Circa 3994BBY, Old Republic Era
Coruscant, the Galactic Republic
If there is such a thing as luck, she has it. Well . . . at first glance, she has it.
She was born into one of the leading families of the Empire. For generations, her menfolk have ruled armies and presided over temples. She counts no fewer than five relatives who have served on the Dark Council. Those Lords were the celebrated achievers of their day. They answered only to the Emperor himself. It is a fierce heritage that makes her family much sought after for their mentorship. Her clan's vast network of Master and Apprentice relationships spans virtually the entire officer corps of the Imperial Army.
But prestige is not confined to her family's men. Their women are a social clique to be reckoned with. By now, she has served on the board of every important charitable institution on Dromund Kaas. Those organizations she does not currently help govern, her mother or one of her aunts or sisters-in-law does. One call from them opens doors and creates opportunities. They know who to contact to prompt betrothals, ensure school admissions, or arrange Apprenticeships.
All that enduring power and influence brings great wealth. She lives in luxury, floating in and out of five grand houses as the ebb and flow of the seasons and the school year allow. Her jewelry is mostly old heirlooms and her wardrobe is strictly the newest couture. She makes every guest list that matters and her picture is splashed across the holonet. For she has the credits to upkeep a glamorously indulgent lifestyle and all the servants to make it look effortless.
But the excesses of her life don't stop there. She is an acclaimed beauty and always has been. She has the desirable black hair, ruddy complexion, sharp cheekbones, and vaguely purple lips that give testament to how much pureblood Sith ancestry runs through her veins. That blood is especially rich in midichlorians. She has a very high count which, when combined with her personal attractiveness and family position, made her a very desirable marriage candidate. She was ten when the first Lord approached her father for a betrothal.
Yes, she has it all. Every woman in the Empire longs to be her. Except, of course, for herself. And that's why today she's throwing it all away.
This is not an act of grief. It's not raging postpartum hormones. It's not desperation. Well . . . maybe it's all of those things in part. But mostly, it is because she is at a breaking point. This moment has crept up over years, fueled by dread and resentment. Probably, no one ever noticed because she plastered a bright smile over deep misgivings and put a brave face on whenever the topic came up. Women do that. They say they're fine. They tell themselves and others that they're fine. But they're not fine. They just look fine . . . until they're not.
She has arrived now at a place of no return. Suddenly, the unthinkable seems possible because she rejects all other options. So here she is, betraying everything her family stands for. Does anyone suspect? She hopes not.
When the Palace emissary had arrived with the bad news, he offered them an extra day's grace period in recognition that this is their third—THIRD!—such loss. This time, the chief priest of the Palace Temple had come in person sent by the Emperor for the occasion. It was surely a sign of great favor. But as her husband stood at her side gripping her hand tightly and blinking back tears, she herself had been strangely unmoved. She's forty now and this is probably her last chance for a son. So as the priest had spoken consoling words about the Force, she had tuned him out and resolved to take action.
And that's why she finds herself here now. "Vis mecum." Force be with me. She prays the most basic prayer she knows for courage, even though it is the damned Force that got her into this predicament. She used to be proud of her talent, thinking it a great blessing. But now, she knows it to be a curse. Better to be a Force-blind servant in the lowliest of Lord's house on some backwater colonial world than to be the much admired and publicly lauded Fulvia Pulchra, Lady Collapse, of the famed Gens Claudius.
What's that flashing? It's the proximity alarm. She grabs the stick and the hypersensitive controls of her husband's starfighter respond too fast. The craft careens hard to port. It's an overcorrection. She narrowly avoids the threatening collision but almost causes another. For perhaps the thousandth time in the last three days, she wishes she were a more experienced pilot. She knows just enough to take off and land and jump to hyperspace. It's not enough to prepare her for the mid-morning traffic congestion of the Republic's capital world Coruscant.
It would help if she knew where she is going. But none of her navigational equipment works. It was not programmed with this world in mind. Trusting the Force to guide her, she recognizes the landmark she seeks from the sky. The enormous blazing Light Side Force imprint from the concentration of Jedi assaults her mind. Yes, that has to be the place. She sets her stolen craft down fast in the large public plaza adjacent to her destination.
No one is anticipating spacecraft parking here. She sends pedestrians running in all directions, several shouting and pointing. Unfortunately, the landing isn't pretty. But she has arrived safely and so far, there are no signs that she was followed. Still, she has a nagging feeling in the back of her brain that signals danger. It has her alert with adrenaline pumping.
