a family like that."
"And with good reason," the other old Lady whose name Portia also forgets chimes in again. "Issa, they were only looking out for your best interests. Bad genetics in the family could have left you with sons on the next proscription list."
"Oh pish, I have plenty of Force. Look at me here now in this group. There was never any risk that my sons would be underpowered. It worked out fine. They're both admirals."
"So, what happened? Tell me more," Portia presses for the rest of the shocking tale.
"My husband's family smoothed things over with the Palace. They frown on anyone marrying without permission. That can get you in big trouble. But there was no basis for objection, so they came around. The fine was enormous, I recall . . . It beggared my husband to pay it."
"And your family?"
"Father banished me from his sight and thew me out of the house. My brothers argued over who would duel Severus first. You know . . . the usual male histrionics."
Again, her heckling counterpart complains. "Issa, don't be disrespectful to your menfolk."
The scandalous old Lady rolls her eyes at this sanctimony and announces, "The men aren't here, Claudia. We don't have to pretend they're in charge when it's just us women."
Portia keeps pressing for more information. "Was there a duel?"
"No, thank the Force. But my father did withhold my dowry for a few years." The old biddy named Issa sighs happily as she recalls, "We lived on love back then and the secret generosity of my mother. She gave us money she skimmed from the household accounts when my father wasn't looking."
"Did your father ever come around?"
"As soon as he held his first grandson, he did. In time, the rift healed as all the fears my family had about the match faded. Severus had a fine career and he has been an exemplary husband. He proved them wrong, as I knew he would."
"You took an awful risk though . . ." Portia worries aloud.
"Indeed," the Lady named Claudia harrumphs. She fixes Portia with a pointed 'listen to me, not her' look. "Never get talked into compromising your honor. No man is worth that foolishness."
Her counterpart disagrees. "Severus is. He was the one for me, and I would accept no one else. So, when my family balked, we took matters into our own hands."
Portia nods at this devotion and prods, "But how did you know?" That's the real question she needs an answer for.
She never gets a response because in walks the Temple priest, Darth Rampart. "Good afternoon, Ladies. Let us get started."
"Do we have to?" the scandalous old dame Issa complains under her breath to Portia.
Her friend and foil hears her. "No grumbling. We didn't come to hear you recant your dubious youthful exploits."
"Why can't this be like book club and we all socialize and ignore the book that no one has read?"
"Issa Mars, I'm going to zap you with Force lightning," her friend Claudia threatens.
"Can she do that?" Portia whispers.
"Nah, she's all mask and no sword," the scandalous old dame dismisses the threat. The Lady named Issa brags, "Besides, I have far more Force than she does."
Portia giggles.
"Ladies," the priest shoots their side of the room a quelling glance of reproach. "Let us begin with a prayer and some individual meditation. Once we are each deep in the Force, we will try those battle meditation exercises in unison."
Ugh. Portia suppresses a groan and tries to follow along. She's never been much for meditation. She can't focus her Force with calmness. It's emotion that triggers her power. That probably makes her the weak link in the foresight circle, she knows.
Some of these old Ladies are very accomplished in the Force. They receive visions at almost every session. Several of them can organize their thoughts and interpret the meaning of their visions in almost real time. It's impressive. And that context makes Portia sheepish when after the meeting concludes one truly ancient Lady shuffles over to ask her what she saw.
"I never see anything," Portia answers truthfully. "I fear I am not very good at this sort of thing." She feels her cheeks flush with embarrassment. "I'm not really sure I should be here . . . "
"Not to worry," she is told. "The Force will show you what you need to know when it's time. Foresight is a very individual experience. Trying harder isn't the solution. Patience is."
"Yes, my Lady. Thank you, my Lady."
"You're a good girl, Portia." She gets a pat on the shoulder for approval and a wave goodbye.
Portia now heads home to her family compound, taking a chauffeured speeder like Mother prefers. At least before the Temple Ladies, she will act the part of a well-behaved girl from an important family. Back at the Metellus villa, she's dashing through the living room heading upstairs to do homework when she hears her name.
"Portia, good. You're home."
She looks up to find that Mother is waiting for her. Lately, Lady Oderint has been up and dressed most afternoons. That might be good progress for Mother personally, but it's a change that Portia doesn't much welcome. All this sudden maternal oversight feels stifling. It's also making Appy jealous.
"How was the Temple circle?"
"Tiring," she admits. All that concentration gets exhausting.
Mother pats the cushion beside her on the sofa. "Come sit and let's have a chat." She turns to dismiss Apollonia, who is currently perched at her side. "Please go find my maid and see that she runs to the jeweler first thing tomorrow to collect my black pearls. I had them restrung. You may wear them tomorrow to the luncheon if you wish."
