Ancient Darth Azamin moves through the Imperial Palace at the pace of a dawdling toddler, and that slow progress keeps getting interrupted by passersby who greet the elderly statesman. Every few meters, another Lord feels the need to interact with Azamin as Gaius silently looks on. This is what it means to wield great power and influence, he realizes. To be admired and esteemed. To live a life of significance for yourself and for others. For whether out of respect, true affection, or just political aspiration, many Lords want Darth Azamin's attention.
No one, of course, greets him. Their eyes merely flit over his big person, take note that he's accompanying Azamin, and move on. The message is clear: he is beneath these Lord's notice. Some seem to regard him as a curiosity, but most conspicuously ignore him. It's less rude than it is indifferent.
In all, it takes twenty minutes for doddering Darth Azamin to process from the star chamber to their destination. It's an out of the way location far from the Palace meeting rooms and the throne room. As they duck through a nondescript door to emerge into bright sunlight, Gaius recognizes where he is. This is the expansive garden area he wandered into by accident following his disastrous appearance at his investiture.
It was a refuge of relative privacy back then, and it is again today. Glancing around, Gaius only spies that same gardener fellow from before. Good. There won't be anyone who matters to witness his punishment. He is grateful for that discretion.
Darth Azamin wastes little time getting down to business. With a stern glare and a flick of his bony wrist, Azamin sends him to the ground with a potent bolt of blue Force lightning. It takes Gaius' breath away, it is so jolting. Fuck, that hurts! That really, really hurts. Gaius knows better than to resist or to complain. He simply accepts his chastisement and hopes it ends soon. This decrepit geezer isn't going to kill him. Azamin needs him for Sluis Van. But that, unfortunately, won't make the next few minutes any less painful.
"Explain yourself!"
"Why bother?" Gaius grumbles from his spot on the ground. "It won't make any difference."
The flippant response earns him a fresh zap of lightning. And Gaius can't help it—this time, he winces. Old Azamin isn't pulling his punches.
"Explain yourself! The Metellus family was the reason for that petulant, disrespectful performance before the Council, wasn't it? You were caught, like I knew you would be! I warned you! But you were too arrogant and careless to listen! And now, Portia will pay the price!"
Azamin nails him with more lightning. And fuck! that hurts. It feels like the blood in his veins is on fire. Like he's burning from the inside out. "Ouch!"
Gaius gets it. The old guy needs to vent and to establish dominance. That's how these powerplays work in hierarchical Sith society. You play along as the younger, inferior Lord and take your lumps, as expected. But Gaius is in no mood for this right now. He's had enough. He complains, "Will you stop it, old man?" as he easily deflects the next incoming attack and lumbers to his feet. "I don't want to hurt you," he grumbles at the tiny age-shrunken Lord, "but I will hurt you if you keep this up."
By now, the gardener fellow has walked over to gawk at the show. He hangs on the periphery as he leans on his shovel. Gaius eyes him a moment. Great, he thinks. Another audience.
Azamin wisely ceases the lightning and starts in on the lecture. "In my youth, that tawdry scene would have resulted in an honor killing or, at the very least, Portia being sent to the Temple! That's the sort of consequences you risk for her! And you—you would have been strung up from the nearest tree as a colonial random who dared to covet a red skinned Lady!"
Yeah, yeah, he knows. But he doesn't care. These repeated admonitions to learn his place never impress him. He's heard them before. Gaius stares down the ultimate Navy commander, the man who commands the boss of his boss, and that Lord's boss, and in turn his boss, again and again all the way up the ranks. He drawls, "I don't know my place, and I will never learn it." Gaius means the remark as sarcasm, but it's actually a galling truth. Gaius goads the old campaigner, "If I'm such a contemptible white skinned peasant, why do you need me at Sluis Van? Why can't you and the rest of your pedigreed inbred red friends handle things?"
It's a fair question that Azamin doesn't answer.
Instead, the gardener intervenes to heckle. "Get him, milord! Get him again! Teach him a lesson! No one speaks to Darth Azamin like that!"
The little statesman shoos the nosy servant away. "Leave us."
"Can't do that, milord. Got work to do."
"Then, keep your distance. Lest you too feel my lightning," Azamin scowls.