She dips her head now to kiss the baby snuggled against her chest. He has that intoxicating newborn smell that soothes her fears and bolsters her determination. I'm doing this for you, she thinks with maternal instinct in overdrive. Truthfully, this recklessness is terrifying and it flies in the face of everything she was raised to be. But as keen as her fear is now, her resolve exceeds it. She will save this third baby boy or die trying. And then, she will return home to face the wrath of her family and her Emperor. "Numquam dubita." Never falter. She encourages herself in the famous words of a long dead Sith general.
As she exits, a small crowd gathers to gawk at her sleek, black-on-red craft. The small fighter is heavily armed and thickly shielded. To her eye, it's obviously military. But no one here has ever seen such styling. They don't recognize the insignia on the side. Nor do they recognize the menacing Kittat motto painted beneath it: Pacis mendacium est. Peace is a lie. They do seem to recognize that the woman in the black dress with the baby clutched to her chest is not where she belongs.
Glancing around, Fulvia thinks the Republic looks even stranger on the ground than it did from the air. It's so random looking. The Empire has a certain uniformity in design and architecture. The Sith like sharp contrast, whether it is expressed in angled, geometric patterns, in the preference for stone and steel construction materials, or the prevailing red, black, and silver color palette. Frankly, the Empire can be somewhat matchy-matchy looking as a result. Still, it's fitting because the Sith prize unity and conformity. That rigorous esprit d'corps is what enabled them to rebuild their society after a crushing defeat.
The Republic has none of that familiar aesthetic. Nothing appears like it is the result of a preconceived master plan. It's a jarring cacophony for her eyes. The people look very diverse as well. Some are gross aliens. Look at that ugly fish man with gills. But most are humanoid looking to varying degrees. She squints at one, trying to ascertain whether they are man or woman. The shape looks like a human woman, except the person is wearing pants. It confuses her. No self-respecting woman of the Empire—be they a Lady or the common folk—wears pants in public. Gender roles in the Empire are rather rigid.
Some sort of security type in an official looking uniform approaches her as she re-bundles the squirming infant. He starts out respectfully. "You have some trouble with your ship, ma'am?"
Yes, she has trouble. She has lots and lots of trouble. But she ignores the question and heads fast across the plaza to the steps leading up to the heretics' temple.
"Hey!" the man calls after her. "You there! You can't just leave this ship here! This is a no parking zone!"
She ignores him like she would ignore any underling back home who might dare take that tone with her. Fulvia keeps walking purposely.
"Stop! I want to see some identification!" the man huffs.
She doesn't have time for this. She keeps walking.
The man begins to give chase, calling loudly, "Stop! I want to see your identification!"
Clearly, he will not be deterred. She halts now and turns. Fulvia summons her power and waves a hand. "You don't need to see my identification," she intones.
The man stops and repeats her words softly, accepting the Force command. "I don't need to see your identification."
Good. He's weak-minded. She continues, "Tell these people they can go about their business."
The man turns to tell the small assembly behind him, "You can go about your business."
When the crowd fails to move, she further suggests, "Move along."
The security guard now waves away the milling bystanders, loudly instructing, "Move along. I'll handle this."
Satisfied, Fulvia turns and heads as quickly as she can towards the looming Jedi edifice. Now that she's actually here, she's second guessing herself. She's never met a Jedi before. No one alive has. What will they be like? Will they kill her on sight? Will they refuse her request? Will they judge any surviving Sith to be an existential threat? These mysterious Light Siders had better live up to their hype about compassion and forgiveness. Because if they still hold a grudge for the war their ancestors fought hundreds of years ago, her hope is in vain.
Up close, the Coruscant Jedi temple is a thick, squat building with somewhat incongruous tall spires. All four sides have flights of stairs leading up to the main entrance level. It must be full of Jedi because her mind's eye is buffeted by the strong concentration of Light. It feels a bit like staring into the sun, blinding and painful but also dazzling and powerful. Do these people sense her Darkness like she senses their Light? She wonders what she feels like in the Force to a Jedi.
It's midday and there are people everywhere. Most are wearing some version of a brown cloak over beige robes or a beige tunic. This must be Jedi attire, she surmises, as she consistently spots the lightsaber accessory that accompanies the uniform. But thankfully, the general public is here as well. She slides into a group of visitors who are part of a docent led tour. In that guise, she is able to slip inside the Jedi's most sacred space. Actually, it feels very Sith to approach by deception. Is she the first of her kind ever to enter these hallowed halls? Maybe.
