Her mind made up, Meetra marches forward with all the determination she projected when marching into battle. It's the mindset you have when you have thought things through and made decisions and now your job is to stick to the plan and see it to conclusion. But all that purpose gets stalled when a young boy rushes up careening headlong past her to greet Sion.
"Sion! Sion! Salve Sion!"
The kid is six or seven standard years in Meetra's estimation. A youngling old enough to have a practice sword but not a real one, were he a Padawan.
"My Lord, did you bring more ashes?" he asks excitedly.
The zombie Sith shakes his head no. "Not today, Piers."
"Awwwwww. I was hoping for more ashes."
An older boy, who from the resemblance must be the big brother of the disappointed child, now hurries forward. Sion also greets him by name. "Lucian."
"Salve Dominus." The older boy stops and formally salutes. It's a right fist thumped to his chest in the vicinity of the heart and then the arm is extended forward. "My Lord."
This kid, Meetra estimates, is old enough for a real saber and a Jedi Master. He's thirteen or fourteen.
"How did that Kittat exam go?" the Sith asks him.
"I haven't gotten the results back, my Lord. Maybe next week, they said."
"He told me he thought he did great," little brother volunteers as big brother flushes and shoots him a 'shut up!' look.
Sion approves. "You'll get that spot at the priory madrasa yet, Lucian."
"I dunno, my Lord," the older boy sighs. "Coming from out here, I'll need a perfect score to get in."
"A respectable score will get you in. I still know a few Lords who matter on Dromund Kaas. I can pull a few strings, if need be."
"You'd do that?" The older boy's eyes light up.
"Indeed. You father served me well."
"Thank you, my Lord." Young Lucian looks overjoyed, but he's trying hard not to show it. He has none of his little brother's casual exuberance.
"You two are here early for vespers," Sion observes and Meetra senses the pleased smile behind the mask.
"He was cleaning the sacristy, and I helped," little brother pipes up proudly. "We're coming back for vespers. But first, we're doing homework."
"A wise plan," Sion commends. "Does that mean we shall have the Temple all to ourselves?"
"Yes, my Lord," the boys answer in unison. The little one's voice is a full octave higher than his elder sibling's.
"Who are you?" the curious little one looks to her. Meetra is hovering silently in her borrowed black cloak with the hood pulled low watching the interaction.
Sion answers for her. "This is the new Lady Sion. Boys, meet your new Mistress."
"Oh. Wow." Again, the younger boy is artlessly transparent in his reaction. "Wow. You took a new wife."
The little boy giggles nervously and his brother grabs his shoulder to yank him back before he can speak further. "Er, your pardon, my Lady," the red-faced older brother yelps, hanging his head. "He meant no disrespect."
Sion chuckles. "You two won't be the only ones who are surprised to hear the news." The Sith now makes the introductions. "My Lady, meet Piers and Lucian Cox. Their father was captain of my legion."
Again, the littlest boy speaks up. "Daddy was killed by a girl Jedi. But Lord Sion is going to find her and slay her and then we'll add her ashes to the cauldron."
Meetra nods mostly because it seems like she should. Posing in borrowed clothes with the local Lord to vouch for her, she must be giving convincing Sith Lady vibes. The boys appear impressed and not at all suspicious.
"We will get our revenge," the youngest boy now vows with conviction so strong that it resonates in the Force.
Meetra blinks and says nothing. Are all Sith children this bloodthirsty? She hopes not.
"Patience, Piers," Lord Sion urges sagely. "I will make sure that your father did not die in vain."
"When I grow up, I'm going to be a soldier for Sion like Dad," the little boy proclaims to Meetra. "I won't help priests in Temples like my brother."
"All who serve the Force or serve me contribute," Sion balms things over between the pair of younglings. "Both are honorable vocations. The Empire needs both swords and prayers."
The older boy speaks up now. He is sober and mannerly. "Congratulations, my Lord and my Lady. We wish you many fine sons and daughters."
"Thank you, Lucian. Run along and get to that homework, boys."
Again, the pair answer dutifully in unison. "Yes, my Lord."
Sion now approaches to speak with the sentry guards. As he tells them to close the Temple for a few minutes, Meetra watches the two boys walk away. That's the first time she has seen Sion interact with anyone other than his thugs.
The unfiltered younger one is talking loudly like usual, and his voice carries. "Did you see? He's got his mask and his gloves on."
His older brother hisses, "Keep your voice down."