"Yes, milord, absolutely milord." The young gardener bobs his head and hoists his shovel. "I'll just be over here, milord, minding my flowers and bushes for the Emperor."
"You do that," Azamin commands before turning back to him. "Well? Explain yourself! I need to know what transpired so I can fix the mess you made."
Gaius sulks. "I don't need your help."
"Yes, you do! Moreover, Cato and Portia need my help. I'm helping for them, mind you, not for you! There's nothing I would delight in more than watching you stew in your own foolishness. But I won't let the Metellus family get dragged down into your reckless chaos." Darth Azamin fixes him with a hard warning look. "Start talking, Lord Malgus, or I will be forced to take the truth from your mind."
It's a threat that Darth Azamin looks prepared to follow through on.
"Fine," Gaius concedes mostly to get this latest confrontation over with as soon as possible. With a sigh, he looks away. Anywhere but the wrinkled prune face of Darth Azamin that is full of grumpy grandpa censure.
He sticks to the facts. "Portia wanted to get married. So we snuck into her parish Temple last night to get married—"
"An illegal elopement?"
"Er . . . yes."
The old statesman looks horrified. "Oh, my boy," he breathes out, "you don't know what you have done . . . "
"We didn't do anything! We got caught. A priest caught us. We never completed the ceremony."
"Which priest?"
"The Chief Priest."
"Tenebrae." Azamin's deep set yellow eyes bulge. He gasps, "Oh Force . . . oh Force . . . " like he might hyperventilate at the thought.
"Yeah, it wasn't ideal . . . "
"What happened?"
"We fought."
"YOU FOUGHT?"
"I lost."
"Of course, you lost! It's uh Tenebrae. No one beats Tenebrae. But I see you lived."
"He let me go. Said the Empire needed me."
"He said that?" Azamin sounds almost hopeful. Sort of pleased.
"He said he wanted me to go to today's meeting. Because Angral doesn't know the battle planning like I do."
Azamin nods. "Tell me more."
Red-faced with embarrassment, Gaius continues the humiliating tale. "Tenebrae took Portia home . . . and evidently he told her family everything."
Things get really awkward now as Azamin demands, "Did you—did you—dishonor her?"
"No!" Gaius reacts, hotly demanding, "What do you take me for?"
"I don't know. I'm still learning," Azamin snaps. "A undisciplined renegade like you is capable of anything, I fear . . . "
Gaius bristles at the characterization of himself as a wild brute. But he can't help but notice how feeble Azamin increasingly looks as this tense, heated conversation goes on. The obviously frail Lord is leaning heavily on his walking cane, looking weak.
As if reading his thoughts, the elder statesman mutters, "I . . . I need to sit down."
"Lord Azamin! Are you alright?" Gaius rushes to his tormentor's side. Because the only thing that might make matters worse is for this beloved geezer to finally croak because he's been made so upset by Gaius' actions. Giving old Azamin a fatal stroke or heart attack would pretty much cap off this morning's downward spiral of events, he fears.
"Yes, yes I'm alright!" the wobbling old guy resists his help. "I'm just five hundred years old and I need to sit down every so often." Testy Azamin plods to a nearby garden bench. He plops down unceremoniously and with great relief. "Here," he pats the empty seat beside him as he commands, "You sit too. It hurts my neck to crane it up at you."
"Yes, my Lord," Gaius complies meekly.
"You are too tall."
"Yes, my Lord. I'm very big." Gaius decides that his new strategy is to avoid inadvertently killing this old fossil by pissing him off or, apparently, making him look up for too long.
They sit side by side on the garden bench now, both glum about the situation. The heat of Azamin's anger seems to have been spent on his lightning. Perhaps the long walk to this garden also helped to cool his temper. Or maybe, the little Lord is just too tired to argue further. But for whatever reason, depleted Azamin quits violence in favor of talking through the situation. And so, what began as punishment morphs into a conversation.
"You have caused a great deal of trouble."
"I know." Trouble seems to follow him wherever he goes. It's his lot in life.
"This isn't over. Adraas will want a fight."
Gaius shrugs off the point. "I can handle Adraas. I can beat Adraas." Even fully healthy, Adraas is low risk.