The interior of the temple is much more attractive than the exterior, with colonnaded galleries and beautiful artwork. She gawks at it all, like the other tourists. The docent is very informative, describing the Jedi way of life as he walks them by the entrance to some ancient archives. Then, he starts talking about the Jedi High Council. These are the highest-ranking Jedi Masters who govern the Light Side cult and advise the Republic Senate. They are meeting here today right now, the docent reveals as he gestures to a set of closed doors flanked by security guards in an area that is roped off from the general public.
This is her chance to get to the decision-makers. Fulvia seizes the moment.
While the tour group moves on, she takes a deep breath, summons the Force, and walks around the velvet ropes. As the guards flanking the doors react, she waves her free hand and gives them a heavy dose of suggestion. "You did not see me," she whispers as she opens the doors with the Force.
And just like that, a Sith refugee woman with a baby marches into the Jedi High Council.
At her approach, the council members cease speaking. Heads swing her direction. Curious eyes are on her. Do they know who she is? Do they sense her Dark Force? Or are they merely upset to be interrupted by an uninvited guest? It's clear from their expressions that she is not welcome.
As she stands there staring at the circle of twelve seated Jedi Masters, the door she just walked through opens. Someone commands, "Guards, remove this interloper. Redirect her to where she seeks to be."
"No-wait! Hear me out!" Fulvia objects. "I need your help!"
The speaker is annoyed but polite. "Guards, please intercept this woman. Escort her to security to explain herself. Perhaps they can see to her needs there."
She has not come this far to be turned away without being heard. Fulvia immediately freezes the two guards who enter and head towards her. It's an easy trick that requires a brief moment of concentration. As the guards stand paralyzed mid stride, she pushes them outside the chamber. Then she slides the door closed with the Force and locks it with a time-honored Dark charm for privacy. Good luck to anyone who tries to open that invisible lock.
Fulvia turns back to the circle of Jedi. Who makes the decisions here? They're all sitting in a circle. No one's on a throne. She doesn't know where to look or who to address.
"You have our attention," a new voice speaks up dryly.
She nods and swallows hard. Then she walks into the center of the circle to state her case. "My Lords." Turning around she sees women too. She awkwardly amends, "My Ladies as well . . . I suppose . . ." It's a little shocking to see women here among the Jedi leadership. There has never been a woman on the Dark Council. Sith Ladies as a rule do not participate in public life. But this is the Republic where they have all sorts of crazy ideas.
"There are no Lords and Ladies here," an old man speaks up. "We are equals with one another and with all citizens of the Republic. Now then, who are you and where have you come from? You have interrupted important proceedings."
She shifts her fussy baby to her shoulder as she pats him. The poor little thing is so upset. As a Force sensitive child, no doubt he senses the conflict brewing. Fulvia has to speak loudly to be heard over his mewing cries.
She begins with the formal introduction befitting her status. "I am Fulvia Pulchra, Lady Collapse. I am Sister to Lord Ruin and Lord Venom, Daughter of Lord Faminer, and Granddaughter to Lord Berate and Lord Starve." It's an extremely impressive pedigree of notable Lords whose five generation midichlorian count averages over fifteen thousand. It puts her family at the apex of the Sith elite. But it means nothing to her audience. The Jedi Council members peer at her curiously. Some with clear annoyance and others with open skepticism.
"Perhaps you are in the wrong place? This is the High Council of the Jedi Order."
"Yes, I know," she answers, again shuffling the upset baby. His unease isn't helping her keep her own composure. "My son and I are fugitives. I seek sanctuary for my child. Have mercy on him please—here!"
She boldly rushes forward to thrust her precious bundle into the arms of the nearest human woman. She doesn't trust him to one of those alien types. For all she knows, they might eat him. But for her part, the Jedi lady looks taken aback she awkwardly clutches the child like she's never held a baby before.
"Support his head!" Fulvia hisses censure at the fumbling woman. "He's three days old. Yes, like that."
Satisfied that her son is appropriately cradled, Fulvia steps back to face the circle of Jedi Masters.
"This child has the Force?"
"Yes. They will kill him if they find him. He has too much Force. His midichlorian count is eighteen thousand."
"Eighteen thousand?" someone reacts.
She nods. "Eighteen thousand, seven hundred and fifty-two." Fulvia lifts her chin proudly. "The Force is strong in my family. I have it, his father has it, we all have it."
"Who is 'they'? Who wants to kill the child?" a freakish looking alien asks.