"You know what that means. He's bad again. Real bad. Usually, his face is fine, it's the rest—"
"I know. Don't talk about it."
"I didn't smell him. Did you?"
"I said don't talk about it!"
"Do you think the mask means Lord Sion will need to go back to Korriban soon? Maybe he will catch her there next time?"
"I don't know. But don't ask him."
"I feel sorry for him."
"We all do," the older boy agrees. And then, as if sensing her gaze, he looks over his shoulder and catches her eye. Young Lucian Cox flushes anew and starts dragging his talkative sibling away fast.
Meetra is still watching the boys thoughtfully when Sion returns to her side. He conducts her past the guards and towards the stairs that lead down to the underground entrance of the Temple.
They are alone again now. Meetra comments under her breath. "You let laymen into your Temples?" That's not typically how the Jedi do things. Temples are largely administrative workplaces for the Order. There are sacred spaces and meditation rooms, of course, but those are reserved for the Force sensitive. Not so, apparently, on the Dark Side where Force-blind school kids participate.
"The Force is for everyone," Sion contends. "If you ask me, those who cannot sense it for themselves are the hardest to teach, but maybe the most important to teach."
"We don't teach laymen much about the Force," Meetra observes yet another difference between the Republic and Empire traditions. "There is a lot of ceremonial lip service to the Force in the constitution and in formal settings, but most citizens think of it as magic for the very few. Schools teach ethics and tolerance and respect as civic virtues, but no one overtly grounds those values in the teachings of the Light."
"Why is that?"
She thinks a moment. "I guess because where I'm from people get uncomfortable talking publicly about god. They fear indoctrination. The Order, in turns, fears revealing too much that might scare people or feed conspiracy theories about the Jedi on the holonet. Optics matter a great deal to the Order," she sighs. "The Council is hypersensitive that the Jedi will be perceived as too influential—that we will wrongly be viewed as the Republic's wizard overlords—and that might subvert faith in the democratic process we are trying to protect."
Sion seems perplexed by what she's saying. "What do the common people of the Republic believe in, if not the Force?"
That's a good question. "Well, the Republic respects the practice of traditional religions and customs by the local systems. But by and large, at least in the Core worlds, life is pretty secular. People aren't precisely hostile to religion," she judges. "It's more like they view it as unnecessary to modern life . . . something we have evolved past."
"Evolved past?" he echoes.
"Well, yes. Thanks to science and education." Meetra adds, "Local religious practices are mostly observed on less developed worlds—often nonhuman worlds—in sectors like the Rim." She shrugs and admits to the social stratification that the Republic likes to pretend doesn't exist. "The Core worlds look down on those places. So the disdain for religion has a bit of an elitist angle, I suppose . . ." If the Core has any god, it's credits, she thinks cynically. Certainly, not the Force.
"We believe that the Force is for everyone," Sion responds. "All are taught to respect and fear the Force. I suppose that reinforces the respect and fear for the Lord class who are born to wield the Force. On the Dark Side, the strong rule. That is accepted as the natural order of things."
They have reached the bottom of the steps to arrive at the Temple entrance. Sion opens a large, creaking old fashioned wooden door. "Shall we go in?"
Meetra nods even as she instinctively hesitates on the threshold. Suddenly entertaining second thoughts, she looks to Sion's mask warily. Should she be entering this Dark Temple?
"There is nothing to fear," he assures her.
It doesn't feel that way. She's a Jedi walking into a Sith Temple. A Republic exile living as a fugitive among her enemy. A proponent of the Light stripped of her Force and seeking sanctuary amid the Dark Side. She's broken lots of rules and taken many risks in her day, but nothing quite so bold as this fake marriage ritual she's about to undertake.
"No cold feet. You can't back out now," Sion gently chides, sounding upbeat behind the mask. "Between the Cox kids and those two guards I just told, this whole place will know I'm a newlywed by nightfall. So no jilting me at the altar. How foolish would that make me look?"
Meetra nods but she still doesn't walk through the open door.
"The cook really is making a cake," Sion coaxes. "Marry me and you can have as big a piece as you want. It's all you can eat cake and ice cream for Lady Sion," he promises, sounding very much like goofy Tony the jailor even though he's wearing his fearsome helmet.
"Come," he prods. "Let me show you inside. You'll love it."