"He is no match for you with the Force or with a sword, but Cato Metellus will be a threat. He doesn't have to kill you or to wound you to hurt you," Azamin warns ominously.
He's right, Gaius knows. And it would be just like lazy Cato Metellus to strike at him indirectly. He will need to be alert to sabotage going forward, Gaius worries. Because that's the sort of cowardly attack he could see Adraas attempting.
Azamin keeps harping, "Watch yourself, Lord Malgus. Your foolhardy actions have gained yourself new and powerful enemies."
"I can handle Adraas."
"Your bigger risk is Tenebrae," old Azamin points out.
Yet again, the old statesman is correct. Darth Tenebrae is a formidable, highly placed foe who Gaius cannot beat . . . yet.
"I will do my best to hush up the scene you just caused. Most of the witnesses are seasoned men of discretion who will recognize the seriousness of the situation. But word will get out . . . word always gets out. And rumors can irrevocably damage a Lady's reputation."
Gaius says nothing. He didn't start that public scene—Cato Metellus did. But he did cause the underlying conflict and he kept at it even after Azamin told him to stop. So, yes, he bears some blame.
"The obvious solution is to marry Portia off as soon as possible. Or, at the very least, to announce a betrothal. As long as it's a respectable family, that should put an end to any rumors. People will move on to other gossip."
Again, Gaius says nothing. But he winces just like he did earlier from the lightning. He doesn't like the thought of Portia becoming another Lord's lady.
"Your actions will push her into another's arms," Azamin tells him the brutal truth he already knows. "The Metellus fortune and family aegis will be a powerful inducement. Even if there is gossip, there will be suitors for her. I can make sure of that."
"Make it some Lord worthy of her," miserable Gaius blurts out.
"That is my goal. Her happiness matters as much as her honor."
"Don't let Adraas do anything rash—"
"He won't. He loves his sister too much to take his anger out on her. He will save it for you."
Yes, Gaius has no doubt of that. There was never any real risk that Adraas would disown Portia to the Temple or inflict an outdated honor killing.
"I will do my best to dissuade Cato from making this some blood feud. That will only prolong the matter and increase the risk of a public scandal. But I can't make any promises. Cato is understandably angry. There must be a reckoning, Lord Malgus. The Metellus family must have a way to claim revenge for your actions if this ever comes to light."
Yes, he knows. Honor demands that he sacrifice something as punishment. But Gaius refuses to willfully lose to Cato Metellus in a duel.
Azamin is a voice of longtime experience as he observes, "These matters are best handled with a proportional response that does not provoke further reprisals. It should be a one-time thing that ends it."
"Meaning what? He burns my house down?"
"Perhaps. That is for Cato Metellus to decide. Not me." Little Azamin gives him a look of withering contempt. He rumbles, "Lord Malgus, today you have made me regret allowing you to be trained. Perhaps you belong in prison after all."
"And yet, you say the Empire needs me at Sluis Van," Gaius sneers back, feeling more than a little indignant and unfairly judged.
The elderly Lord retorts. "I fear you may do more damage than help to the Empire. That's certainly seems like the path you're on for your own affairs. No amount of innate brilliance can outpace bad judgement."
Gaius says nothing. But yet again, his cheeks flame.
"It is not an easy thing to be you. I am well aware of that. But you do yourself no favors by picking fights and making enemies. All young Lords have fits of aggression and recklessness. That goes hand in hand with emerging Dark power. But you, Lord Malgus, take it to unprecedented levels. Can you explain yourself?"
"No," he answers truthfully. "This is who I am." He is undeniably determined, cocky, impatient, and ambitious. Perhaps even more so for his humble, scorned origins. So, no. He's not making excuses. But now, he comes out with the issue that is bothering him almost as much as losing Portia. Cringing a little as he says the words, Gaius asks, "Am I really some Temple girl's bastard?"
Azamin looks up sharply and freezes. Then, he lets out a long, weary sigh. Azamin doesn't have to say anything. The forlorn look on his wrinkled prune face speaks volumes. For a moment, the Empire's great statesman looks every bit of his five hundred plus years. One thing is clear: this is a topic that Darth Azamin does not want to talk about.