"In the Empire, boy infants born with too much Force are surrendered to the Emperor. He kills them because he fears their potential. The only thing Lord Vitiate fears is losing his power," she adds bitterly.
"What Empire?" the alien Jedi demands.
"The Sith Empire."
Many among the circle of twelve exchange glances.
But the alien is the one to object. "There is no Sith Empire. It was defeated a thousand years ago."
"Yes. You destroyed us. But still, we persist. Darkness never dies," she quotes a maxim of her religion. "Darkness, like the Empire, persists."
The alien leans forward in his chair. "Are you saying there is a hidden Sith Empire?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"I believe we exist in what your people call the Unidentified Regions."
"Do you mean the Unknown Regions?"
"Yes, that's it."
"And you are Sith?"
"Yes."
"Those are incredible claims," another man observes, crossing his arms over his chest. "We are to believe that you use the Dark Side of the Force?"
"Yes." Weren't they watching just now? Do they need another demonstration? Should she choke someone?
"So you are the enemy," yet another voice enters to the discussion.
"Yes." She fully admits, "I will die for what I have done and what I have told you. My husband may die as well for failing to stop me."
"And yet you did it anyway?"
"Yes. I want this boy to live. I have lost two children already to Vitiate's paranoia. I will not lose another!"
The words come out shrill. She's very stressed. All the practiced hauteur and cold poise of a grand Sith Lady falls aside now. For she has come to the inner sanctum of her enemy to beg for mercy for her child. She is an apostate and a traitor at this point. There will be no redemption for her. She will be infamous if her actions are discovered.
Once she had been a good citizen, even going so far as to write condolence notes to other Ladies who sacrificed baby sons, expressing her empathy with their plight and urging them to trust the wisdom of the Emperor. But her days of going along with the rigid rules of elite Sith society are over. She will no longer gracefully acquiesce to the ritual murder of her innocent male children, no matter what her husband, father, and male relatives threaten. They get all the glory in the Empire anyway. And what does she get? Four daughters full of Force who like her are allowed to live. She worries that someday they too will surrender a newborn son born with too much Force for the craven Emperor to kill. That they will live her life all over again as cosseted and admired wives but serially bereft mothers. She may not be able to prevent that outcome, but she can prevent this latest son's death. And by doing so, she ensures that she won't live to see her grandsons die like her sons did.
"Raise my son in the Light," she pleads. "Teach him anything you want. I don't care his creed or his allegiance. I only care that he survives!"
"Why should we help our enemy?" someone asks a very logical question in an objective, thoughtful tone. These Jedi have a preternatural calm that she, as a passionate Sith, finds bewildering. But perhaps that's understandable in the circumstances. Unlike herself, these people have no personal interest in the situation.
Heads nod around the circle and another voice poses the same question. "If what you claim is true, then tell us why should we help our enemy?"
"Because you're supposed to be better than us, aren't you? The Light is kind and merciful, right? Accepting and compassionate? Prove it!" she challenges. "Have mercy on your enemy."
She's growing agitated now and her voice is sharp. Truthfully, she's not accustomed to persuading anyone. Debate and discussion are not common where she's from. In the Empire, there is a rigid chain of command to all aspects of life. She commands and in return she is commanded. But that posture will not win her these Jedi's favor, she sees.
"Who is this Vitiate?" another alien Jedi Master asks.
"Darth Vitiate is our longtime leader," she answers, her voice dripping with disdain. "He's an entrenched recluse. No one sees him, no one knows him, and yet everyone fears him because he controls everything. Vitiate fears little children strong with the Force who might one day grow to supplant him. He kills the boys at birth to ensure he will have no rivals."
Fulvia shakes her head in reproof, wondering aloud, "Why does the Force allow that coward to remain in power? The Shadow Force is greater than any one man, it has more than a single champion. So why does the Force permit Emperor Vitiate to keep a stranglehold on our leadership? He's been in power since our defeat at your hands . . ."
"But that was a thousand years ago," someone again protests the timeline.
"Vitiate is ancient. Some say he is immortal. But who knows? There are lots of rumors about him. I'm sure that's deliberate," she gripes bitterly.
She pauses now, blinking to clear her mind. Her pulse quickens as her senses heighten. "Someone's here . . ." Suddenly, amid all the distracting Light, she senses someone or something familiar in the Force. This must be the danger that pricked at her when she first landed. Her instinct was right—she has been followed.
It brings a new urgency to her persuasion.