Happy about the pearls but unhappy to be excluded, Appy flounces off, tossing a smirk over her shoulder as she exits. Mother doesn't see, of course. Her sister is very good at hiding her less charming traits.
That leaves Portia alone with Mother. What has prompted this latest private interview? Will it be another diet talk? Will she hear more concerns that saber practice is giving her muscles that will make her look even broader? Portia girds herself for personal criticism.
But the conversation goes an entirely different direction. "I noticed that you enjoyed speaking to Lord Defile last night . . ." Mother looks to her expectantly, like this requires a justification.
"He's one of Cato's friends," Portia offers. "Before the war, he was over here a lot. He's fun."
"Yes, that one's very charming. But he's also betrothed. Portia, don't waste your pretty smile on a man who is unattainable. Hoard your charms."
"Oh, I don't think of Defile like that. I like him. But I don't like him, like him. If you . . . uh . . . know what I mean."
"Good. What about Lord Contagion? I noticed you laughing with him. Isn't he also one of Cato's friends?"
Portia nods. "It's so sad about his arm, don't you think? But at least he seems to be taking it in stride. He was even joking about it."
"Losing your non-dominant arm while killing three Jedi isn't the worst way to be injured," Mother judges. "He'll have everyone's respect forever. And, that slashing scar on his cheek makes him quite dashing. Still," Mother frowns, "he's too short for you. If only you didn't get quite so much of your father's height. It narrows your options."
Portia has heard that particular lament before. If she's not too fat these days, she's too tall. It's a problem Portia can't do anything about. She's big and that's just how it is. "Darth Azamin says his wife and daughters were all taller than he is."
"Yes, dear, but that was five hundred years ago."
"Why does that matter?"
"It wouldn't, if you had your heart set on Contagion. If you can live with a shorter spouse with one arm, then I can live with it too. But, I'm sensing that Contagion is not the one for you."
Mother's right. Portia relents. "He's okay . . . I guess . . ."
"Then, he's not the one for you. We can do better."
"If you say so . . ."
"I know so. Never settle," Mother decrees. "When you find your match, you'll know."
"How?" This is the question that Portia wanted an answer to from the Temple Ladies earlier. She poses the point to Mother now. "How do you know a man is right for you?"
How do you get to that moment of clarity? When your mind and your heart are aligned and you are decided? When you are ready to take risks—maybe even big risks—because your priorities are certain? That's what Portia wants to know. Because with Mother seemingly determined to marry her off, it feels like a pressing issue.
The Sith are no strangers to commitment. In fact, her people seem to relish the concept. For all the reputation of the Lords of the Sith being deceptive, loyalty is a hallmark of their culture. Family ties, often extended out many generations, still matter in the present day. Apprenticeships, though only a few short years, remain lifelong allegiances. Elite marriages last until death with no possibility of divorce. Quite simply, the Sith are habitually all-in from the outset. Even when commitments sour, they are kept and respected.
But how do you know? When are you ready to fully, irrevocably commit? It's a serious question, and Mother takes her time answering.
"Well," she begins, "you and your Lord need to have compatible personalities. It's important to get along. So, if you don't like a Lord, then he's not the one."
"Okay." That seems pretty obvious.
"Good relationships feel natural. You don't have to work at them. They're easy and comfortable," Mother advises. "If you have to try too hard or you find yourself pretending all the time, that's a red flag. The right Lord will value you for who you are."
Portia nods along.
Lady Oderint continues, "You must also want generally the same things in life or be open to compromise. If your Lord wants to be a viceroy, for example, you need to be prepared to live on a colony world among the peasants. If it's going to make you miserable to support his dreams, you're not a match. You must share a vision of your joint future at least at the outset."
"What else?" This all sounds like good advice, but it's depressingly prosaic. Portia was hoping for insight that's a little less pragmatic. She's a girl with thunder in her heart. She wants to hear that 'you will know when you look in your Lord's eyes' or maybe that the secret is in his kiss. Or that she will have a premonition in a dream as a sign from the Force. But those are answers that Mother will never give.
Instead, Portia hears, "Make sure you get along with their family. Because you marry their kin as much as you marry them. You'll be seeing those relatives at every holiday and every occasion for the rest of your life. If you don't like them or they don't like you, that can be hard."
"I see." That too makes sense. But it's still not the information that Portia's looking for. "What else?"
"Find a man who will talk. One who will be your friend. You want a Lord who will confide in you, who will share his feelings with you."