"My Lord, I must know," Gaius prods.
"Where'd you hear that tale?"
"Tenebrae."
"Told you, did he?" Azamin grunts. "That is unfortunate."
"Unfortunate that I know the truth?"
Azamin shakes his head with deep disapproval meant for the priest, not him. "Tenebrae shouldn't have burdened you with the sins of others that you yourself cannot help. But," the shrunken little man concedes, "that was very much Lord Tenebrae of late. He's so . . . so . . ." Azamin doesn't finish the thought. Instead, he presses, "Well, what did he tell you? Out with it."
"He said I'm a bastard, not a random. I wasn't blessed with the Force, I was abandoned by my family. He said my mother was a Lady condemned to the Palace Temple for adultery. And rather than kill me, I was sent away. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. The strategy must have been to bury me in obscurity . . . to have me adopted into a colonial family where I would blend in." Feeling uncomfortably vulnerable, Gaius ventures, "Is it true?"
"Yes, it's true."
Watching Darth Azamin's reaction, Gaius now realizes, "You knew this all along . . . " None of this sordid backstory is news to the ancient Lord sitting at his side.
Azamin starts explaining. "When you were first discovered as a boy, you were assumed to be trained in the seminary like all the other randoms. True randoms are something quite special. But too often, they have tended to be Light. The Force must laugh at our Empire of Darkness when it bestows the Force on random colonial men with Light Side proclivities," Azamin adds wryly. "And that is why Lord Vitiate prefers randoms to be schooled in Dark sorcery."
Gaius follows the logic. "He's suspicious of them."
"Indeed. He wants to make certain they do not lose their way. And he doesn't want them to know state secrets or military knowledge they might have access to in other professions. Anyhow, my boy, as a presumed random you too were originally marked to be trained as a priest. But Tenebrae got wind of you and refused. He wouldn't have you in the priesthood. He was fine for you to spend your next decade in juvenile detention and then in an adult prison."
"He must have known who I was."
"Yes."
This history puts context to Tenebrae's shocked reaction at the Temple when Gaius asked him to train him. Not only does Tenebrae not want him as his Apprentice, but he opposed him being trained in the first place, Gaius realizes.
"The Force is strong in your family, and Darth Tenebrae knows it." Azamin meets his eyes. "That's when I got involved. The Chief Priest has held his position for well over a thousand years. He is very vested in his ways."
"A thousand years? So he really is as old as he claims . . ."
"Oh, yes. He feels strongly about who can and cannot be trained as a priest."
Gaius' eyes narrow. "So, he will accept a random for training, but not a bastard?"
"That is correct . . . in your case. When Tenebrae refused to train you, I quietly stepped in. If you had been uncovered in some other circumstance . . . had you not been facing prison time at such a young age . . . I might have left you where you were with that zookeeper. But so much has been taken from you. It just felt wrong to make you suffer further for the power you inherited but were never trained to handle."
"Because the Force is strong in my family . . ." Gaius echoes Azamin's prior words. He's suddenly very intrigued about which family his mother belonged to.
"Lord Malgus, I took a great risk standing against Tenebrae when I put you in the Naval Academy. I did it for you, but I also did it for the Empire. I wanted you to receive a chance to develop your talents. I thought that you might one day become a great asset to the Emperor. And I knew you wouldn't have any Light Side tendencies to worry about."
"Because you knew that I am a Sith Lady's bastard from some affair with a colonial, and not some fairytale random," Gaius concludes bitterly.
Azamin phrases it differently. "I had a hunch that Darkness would be your struggle, not the Light."
"Who are my parents?"
"It is best not to go looking for those answers."
"Are they alive?"
"I told you to forget it."
"Tenebrae knows . . . Do you know? You do. Tell me," Gaius urges.
Azamin brushes him off. "You know what I know. Your mother was a Lady sent to the Palace Temple for adultery. I never knew the circumstances. You were born while she was there."
"Was. You keep saying 'was.' She's dead?"
"Yes. She died not long after you were born."
"How? Did Tenebrae kill her?"
Azamin doesn't answer.
Gaius' eyes widen. "He did, didn't he?" If he did, then Gaius has a second reason to hate the guy and even more incentive to kill him.