Meetra relents and walks in. She stands just inside the doorway a long moment and takes a deep, fortifying breath. All her gusto for this fake marriage has suddenly waned and doubts are creeping back in. But she's made it this far. Meetra's first impression is that the Temple is very dim. Coming from the bright afternoon daylight of the garden, it takes a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the low light. Meetra reflexively reaches up to brush back her hood so she can see better.
Sion catches the movement and takes the opportunity to educate her. "That cape is the traditional public dress of the Lord class. It's not needed for the indicator of status here like it is on worlds like Dromund Kaas. But in other settings, a Lord or Lady will never venture out in public without it."
"So, if you're not a red Sith, this is how you tell the Lords from the commoners?"
"Among other things, yes. But for us, it is also a useful tool to obscure your appearance."
Yes, she figured that out. There's not much anyone can see of her face or figure with the cloak on. "Is that your way of saying I'm not very ladylike?"
He answers bluntly. "You look very Republic, like you act very Republic and you speak very Republic. I'm not asking you to change all that. But a few nods to convention in appearance will help avert talk."
Meetra won't argue with that logic. She has become somewhat accustomed to the dress and slippers by now. She doesn't like them, mind you, but she will tolerate them. "I will try to look the part of Lady Sion in public," she agrees. She will think of it as a disguise. Just because she dresses Sith doesn't mean she's actually Dark, Meetra reasons.
"Good. I plan to tell people that you're a widow of a Lord who was stationed undercover on Mandalore for years. There were plenty of us seeded in amongst their clans. It will help explain your accent and some of your ways. You spent so long blending in that you're a little rusty at being a proper Sith. You fled Mandalore in the chaos after the defeat and have been drifting as a war refugee ever since."
She frowns. "A widow? Is that really necessary?"
"No Lady your age would be unmarried without being widowed. Hopefully, no one will ask too many questions about your past out of respect for your dead war hero Lord who gave all for the Empire."
"And how are you going to explain that I was once your Jedi prisoner?" Meetra worries.
"I plan to admit it. I captured you mistakenly suspecting you were the Exile. I kept you incarcerated while you protested your innocence. When finally I was satisfied that you are indeed a Sith Lady, I freed you. But you have nowhere to go, so I am keeping you."
"A marriage of convenience . . ." she mulls over his fiction.
"It is not far from the truth of our arrangement," he points out.
"Do you think that story will work?" She's doubtful.
"It explains why you received better treatment than the other prisoners, why I kept dropping by to talk, and why you were given a dress," he reasons. "It's the best explanation I could come up with. Got a better idea? I'm all ears."
She shakes her head. "No." His cover story, while not ideal, does explain why she was captured, why she has the Force, why she was originally labeled a Jedi, why she was never tortured, and why she and Sion ended up married.
And now, she can't help but ask, "Who is the Jedi woman who killed the father of those two boys we just met? The one who was your captain?"
"You."
She winces. "Korriban?"
"Yes."
"I was afraid you'd say that." Uncomfortably guilt ridden, Meetra squirms a little.
"Meetra," Sion commands her attention softly. "When I say that you are hunted, when I tell you that dangers lie all around, you must believe me. Even six-year-olds want to kill you."
She nods and gulps. "I get it." Disappearing into the persona of Lady Sion makes increasing sense, even if she's still reluctant on principle.
Sion now begins to give her a tour of his church. "Temples from this era were built almost exclusively underground," he begins. "The nave is through those doors. It is typically shaped like a triangle that points to the altar as the focal point. The nave is split by a center aisle, sometimes two. This area we're standing in is called the narthex. It is a gathering place outside of the sanctuary."
Sion points to a large gold receptacle close by that resembles a font. "Those are the ashes Piers was asking about. We Sith bury our dead and burn our enemies. It is customary to bring home ashes from the enemy pyre as an offering at the Temple. The priests use them on holy days. In bygone times, the Sith would mark their faces with the ash of vanquished foes before they went into battle."
Meetra eyes the basin grimly, noting how full it appears. "You're telling me those are the ashes of dead Jedi?"
He nods yes. "Some of them."
She sighs and grumbles, "This is off to a great start . . ." Meetra's misgivings just increased.
"Let's move on." Sion gestures to his left. "That door leads to stairs that access the choir loft overhead. The larger Temples have choirs on both sides of the nave. The cantors chant in colloquy for the high rituals. This is a small Temple, so we have only one choir loft in the rear of the nave opposite the altar."
"So there is music?" Is that what he's telling her?
"Yes. Do you like music?"