"And I'm supposed to determine all that from a single meeting at a cocktail party?" Portia complains. She's feeling overwhelmed and pressured by this conversation even though she herself raised the topic.
"No, dear. Cato and I will help you figure that out. You just need to help us narrow the field some.
Is there any young man yet who has caught your attention?" Mother prods.
Portia doesn't know how to answer that question. "I didn't think it was time to choose already," she gulps. After all, she's only been to a couple of parties. That's far less than the usual debutante season. Plus, with the vast majority of the military Lords deployed currently, there are many more young Ladies than young Lords at every social occasion. Parties these days have mostly priests and administrative men in attendance along with the few military Lords who have been sent home to recuperate from serious war wounds. Honestly, it's rather slim pickings. Even if she weren't secretly waiting for Gaius, Portia wouldn't be interested in anyone she's met so far.
Mother sees her fluster and misunderstands the reason. She smiles and tries to reassure her. "There's no rush. I was just wondering. That's all."
"I'm trying, Mother. Really, I am."
"I know, dear." Mother pats at her hand. "Keep doing what you're doing and be patient."
That's the second time today that Portia has been told to be patient. The advice falls flat. Portia knows she's not patient for anything. But heeding Gaius' advice to play along with Mother's campaign to get her married, she gamely nods.
Still, amid all this pretense Portia suddenly blurts out the truth. "Mother, I want what you and Father h-had," she stammers. "I want that kind of love." The kind that doesn't die even if your spouse does. It's the kind of love that you don't want to move on from. Because you know that the memory of what you had will be better than anything that might replace it.
"How did you meet Father? And when did you know?" Portia has never heard this story. Since Father died, everyone has been reluctant to speak to Lady Oderint about her late husband. But Portia's emboldened to ask by the candor of their conversation.
Mother immediately gets that distant, wistful expression she always gets when someone mentions her late husband. But Portia doesn't withdraw the question. Instead, she doubles down. "Tell me . . . please . . . I want to know how you and Father met and fell in love."
She was seven years old when Father died. Portia barely remembers him aside from moments captured in family pictures and from others' reminisces. She definitely doesn't remember Mother as anyone other than the reclusive middle-aged depressive she is now. But at one point, her parents must have been young. Mother was a debutante enjoying her social season once. Father must have been a very eligible bachelor to snare. That means there must be a good story to tell.
"Tell me."
Mother looks uncomfortable. Like she does and she doesn't want to talk about this. "Your father and I weren't in love when we married." Mother is very firm on that point. Defensive, too. "No respectable couple is. Love matches are for colonials with loose morals."
"Yes, Mother. But in time love grew . . ."
"It was a long time ago." Mother fiddles with her bracelets and won't meet her eyes. Portia recognizes the defense mechanism for what it is: Mother's default setting is to push others away. Usually, with parting words of frosty hauteur or biting criticism before she retires to her room.
This time, Portia's not deterred. "Tell me. I won't share it with Appy if you don't want me to," she promises softly.
Mother must sense her resolve, because she sighs and gives in. Lady Oderint begins by choosing her words carefully. "Your father and I weren't the best example of courtship. Your father . . . well, he was exceedingly proud back then. He was a Metellus," she adds, as if that explains it all.
"But you were a Valerian."
"He didn't see our two families as comparable. Truthfully, I took him in aversion initially. I remember telling your grandmother that I wouldn't marry Darth Oderint if he were the last Lord left in the Empire. It was an unfortunate remark. His sister, your Aunt Lucinda, was standing behind us and overheard. She told your father about the comment—she's always been the meddlesome type. To this day, I don't think he would ever have noticed me had your aunt not called me out to him."
"Was he angry?"
"Oh, he took strong offense. But he also took it as a challenge to show me the error of my judgment."
Portia grins and draws the obvious inference. "He pursued you."
"Yes."
"And you fell for him!" Portia exclaims, rushing to the punchline.
"No. I told my parents I wouldn't marry him if he were the last Lord left in the Empire. I sent back the candy and flowers he sent to the house. I refused any invitations where I knew he would be in attendance. I told my friends and family that we would never be a match."
"But you were a match."
"Only after he stormed into my father's office, slammed a formal marriage proposal down on his desk, and left in a huff. Father read it and thought I should reconsider."
"And you did?"
"No. When he came in person to present his suit, I refused him."
Well, naturally, Portia thinks. Refusal is Mother's thing. Mother has a habit of announcing over and over again all the things she won't do, won't wear, and won't eat. Mother tends to define herself by what she declines, rather than what she accepts. And, at least initially, she declined Octavian Metellus, Darth Oderint. That all sounds very true to character. But it's also something of a revelation that puts a whole new spin on Mother's never-ending grief.