"Please protect my child," she begs, arms outstretched as she turns around to meet the Jedi Council members' eyes one by one. "He is born Sith, but he is not your enemy! There is much that separates our cultures, but he has learned none of it yet," she assures them. "Teach him your ways and rear him as one of you. Who knows? Maybe someday he will be the bridge to reconcile our two traditions . . . " She is babbling now, telling these people what she hopes they want to hear. "May he become a great peacemaker, rich in the Force and rich in wisdom."
She pauses to involuntarily glance back over her shoulder. Whoever is coming, they are getting closer. The Jedi clearly sense it as well. Several shift in their seats. She notices one reach for his weapon.
"I commend him to your care and trust in your goodness," she rambles on nervously wringing her hands as she humbles herself completely. "Please, I'm begging you, please safeguard this innocent—"
She stops. Because oh, Force, they're here! Whoever has come is here! Right outside the door. So close now . . . so threatening . . .
The Jedi feel it, too. "Alert the guards," someone speaks up into a comlink.
But it's too late for guards, Fulvia knows. The Dark Force swirls around her unseen but powerful. Whoever has come, they have come to kill. Danger is screaming out at her.
Two of the Jedi now shoot to their feet. One reaches for his sword hilt but does not light it. "More intruders," he warns the others. "Three?"
"Four," the other standing Jedi corrects him.
"They followed me!" she yelps. "Help me! Defend me!"
But the wary Jedi are noncommittal. They don't trust her and she has now brought more of her kind to their doorstep. Do they fear to take sides? Or do they view all Sith as suspect? Having the Sith kill the Sith might be a victory in their minds, she realizes. But whatever their reasoning, the Jedi are very cool in their lack of response.
Determined to resist, she summons the Force and throws up her left hand. Squinting, she concentrates hard to reinforce the invisible lock she created earlier. For on the other side, someone is attempting to undue her spell.
It's a battle of wills for a few seconds and she wins. Whoever is at the door gives up attempting to break in with the Force. Instead, he simply cuts a large rectangular shape through the barrier with the tip of a lightsaber. Her pursuer kicks hard and the cut metal falls into the room with a resounding thump.
A masked man in red armor immediately ducks through the improvised entryway. It's a praetorian. One of the Emperor's personal bodyguards.
She gulps.
Praetorians are the best warriors of the Empire, predators strong in the Force with skills honed from years of training in hand-to-hand combat. These Lords don't command armies or fleets, and they don't have the organizational and analytical skills to run the Empire's economy. Neither do they have the training to administer the bureaucracy or the law courts. They also lack the technical expertise needed to tease out the secrets of Darkness in temples or in weapons laboratories. As a rule, praetorians are not multi-disciplinary or cerebral types. For they are the brawn, not the brains, of the upper class. They have one purpose only: to kill those foolish enough to threaten Lord Vitiate.
Fulvia backs up and gulps again.
"Traitor!" the praetorian accuses, his crimson saber pointing right at her. It's a label she never imagined would ever fit. But now, it's true. She doesn't even bother with a denial.
Instead, she throws out a hand and the lightsaber hanging at the waist of the nearest Jedi flies into it. The weapon ignites a strange brilliant blue. It feels awkward in her hand, but it's just what she needs to block the incoming swing from her charging attacker. As she parries, she throws the praetorian back hard with the Force. He hits the wall with a thud and bounces off. His armor must have absorbed the brunt of the impact, she realizes, as he quickly regroups.
She can almost sense the smirk behind the man's red mask. "You don't know how to use that sword," he condescends.
She begs to differ. "I have two brothers. I have swung a sword. And I-" she executes a swooping swing that again sends her pursuer falling back, "I had the most Force!" In fact, she's only alive because she is female. Because in the Empire, a Force-strong woman is nothing to be feared. Well, today she's going to prove that conventional wisdom wrong.
"You are not fit to call yourself a Lady!" the man sneers as he again engages. "For shame!"
"I'm not a Lady," she retorts with a stabbing lunge. "I'm a mother!" It's the only title she has left and she will wear it like a badge of honor.
She makes a vicious swipe at the praetorian's feet that he leaps to avoid. But before he regains his footing, she Force pushes him again hard into the wall. Then for good measure, she blasts him with some improvised Force lightning. She's no expert swordsman, but with the help of the Force she hopes to hold her own. And she's not fighting for herself, so much as she is fighting for her newborn son.
She sneaks a glance behind her at the circle of passive Light Siders. How can the Jedi sit by and merely watch? Do they not get involved in disputes? Can they not see that this is no tournament, this is mortal combat?