"Doesn't everyone like music? I like music better than ashes of dead Jedi," Meetra mutters under her breath.
"Come inside," Sion beckons her through another set of old-style wooden doors. "This is what you came to see, not ashes and benches."
Meetra dutifully walks forward into the sanctuary. "Oh." Oh wow. This really is something to see. She says the first thing that enters her mind. "I didn't expect the ceiling to be so high . . ."
There is nothing claustrophobic about this underground space. It's huge. It's also ridiculously ornate. Meetra is still recovering from the momentary visual shock of immersion into this strange and unexpectedly grand Dark church. Every inch of the place is decorated in blinding gold and silver gilt. It ought to be tacky, but it's not. It's dazzling. Brash. Unapologetic. Meetra feels a little like she has stumbled into a hidden treasure trove of riches. All that's missing is the mythical dragon to guard it.
There are intricate glittery stone mosaics underfoot and above on the high coffered ceiling. On the walls hang massive photorealistic paintings lit to be viewed by the faithful. Meetra immediately approaches for a better look. The paintings are mostly battle scenes of armored men with laser swords doing the bloody work of Empire building. One shows a duel with an opponent who is presumably a Jedi from the green lightsaber. Another features a sparkly, shadowy figure. Could that be a Force ghost? It's all very engrossing, but the painting that captures Meetra's attention the most depicts a family—father, mother, a son, and a daughter. They stand together looking up, their bleak faces washed with the pale blue light of reflected ion engines. The children's expressions look scared and the adults look angry as they watch a large spacecraft take flight above them.
Sion notices her interest. He moves to hover over her shoulder. "It's a copy of a very famous work. The original hangs in the Imperial Palace."
"Who are they?"
"Our forebears. Anonymous Jedi exiles marooned and left for dead."
Ah, yes. So taken was Meetra by the vivid pathos of the four subjects that she completely missed the lightsabers all four are wearing.
"There was some artistic license, I assume," Sion volunteers offhand. "There wouldn't have been Dark Jedi families back then yet. What with no attachments and all . . ."
"No attachments." Did he have to bring that up?
"The legacy of that long ago schism between the Dark Side and the Light had very far-reaching consequences for the galaxy," Sion quietly laments. "Where would our understanding of the Force be today had the Jedi Order had never split and the study of the Dark Side been permitted by the Republic?"
"I don't know . . ."
Sion leans in to whisper conspiratorially, "Let's find out, shall we?"
He leads her down the center aisle of the sanctuary to the altar dais. The reek of incense is increasingly strong as they approach the holy spot. The altar itself is a large, rather plain stone table about waist high. Meetra finds it ironic that this most special place is the least decorative part of the Temple. It almost looks like it doesn't belong.
As Sion busies himself lighting the circle of candelabras that surround that altar, Meetra stands there fidgeting. "So . . . how does this marriage ceremony work?"
Sion explains, "Usually, marriages occur at night under literal cover of Darkness, but moonlight is not strictly required. Custom has the bride's father deliver her to the Temple wearing his cloak. She is given over to her husband with the act of removing her father's mantle. When the ceremony here at the altar is complete, she emerges from the Temple wearing her husband's cloak. And so, her responsibility and care passes from one Lord to the other."
"We're skipping that part. Tell me about the ritual itself." Sion clearly relishes all the minutiae and symbolism of his religion. But Meetra's not here for the lead up and trappings. She cares about the important part.
"There are no witnesses to the actual ceremony. The wedding is scrupulously private. Only the Force sees."
"Okay . . ."
"The couple exchange promises here at the altar. It's a blood oath."
"B-Blood?" He never said anything about blood.
"We say the words and slice our palms."
"Slice?" Did he say slice?
"It's just a scratch. Then the marriage is consummated."
"Here? In the Temple?"
"Yes. On the altar."
She's scandalized at first, then a little grossed out. "Eeewwww. We're skipping that part too," Meetra hurries to add.
Sion laughs and admits, "It's as uncomfortable as it looks."
"I'll bet." Meetra regards the stone table. It looks very cold and very hard. "So you're telling me that brides and grooms have . . . I mean, they . . . uh . . . here?"
"Yes. Lots and lots of them." Sion laughs at her reaction. It helps to diffuse the tension. Meetra even nervously laughs some herself.