But Darth Azamin shakes his head no as he reveals the ugly truth. "In the end, she killed herself."
"Suicide . . . " Wow. That's a sin against the Force. A very big sin, since all adherents of the Dark Side know that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Pain is power, after all. The Sith are taught to bear life's burdens with stoic determination and to offer up their discomforts—whether physical or emotional—to the Force.
Darth Azamin starts choosing his words very carefully now. Gaius can't tell if that's because he wants to tell a precise truth or if he's trying to mislead him. Or maybe both. "I was told that she never made peace with the predicament she was in . . . and she was deeply distressed to lose you and her other children."
Her other children. "I have brothers and sisters?"
"Don't ask me these questions."
"So this is how Tenebrae knows—he must have been aware of the matter in his official capacity? And my father? Who was my father?"
Azamin again deflects the question. "I was told that your mother's cuckolded husband wanted you killed as an infant. I suppose he didn't want any lingering evidence of his wife's transgression. I believe that at time, Tenebrae also wanted you killed. He likes to keep control over who has the Force, to regulate through marriage who has power in our society. But Darth Vitiate in his good judgement overruled him. Instead, you were sent away for adoption." Azamin slants him a look as he chides, "You might remember that the next time you are in his presence. Emperor Vitiate's rare mercy is why you exist."
This is all very interesting, but Gaius still wants to know, "Who is my father?"
"Some colonial."
An awful thought now occurs to Gaius. "Wait—am I related to Portia? Is that the real reason we can't marry? She's half Metellus and half Valerian." Those are two of the leading families of the Empire. Could he be one of them as well?
"You are neither a Metellus, nor a Valerian," Azamin answers. And that pretty much reveals Azamin knows exactly what his secret parentage is, but he's not sharing.
So Gaius doggedly persists. "So there is a family around today who I belong to . . . " He stares down Azamin as he accuses, "Who are you protecting?"
Azamin will not be intimidated. "Your birth family will never claim you. It would remind everyone of their daughter's disgrace. I don't have to tell you how deep notions of honor run in our society. No family wants their dirty laundry from twenty years ago aired in public. Moreover, you have not covered yourself in glory, Lord Malgus, by slaying Vindican and attempting to run off with a Metellus schoolgirl. I'm sorry, my boy, but I can't see any family wishing to welcome you. Even if you were to discover their identity, approaching them might further endanger you. The obvious move would be for them to ally with Adraas to find a way to kill you. It would avenge a stain on both families' honor."
"You're telling me to let sleeping dogs lie?"
"Precisely. Let everyone continue to believe you to be a random. It's far preferable to the truth."
Gaius digests this advice. As a rule, the Sith are not ones to exalt victimhood. On the Dark Side, life's losers are not to be pitied, they are to be shunned. Failure is shameful, even if the failure is not your own. And that context makes Gaius particularly unenthusiastic about discovering this latest twist to his ugly origin story. That his birth parents were deeply flawed people who ended tragically is disheartening. Yes, Azamin is right—it's way better to be known as a random. But still . . . Gaius is offended by his breezy, paternalistic dismissal of his secret background. It's one thing not to tell everyone about his family, and quite another thing not to tell him. "Were you ever going to tell me the truth?" Gaius grinds out.
"No. It is of no consequence. And it's not my story to tell." From this, Gaius again concludes that Azamin knows far more than he's letting on. He's protecting someone. Maybe it's his mother's family. Maybe it's someone else. He's unsure.
"Tenebrae knows." Maybe the priest will tell him who his family is.
That comment earns a strong reaction from Azamin. "Stay away from Tenebrae!" the little guy nearly roars. "You are lucky that he merely humbled you last night and didn't kill you. Don't tempt him to change his mind."
"But—"
"Lord Malgus, resist the urge to chase reconciliation with those who abandoned you. You will never be satisfied with what they say. More likely, you will be angered and disappointed. Your parents' past isn't pretty. It can't be changed. And it won't provide the belonging you seek."
Feeling increasingly duped and dismayed, Gaius snarls, "What aren't you telling me?" He's certain that he's not hearing the whole truth. That tells him whatever is being withheld matters . . . a lot.