There will be no help from them, she decides. So she concentrates hard and blocks out all but her attacker. "Vis mecum," she mutters. Force be with me. She's come this far, so she must have the shadow power's blessing. Attempting to control her fear, Fulvia now gives full vent to her desperation. Darkness consumes her in a fit of rageful passion. The Force flows through her, amplifying her meager abilities. It makes her stronger, faster, and better. Suddenly, sword fighting becomes easy.
"Aaaah!" the praetorian falls back as she nearly takes his arm off when they engage again. "You do know how to use a sword," he grumbles begrudgingly.
His genuine surprise grates. Who does this guy think practiced with her brothers and cousins every day after school before they began their Apprenticeships? Sure, she hasn't picked up a sword in many years, but she's watched any number of tournaments in the interim. And while she might be only a few days from childbirth, she's still residually fit. You don't keep your figure this trim through seven pregnancies without a lot of cardio.
Her attacker makes a quick riposte that she deflects effortlessly. Then she starts in on a series of slashing swings, driving the praetorian back. He's on the defensive, losing ground fast, when she freezes him with the Force and makes a clean swipe at his neck.
The kill is not a moment too soon, for through the ruined door charge two more praetorians with seven-foot Force pikes. But that's not all. Behind them is her husband.
Fulvia panics. She has not anticipated this.
But her reflexive terror is very useful. Channeling it into Darkness instinctively, she fists her left hand and the Force constricts the praetorians' hearts in their chests, crushing them instantly. It's so effortless that she only realizes after the fact what she has done. For all of that impressive scarlet armor is nothing when measured against the power of her Force. The two incoming praetorians slump to the ground, slain by her mind. Their weaponry sparks as it falls and extinguishes harmlessly.
That just leaves her facing wide eyed Tiberius. He looks to her, to the three bodies on the floor, and then back to her.
Fulvia lowers her borrowed sword. For the first time, she is uncertain.
Her handsome mate facing her is her male equivalent, her peer in every way. For Lord and Lady Collapse are well matched. They are the elite of the elite, young leaders amid the beautiful people of the Empire. Her parents chose well, for together they represent the zenith of the Sith gene pool. In fact, that's why they find themselves in this unhappy predicament.
She looks a wreck right now. She's sweating and disheveled, exhausted and still swollen from childbirth. Wearing the only non-maternity dress that fits with not even a swipe of makeup on. But Tiberius looks magnificent. He is the picture of a dashing young Lord just entering his prime. He's even wearing his costly ceremonial armor, she notices, which tells her he must have come directly from an audience at the Palace.
"Fulvi." He calls her by the pet name her whole family calls her. He reaches out a forestalling hand and makes a soft command. "Fulvi, turn off the sword." As a gesture of goodwill, her turns off his own saber. Seeing this, she complies.
"They sent you . . . you . . .?" she stammers. She's dismayed. Maybe she should have seen this coming, but she did not.
Tiberius nods and answers gravely. "Yes."
"W-Why?"
"Because if I bring you back, he will only kill us. But if I do not return, your brothers, their sons, and your father will be proscribed. They are already hostage in the Palace."
"And the b-baby?" she whispers.
"I will be quick. It will be painless, I promise—"
"NO!"
Her husband's face shows all of his torment and frustration. Through the Force, she can sense his anger and sadness. "Fulvi, nothing can save him now . . . or us . . . Best to stop thinking of yourself."
Thinking of herself? Nothing about this has been motivated by her own interests. "NO!" she roars again. "Tiberius, if you harm him, I will kill you—"
"Fulvi, he won't live. If I don't kill him, the next guy Vitiate sends will do it. It's just a matter of time."
"Not if they can't find us-let's hide—let's stay here in the Republic!" she improvises. Immediately, she warms to the idea and exhorts, "We can run away and raise him where no one can find us—we can defect—become Jedi-"
"Fulvi," Tiberius shakes his head sadly, "Do you even hear yourself?" he wonders with disgust. "I knew you would be upset—I was too! But I never dreamed you would do this." Her husband runs a hand down his face and sighs heavily. "You flee to our enemy, you betray your family and the Empire, you condemn us all for your folly! Where is your honor? Where is your decency? No one ever dreamed that you of all people would pull this stunt! How you disappoint me . . . you were always such an exemplary wife . . ."