"I had no idea . . . "
"He didn't see it coming either," Mother sniffs, still looking a little triumphant all these years later. "I think Octavian took my father's openness to the match as evidence of my agreement. He was floored when I declined. His pride was pricked. My parents took it badly too. They were terribly embarrassed and none too pleased."
"And then what happened? Did Grandpa lock you in your room until you said yes?" Because that seems like something gruff, no nonsense old Darth Adamant might do.
But Mother shakes her head no. "My father liked your father straightaway. He thought I would like him in time as well. So, they negotiated the arrangements and agreed to a deal. The only condition was that your father had to convince me."
"How did he do that?"
"Your father announced to anyone who would listen that he and my father had reached an agreement and that he would marry me when I came to my senses. But just to make certain that he would not have any competition, he issued a blanket challenge to any Lord who might try to steal me. It was an ultimatum in essence: marry him or marry no one."
"So basically, it was like Father really was the last Lord in the Empire," Portia giggles.
"Your father was so awful back then. So obnoxious and sure of himself. So overbearing. He was the preeminent Lord of his generation, and he knew it." Mother is complaining even as she smiles at the memory. "The man wore me down. He would present himself weekly at our home, dressed in his ceremonial armor and carrying a bouquet of flowers, to solicit my hand. Since your grandfather had already agreed to the betrothal, your grandmother would give him ten minutes alone unchaperoned with me to plead his case." Mother laughs a little—actually laughs!—as she recalls, "I sent him away again and again until one day I didn't. And the rest, I guess, is history."
"How long did it take?"
"Around six months."
"Six months!"
"Yes," Lady Oderint remembers, a slight smile tugging at her lips. "By that time, everyone knew about it. We became something of a vulgar spectacle. Your father had people of all ages taking sides for and against his offer. When finally I joined Team Oderint, the Emperor himself sent us a wedding present."
"Really?" Who knew?
"Lord Azamin must have told him. Cornelius Caesar is a terrible gossip. He was Octavian's neighbor growing up just like he is for us now." Mother smirks as she recalls, "The note from the Palace said something to the effect of 'May all Lords of the Sith be as determined as Darth Oderint.'"
"Wow . . ." How has she never heard this story from anyone in the family? "So, what convinced you? What did Father say or do to help you decide to accept him?" Portia wants to know.
"Well, he was persistent. And he was handsome, rich, from an important family, with a great career ahead of him. It would have been stupid to reject him. Even then, it was clear that he was destined to one day sit on the Council."
"He was all those things the first few times he came to ask you," Portia points out. "And you did reject him."
Mother shrugs and gets that faraway look on her face once again. "I began to see past his attitude. He grew on me, I suppose."
Portia nods, thinking of Gaius' incessant stream of texts that are a potent mix of flattery laced with Dark irony. She can totally relate to the way a man can worm his way into your resisting heart. And then, suddenly his more annoying personality traits become endearingly emblematic. But how strange is it that her mother was pursued by the Empire's most eligible bachelor and she refused him, whereas Portia herself is pursued by the Empire's most unsuitable Lord and she welcomes his attention? Well, maybe that's just proof of what Portia already knows: that she and Mother are very different.
Still fishing around for why Mother changed her mind, Portia wants to know, "So what did you and Father do during your unchaperoned ten minutes?"
"Nothing inappropriate for a betrothed couple," comes Mother's instant response. And are Mother's cheeks blushing? They are. But more importantly, Mother is also lying. The Force is very clear on that point.
Portia decides to keep that knowledge to herself. But she's pretty certain that whatever changed her Mother's mind about Father, it wasn't the flowers he brought her. So how do you know if a Lord is the one for you? Portia has heard two very unexpected love stories today, and she still doesn't know the answer.
Mother now changes the topic. "Portia, your happiness is important to me, as mine was important to my own parents. Your grandfather could have maneuvered me into a betrothal with your father straightaway. But he didn't. He let me come around to the decision in my own time. It will be the same for you, dear. Neither Cato nor I will ever foist some Lord upon you, no matter how good his offer is."
"Thank you, Mother. And if a Lord doesn't have a good offer but I think he's the one . . ."
"We will consider him fairly," Mother promises. "You have plenty of Force and an impressive fortune. You need not find a rich Lord or a Lord with an extremely high count. There will be some leeway on those issues, given all you will bring to the betrothal."
"And if he's not from a fancy family?" Portia wheedles.
"You have someone in mind?"