"Forget the past," Azamin counsels softly. It's clear that the old guy wishes he could say more, but he won't. "Let the past die. Focus on your present and on your future. You have made an enemy of the Metellus family. Adraas will not be satisfied with today's business."
But Cato Metellus isn't who Gaius is worried about. He can handle Cato Metellus. The far more important—and immensely strong—enemy is the mysterious vindictive priest Darth Tenebrae, who apparently wanted him dead as an infant and refused to train him as a boy. According to Azamin, it's because the Force is strong in his family.
"Why does Tenebrae hate me so much? Is it just because Vitiate let me live?" Is the priest some obsessive control freak who considers him to be a loose end to some tragic love affair that never should have occurred? Or could this be some weird twisted self-loathing because Darth Tenebrae himself is illegitimate and half-colonial too?
Azamin's answer is blunt. "You threaten him."
"Hardly. He beat me easily."
"For now."
"He's . . . he's . . . " Gaius can't find the words to adequately describe the super intense, creepily manic Tenebrae. The guy is so bizarre. But maybe that's a consequence of being a living, breathing anachronism at one thousand years old. "He's . . . "
"He's an extremely unhappy man."
That sounds about right. "It was strange how determined he was that Portia and I not marry," Gaius recalls aloud. "It wasn't really about midichlorians and Palace rules . . . that seemed more like a pretext. It was weirdly personal. Portia saw it straightaway. It was more about him making sure we weren't happy together. It was almost as if he relished spoiling our hopes."
None of this is surprising to Azamin. "That man is very bitter. I don't expect you to understand this yet, but when you live an abnormally long life, there are periods of-shall we say-aimlessness. Tenebrae is in one now. Those of us whom Darkness keeps alive for centuries must search for meaning. We must struggle for purpose. To seek to understand why the Force lets us live so long and what our role is meant to be. You think you find the reason and you accomplish it, and then you find yourself searching again. Tenebrae is searching now."
"He looked . . . well, kind of . . ."
"Bad. He looks bad. You haven't met the man at his best." Azamin shrugs and looks away. "Maybe one day you shall. Darth Tenebrae has many fine qualities."
"I don't see any," Gaius harrumphs. He hates that fucking priest.
"That was the Force that brought you together. It will keep doing that, if it intends for you to meet."
"Why would the Force want me to meet Tenebrae?"
"You two are very much alike."
Gaius doesn't like that comment. But he listens as Azamin keeps speaking.
"In time, as you mature to grow into your power, the Empire will start to feel small to you. You will come to realize that our Emperor's leadership acts through a handful of Lords."
"Like you?"
"Yes. And like Tenebrae."
Whatever. Gaius doesn't care how important the priest is. He decides, "I'm going to kill him. I'll find a way." He will get his revenge for last night in the Temple.
"Do not!" Azamin sternly decrees. "Stay away from Tenebrae."
"I want revenge for Portia."
"You were never entitled to her in the first place. The bad actor here is you."
"I'm not entitled to anything—that's the problem!" Gaius grouses. Apparently, he's not even entitled to know who his parents are. So much of what other people have—commonfolk and Lords alike—is denied to him. So while influential Darth Azamin has clearly been something of an arm's length benefactor for him for years now, this conversation has only served to fuel Gaius' sense of grievance. He is angry, oh so angry at the unfairness of his life. And he knows he has just begun to process the hurt and disappointment of losing Portia. Altogether, today he is a boiling pot of Dark emotions, ready to spill over.
Seething Gaius now jumps up from the garden bench. He starts to pace as his Darkness surges. "I will become more powerful," he vows aloud. Power is the solution to his problems. Power is the answer to his future. "I will become more powerful . . . " Powerful enough to kill that priest and to frustrate Cato Metellus' revenge. Powerful enough that life's normal rules will not apply to him. Powerful enough that he cannot be punished. Powerful enough that he can do as he pleases. Through gritted teeth and with fists clenched, Gaius snarls to Azamin, "I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine . . . powerful enough to take whatever I want . . ."
Wise old Azamin disdains this ambition. "None of us are that powerful. No one gets whatever they want . . . just look at Lord Tenebrae. All that power, but so much unhappiness."
"Pain is power," Gaius retorts, quoting a Dark Side maxim.