She steps back and shakes her head in warning. "Tiberius, if you harm him, I will—"
"I will do what I must!" he shouts her down indignantly. "I will do what YOU should have done! I will obey the Master of all Masters! He is our Emperor!" Tiberius steps closer now and gets in her face. "Fulvi, I'm not asking you. I'm telling you as your husband, Lord, and Master." He visibly swallows now before he orders softly, "Kneel, Lady Collapse, and submit to my justice as emissary from His Excellency, Darth Vitiate."
She stumbles back as his true mission dawns on her. Tiberius isn't here to bring her home for a reckoning. He's here to kill her and the baby. "Y-You're going to kill me? They s-sent you to k-kill me?"
He nods. "I will do what I must." He looks down and away, clearly miserable at the task. He mutters, "This will redeem our family's honor. If I return with you and our child—"
"Dead!"
"Yes! Then only I will be proscribed. The rest of us will live despite the stain you have placed on our family."
She knows Tiberius well enough to know that he's decided. There will be no talking him out of this course of action. And, honestly, she can't fault him. He's a good man, truly. A respectful and caring husband and father. But like all Lords of the Empire, he is beholden first to his Emperor.
"And these Jedi?" she gestures to their maddeningly silent audience. The Jedi who were standing earlier have since retaken their seats. The Light Side knights are collectively watching things unfold like this is a holonet serial drama and not real life in which they have a role to play and decisions to make.
She announces, "They know the Empire exists. I told them!"
"They already knew."
She blinks. "What do you mean?"
"Didn't they tell you? They know. Vitiate knows they know. The stronger we grow, the greater they sense us. Besides, we have too many common trading partners. The Empire could not remain hidden forever."
"Then why aren't we at war? Why don't we attack?" she challenges.
"No one wants war."
Wait—what? "Of course, we want war!"
Tiberius is firm. "No one wants war, Fulvi. Least of all Vitiate."
"Oh." She whirls. "Is that true?" she addresses the circle of Jedi.
Heads nod. Someone answers, "We have long suspected that the Sith persisted. Today, you have confirmed our fears."
"But the Empire is in hiding planning an attack," she protests weakly. "We've been in hiding a thousand years preparing for war . . . "
"You just think that. Vitiate wants you to think that. He prepares us for a war we will never fight."
"W-Why?" she squints at Tiberius, feeling confused. Because the revenge of the Sith on the Republic is the purpose of the Empire . . . right? "Why?"
"Because things are fine the way they are. We flourish in our sectors, they flourish in theirs."
Tiberius steps forward now into the circle of Jedi. "This woman and that child are mine. I am entrusted with their lives by every custom and law of my people." He approaches the Jedi woman holding the baby. "Yield him to me. I will deal with them and leave. You will never see me again nor any other Sith Lord. We will leave the Republic in peace. You have my word of honor on behalf of Emperor Vitiate. He has no quarrel with the Republic."
That is a lie. Peace is a lie. But the Jedi don't know that. Incredibly, they believe him. Fulvia is dumbfounded at their gullibility.
The Jedi woman holding the baby looks questioningly around the circle. Again, heads nod their endorsement. So, she somewhat reluctantly surrenders the baby to his father.
Tiberius brings the boy back to her. "Hold him and kneel," her husband instructs. "It will be quick and clean for both of you, I promise."
Dismayed at this turn of events, Fulvia turns for one last appeal to the Jedi Council. "But—"
"Take him!" Tiberius commands sharply. "Hold him and comfort him. He is innocent, even if you are not. But I will show you mercy in honor of our many happy years together. Fulvi, I love you even if I hate what you have done." He shoots her a hard, Dark look full of resentment. His words are biting. "I hate that you have made me do this."
"O-Oh . . ." Trembling, she accepts her little son back into her arms, holding him tightly against her chest.
"Go on," Tiberius prods gruffly. "On your knees, wife. You will atone with your life. Ecce invenit honorem." Behold-this act finds honor. They are ancient words for a ritual execution to cleanse shame from a family besmirched by a woman.
She nods and pretends, lowering her eyes and her body into a crouch of submission she learned young from her mother. She taught her own daughters to kneel as well. But now, she rejects the social control of the Sith patriarchy that murders her children and tells her to accept it. She subverted it with her wild dash to the enemy. She will subvert it yet again. For her goal remains what it has been all along: to save her baby son or die trying. And since both she and Tiberius are both going to die anyway, she might as well fight back. For what difference does it make in the end how they die? Fulvia might be cornered and caught, but she isn't giving up yet.