"N-No. Just wondering what the parameters are . . ." Portia improvises weakly. Does Mother sense the evasion? She might. But if so, she doesn't let on.
Instead, Mother reissues her earlier advice: "Never settle. I'm sure if we look hard enough, we can find you a young Lord who offers plenty. But the most important factor for the success of a marriage isn't M-counts or finances, it's the personal relationship."
"Yes, Mater." That's encouraging to hear. Perhaps—just perhaps—in time, Mother's stated flexibility will stretch to accept Gaius as a son-in-law.
Mother might be habitually formal and largely distant. And their conversations might be more one sided and stilted than Portia would like. Mother will never be as easy going and spontaneously fun like Lady Vindican is. But still . . . Portia knows that Mother loves her. Maybe not as much as she loves Cato and Appy, but she loves her. All Mother's criticism and advice are motivated by that love, Portia knows. Even the new diet she's put her on is because Mother thinks it's for the best. It's irritating at times, but Portia will endure it while she bides her time waiting for Gaius.
Dinner that night is a meager offering during which Mother informs her that carbohydrates are her real enemy, not the Jedi, and Apollonia looks on contemptuously fondling her dinner roll. Hungry and humiliated, Portia retreats to her room, ignores her homework, and reaches for her comlink. She types a very female question.
Am I fat? Be honest.
Nope.
Are you sure? Mother says I'm getting chubby.
If so, it's in all the right places, and I love it.
You don't have to say that.
I mean it. You're beautiful. Your mother is wrong.
Thank you. I needed to hear that.
I'll be the fatty of the family. Don't worry—I've got that role covered.
Wrong, Portia types back. Your role is the hero.
In gratitude for the ego boost, Portia rewards Gaius with another picture. And this time, she's full frontal topless. She captions the snap 'feeling myself,' and it earns her repeated, enthusiastic praise and a lot of eggplant emoticons. That's very welcome feedback after all the uncomfortable scrutiny from Appy and Mother. At least someone likes her body. Portia feels so needy for positive attention that she sends another nipple-y boob shot the very next day. Gaius gushes his response, and it helps.
Your turn, she types back. Show me some chest.
Sorry, babe. I don't have a photographer.
Take a mirror selfie, idiot.
Never done that. I don't spend a lot of time looking in mirrors.
Show me. I want to see.
There's nothing to see.
Is he shy? Embarrassed? He's already sent her the dick pick. After that, what's so hard about taking his
shirt off?
Let me see what's under that armor. Give me something to dream about.
Alright. Here. She receives a snap of Gaius stripped to the waist flexing before his bathroom mirror. It's adorably comical. He has edited out his face but that's no help because who else would be so big and so pale with a lightsaber hanging from his belt?
Portia studies the pic. Gaius' body looks nothing like the lean physiques of her male family members. Male purebloods have compact strength and very little body fat. They sport chiseled upside down triangular upper bodies of pure sinew. Not so fully human Gaius. Sure, he's got a warrior's broad shoulders, bulging biceps, and rippling forearms. But he also has a barrel chest and stocky torso. He's not fat, just all over big. It's decidedly plebeian looking, to be honest. More like some brawny laborer on an agricultural world than a Sith Lord renowned for his Jedi kills.
His beefy bare chest is even paler white than the rest of him and it's hairy. That's a bit of a revelation. The ethnic Sith have scant body hair. Instead, their faces often sport cheek and chin tendrils and cranial horns as throwback genetic references to their original ancestors. Only those male elites with predominantly Dark Jedi ancestry have beard growth and body hair, and those men are a minuscule minority. The cultural bias for ethnic pureblood means that for thousands of generations, marriage arrangements have tended to promote Sith racial traits. And so, little by little, the prevalence of the hereditary characteristics of the long-ago fully human Jedi exiles has waned.
There are still a fair number of elites who appear fully human, but at a minimum they have dark hair and ruddy skin tones. But not the pink-white, blonde random Gaius Veradun. He looks like who he is: a colonial. Most would deem that déclassé, but Portia chooses to consider it to be original. And that's fitting. Because Gaius stands out amid the predominant Sith ethos of conformity. Gaius doesn't think like everyone else so it follows that he doesn't look like everyone else. It's self confidence that Portia admires and wants for herself.
That's my man, Portia types back along with #bigSithenergy #randomzaddy and a trio of heart eyes emojis. I want to feel those arms around me again. I want to lay my head against that chest.
You'll get your chance soon, he replies. Angral and I present battle plans to the Joint Chiefs at the Palace next Saturday morning.
How long will you be home?
Probably just the night before.
Then I'm sleeping over at Julia's house next Friday night, Portia recklessly decides.