To which the elder Lord cryptically replies, "But in the end, power is pain." The little stateman shakes his head as he observes, "You have too much of your father in you . . ."
"You knew my father?"
Azamin waves the question away. "I told you to forget it."
"You knew my father," Gaius stubbornly contends. This time, the phrase comes out as an accusation.
But Azamin refuses to acknowledge it. Instead, he changes the topic. "Watch yourself, Lord Malgus. But do not look to me for help. I have already overstepped where you are concerned. Your destiny lies along a different path from mine."
"But—"
"You must solve your own problems and fight your own battles. I cannot interfere."
Gaius eyes the ancient Lord who has clearly done a lot of interfering already, and fumes.
"Now, go and get to work with Angral. The Empire needs you as its champion. Sluis Van will not be easy. That victory will be hard fought."
Gaius' ears perk up at the future tense. "You have foreseen victory?"
"No. Tenebrae foresaw your victory. This morning in this very garden."
"Tenebrae . . ." Gaius hisses as his brow lowers.
"Go on! Enough about that priest! Go fulfill your destiny, Lord Malgus. Show Tenebrae and the rest that the Force is with you." Lord Azamin says this dismissal in a gruff tone of command. But to Gaius' ears, it's clear that the old guy likes him. Darth Azamin is rooting for him. And that's something, at least.
Does that exhortation mean his punishment is done? If so, Gaius is happy to leave. He has a lot to do and this garden gives him the creeps. He has the same vague sense of unease that he felt the last time he was in this spot. He would have noticed it immediately, but Azamin started shooting lightning and his attention was diverted to defense. But come to think of it, this garden reminds him of how he felt at the Temple last night before Tenebrae showed up. It's a sort of dread, more so than true danger. A feeling that evokes hurts that wound your soul rather than harm your body.
"What is this place?" Gaius abruptly asks Darth Azamin. But even as the words leave his lips, Gaius recalls the nosy, talkative gardener telling him that it's a graveyard. And that prompts his gaze to shift to the gardener and settle there a long moment.
Azamin follows his eyes. "This is the Emperor's garden. He likes to commune with the Force here. Why do you ask?"
"The Force is strong with this place." Strong in a way that doesn't make sense.
Gaius continues watching the gardener, who is intent at work raking up pink blossoms that collect on the grass beneath a large tree. He stares hard at the gardener. The man feels completely ordinary in the Force. But still . . . there's something subtle about him that's not right.
"Let's go, Lord Malgus," Azamin urges as he climbs to his feet.
Gaius ignores him. He starts walking towards the unsuspecting gardener.
"Lord Malgus?" Darth Azamin prompts again.
But Gaius has already stalked away. He calls, "You there!" at the servant to get his attention.
The young man straightens up and plants his rake in the grass. "Here to pet another bunny, milord?" the guy asks cheekily with a wide grin. And that's right, Gaius recalls. He did pet a bunny when he was last in this melancholy spot. That particular episode is not what he wants to be reminded of right now—it's hardly going to enhance his tough guy Sith Lord cred. Is the gardener mocking him? Gaius isn't sure.
"Who are you?" he demands gruffly as he looks the gardener over, trying to decide what's off about him. The servant is about his age, probably younger. He stands tall and skinny in his work clothes. He has short, sun-streaked brown hair and a tanned face to match. Basically, he looks like a young man who labors in the outdoors day in, day out.
"I'm the gardener, milord."
"I can see that. What is your name?"
"Me Mum named me Carl after her favorite uncle."
"Carl." It's the flat, dull sounding foreign given name of a man from the colonial peasant class. This gardener's father was probably Jeff or Tom and his mother was Lisa or Barb. Because only the educated white-collar class of Force laymen name their children in the manner of the Sith ruling class. If you're a colonial named like an elite—like himself—then chances are you're fully human, literate, and at least middle class. Because only educated men of decent status are Gaius, Lucius, Marcus, or Junius. That's how it's always been and always will be, given the rigid structure of Sith society that provides little upward mobility. There's no choice in the matter. Your father's a gardener and you're a gardener. Or your father's a Sith Lord and you're a Sith Lord.