Tiberius speaks with a composed chill, but she can see that he is rattled . . . very rattled. He's quietly distraught at his task. He may hold the executioner's sword, but in his own way, her husband is as much a victim as she is. His hesitation is the distraction she needs. For as he psyches himself up for an old-fashioned honor killing, Fulvia lights the borrowed Jedi sword she's still somehow holding in her left hand. She lunges.
"AAAAHHHH!" Tiberius gasps out as she pierces his body through cleanly at the waist. Is it a mortal wound? She doesn't wait to find out. Instead she drops her weapon and runs to shove the baby back into the arms of the Jedi woman.
"Run! Save him!" she pleads, her heart pounding. "RUN!"
From behind, she hears the sound of a sword igniting. Whirling, she sees Tiberius stumble forward. He might be clutching his wound, but he's not giving up either. He's swinging now and she falls back. Her cast off sword flies back into her grip. It ignites and she starts to return blows.
"RUN!" she hollers at the still seated Jedi woman holding their baby. "RUN NOW! SAVE HIM!"
"There will be no victory for either of us," Tiberius groans as he pants through the pain. "You cannot win."
Fulvia glances back at their helpless baby in the enemy woman's arms. "I already have," she decides. Saving their son counts as a win. It's what she wanted all along. She's just sorry, so very sorry, that the cost for the boy's life is so high.
Like her fight with the praetorian, this battle is brief and uninterrupted by any Jedi. Wounded Tiberius is slowing rapidly but she is a very reluctant opponent. She doesn't blame her husband. He's as trapped in this situation as she is. The villain here is Vitiate who sends a husband and father to do his dirty work for him. The vainglorious Emperor counts on the loyalty and honor of his Lords to do his bidding, but he has the added leverage of hostages. It means he wins . . . in the end, he always wins. There isn't anyone in the Empire who Vitiate doesn't control. All her family's wealth, power, and influence are but an illusion. For she might as well be a servant for all the benefit her exalted status gives her now.
She's crying and the tears obscure her vision. They also blur her concentration. She needs to end this fight fast before her husband's far superior sword skills fell her despite his wounded condition. She waits for her opening through three more sword passes. But there it is—he's moving slow, so he's exposed on the right side while she slashes. Her blue sword tip carves a neat diagonal across the torso of Tiberius' armor. A very deep, long wound arises from his waist on the right to his chest on the left. It's the sweet spot for a kill, covering multiple major organs.
It is only as she watches him crumble that Fulvia realizes she is not the only one to strike true. For distracted by her Dark zeal for the kill, she herself has been slain. Her husband's sword has stuck true. She is stabbed clean through at the waist. His falling motion jerks the sword upwards while still in her, cutting towards her chest. Then, the blade falls free as his dropped sword deactivates, bounces, and rolls away.
Fulvia feels weakness before she feels pain. Her legs seem to give out beneath her. Suddenly, she's on her back blinking up at the ceiling, stunned and dismayed. Turning her head, she sees Tiberius laying close. He's dying fast. She feels it in the Force.
She hears voices now. The baby is crying loudly again. Suddenly, the Jedi woman holding the boy looms into view above her. "We will save your son. We will keep him safe," the woman rushes to tell her. It's everything ailing Fulvia needs to hear. It makes it all worth it.
"Thank you . . ." she manages through trembling lips. "His name . . . i-is . . . Rev-en-i-o . . ." she gasps out. It's an old Kittat verb Revenio, revenire meaning to come back, to return. Normally, her son would be named with a Kittat praenomen like other Sith aristocrats. He would be a Titus, Gaius, Cassius or the like. But she deviates from custom in hopes that her son will one day return safely to his homeland. She knows that's impossible—it could get him killed. But still, she hopes.
Her last thought is a fervent Dark prayer to the Force: vindica me. Avenge me! One day, return my son to the Sith, she wishes. Send him to avenge his father, his dead brothers, and myself. May he kill Emperor Vitiate and steal his beloved Empire. May he fulfill our craven Dark Lord's worst fears and seize the power he kills so many to protect. Vindica me.
Unfortunately, the hovering Jedi woman has trouble hearing her last words. It's her fading voice combined with her Sith inflected Basic that sounds thickly accented to her unfamiliar Republic ears. Later, when the little orphan infant is accepted into the Jedi Order, he will be called by a single name that is the best anyone understood and remembers: Revan. And one day, fulfilling his dying mother's wish, he will assume the title that unbeknownst to him is his birthright: Darth Revan, Lord of the Sith. He will be everything Emperor Vitiate ever feared come to fruition.