Except for him. His father was some unknown colonial, and he's a Sith Lord. That's thanks—or maybe no thanks—to his frenemy benefactor Darth Azamin who is still trying to get his attention to leave.
"Lord Malgus, let us depart."
Gaius nods absently, still distracted by the strange gardener who tends to this strange place. The guy seems perfectly normal, but Gaius still isn't convinced. He continues to stare down the servant, who blinks at him questioningly. Is that fear Gaius sees reflected in his light eyes? It might be.
Something is off here, but Gaius can't pinpoint it. His intuition warns him of deception, but his mind cannot rationalize it. The clues feel persistent but the evidence is scant. It makes him especially wary.
"The Force is strong with this place," he repeats softly as he scans the vicinity. Strong in a way he's seldom felt before. Maybe it's the upsetting news he just heard or maybe it's this upsetting place, but he's picking up mental notes of witchcraft. The occult is long out of fashion for the modern Empire. Few vestiges of the old-time Dark religion remain save for the ritual props like cauldrons and the traditional superstitions like curses. Is there anyone left alive now who can conjure monsters, enchant an enemy, and commune with the dead, all courtesy of the Force? Well, maybe someone as old as Darth Tenebrae knows some Darke Magick, the precantatio of yore. But certainly not this lowly Force-blind gardener fellow.
Azamin calls again, "Lord Malgus?" He sounds impatient.
Still feeling dissatisfied, Gaius turns to leave just as the gardener speaks up. "They call it a bleeding pine."
"What?" Gaius isn't following. He's too distracted by the Force.
"This tree." The servant gestures behind him to the majestic tree whose flowers he rakes. "It's a bleeding pine. It flowers in the fall before it leaks sap from its trunk. The sap is red and sticky, like blood."
Whatever.
"It's not native to this world, but with proper tending, it will grow here."
Gaius casts an obligatory glance at the tree. It truly is impressive. "They say the Jedi have Force trees in their Temples," he volunteers. And why did he say that?
"Not like this, they don't," the gardener says proudly. "Where I was born, there were entire forests of bleeding pines. About the time the first hard frost came, the forest floor would run red with sap. It's thick and sticky, milord, so it trapped small animals and insects. They would die and decay. It would feed the soil, you see? And when the thaw came in the spring, the red sap would wash away. Like a murderer who cleans his hand," the young man leers ghoulishly, "or like a baptized soul washed clean of his sins, the cycle would begin anew. Leaves would grow and soon pink blossoms again." The gardener leans in to confide solemnly, "It's hope, you see. As long as life persists, the Force persists. And in the Force dwells hope. Every new beginning is hope."
"I can tell you like metaphors," Gaius responds with quelling sarcasm. He doesn't care to be lectured on the Force by a layman. "Where is this world? Where are you from?"
"Medriaas. I was born on Medriaas."
Gaius has never heard of it. In school, he was made to memorize the original hundred-odd Imperial colony worlds from the days of the original Empire under Marka Ragnos. He doesn't remember a Medriaas. It must be an expansion world that was annexed more recently.
But whatever. Gaius nods and turns again to leave. "Thanks for the tree talk, Carl." He repeats the gardener's humble name.
"Veradun," the young man now offers. "My name is Carl Veradun."
Gaius pauses and half turns to look again at the servant who evidently shares his surname. "Veradun?"
"Yes, milord. I am Carl Veradun from Medriaas."
If Gaius ever needed proof of his humble background, this moment is it. Lords of the Sith belong to great family clans like the Metellus, the Clodius, the Fabians, the Scipios, the Valerians, and the like. And he? He shares the surname of a common laborer from a world he's never heard of.
"I'm Gaius Veradun," Gaius offers back to the gardener sheepishly.
"Veradun, milord?" the guy asks, as if perhaps he has misheard.
"Yes. Veradun."
"Where are you from, milord? From here?"
The gardener surely means Dromund Kaas, the Imperial capital world, and not the Palace complex they stand in, where his mother evidently was a Temple whore. But thinking of what Darth Azamin has just told him of his parents, Gaius responds bitterly. "I'm from nowhere."
"No one's from nowhere, milord."
"I am." He's a random orphan of unknown origins. That's his story, Gaius decides, and he's sticking to it.