Sion is finished with the candles. He reaches to remove his helmet and plunks it on the table. And yep, that's Tony the jailor beneath Darth Sion's stylized headgear. The wideset light eyes, the surprisingly pale skin, the square jaw that tenses when he's displeased . . . His features are more regular than truly handsome, but his face is pleasant to look at. Thanks to the helmet, his hair isn't quite so perfect now. Meetra finds that very gratifying.
Tony—Sion—whoever he is— smiles a little sheepishly and quips, "Surprise."
Meetra doesn't smile back. She's still mad about the deception.
She looks him over slowly. As far as big reveals go, that was anticlimactic. She's had time now to get used to the deceit. She doesn't even bother taking him to task on the topic. "So that time when you showed up looking sort of beaten . . . ?"
"That was my body degrading. My face is among the last places to decay. By the time my face starts to go, the rest of me is pretty bad. It means the gangrene has fully taken hold."
Yuck. "But you're good now, right?"
He smiles. "Thanks to you, I'm better than I've been in many years. But I'll be wearing the helmet anyway. I don't want people to know that I am better. They will assume the opposite the more covered up I appear."
Thinking of the reaction of the two boys outside the Temple, Meetra nods. "People would begin to wonder how you're better without torturing prisoners."
"Precisely. No one needs to know about your abilities or our dyad."
Sion strips off his gloves now. Like his face, his hands look very normal. Gone is the gory sight of bony knuckles showing through frayed grey skin. Sion sees her looking and smiles again. Before Meetra can stop herself, she smiles back. There's just something about his pure joy in his recovery that makes her happy. Proud, too. It feels like the triumph of the Light to see her compassion work such a miracle. For that's what the Light aims to do: to ease conflict and suffering through compassion and empathy. In some ways, Meetra thinks, she has never been more Jedi than when she's healing Sion. The Council wouldn't see it that way, however.
"I am anxious to see how far you can heal me and how long the rejuvenation persists. But even if this is the best we can achieve and I still need your healing touch daily, this is remarkable progress." Sion smiles again. He can't stop smiling now that the mask is off. It crinkles the corners of his eyes and the tops of his cheeks and Meetra is reminded again why she instantly liked 'Tony.' "Truly, you are a miracle worker," he gushes.
The words are said sincerely and lighthearted. But it's in that moment when Meetra realizes that Darth Sion is never going to let her leave him. Despite all his promises, this pretend marriage really is what it purports to be—permanent.
He's in her mind. He hears her unspoken fear. Sion immediately counters with a promise. "I am going to do all I can to make you want to stay."
She gulps as she realizes aloud, "This is why you want this wedding—to get me out of the cell so I won't try to escape once I get my Force. You want me to be more comfortable—"
"Happy. I want you to be happy."
"—so I will have less incentive to leave. You're trying to lull me into complacency. To make me want to stay—"
"Yes! I want you to stay. That's the point. There is no hidden agenda."
Meetra nods slowly, feeling only half convinced. It's not a stretch to believe that a man who has tortured and killed for centuries to stay alive would be ruthless about holding on to the miracle cure he has discovered. But at least that makes Sion desperate to keep her alive, whereas the rest of his Sith Lord cronies want her dead. That has to count for something.
Sion must perceive her wavering again because he prods her along. "Let's get started. It's a simple ceremony that won't take long. The vows are a restatement of the Code of the Sith. Some Temples require you to say them in Kittat, our mother tongue. But we will say them in Basic so you understand."
"Alright," she gulps.
"Take my hands."
Meetra does. And, as always, she feels an instant rush of Force as the bond activates with their touch. With the connection open, she knows what Sion is thinking. He's relieved, excited, and optimistic. And also, a little bittersweet nostalgic. For in his mind Meetra catches flashes of long-ago memories dredged up by today's events. Baby-faced young Sion is getting married in a different candlelit Temple to his red-skinned first wife . . . she's nervous and worried that she's making a huge mistake . . . apparently, Meetra's not the first woman to settle for marriage to Darth Sion because he's the best choice she has left. But that marriage worked out very well and Sion's determined that this one will too. He meant what he said earlier: he plans to make her happy.
That's encouragement Meetra needs right now. Can he feel her hands trembling? She has lots of trepidation about the sham commitment she's undertaking. This is fake, she tells herself. This isn't real. There's nothing to be anxious about. This is merely a ruse to establish her cover story so she can hide in plain sight.
It helps that this Temple feels more like a setting from a novel than a place for a real-life event. The sheer exoticism of her surroundings makes the non-commitment commitment she's about to make feel all the less genuine. She'd be freaking out right now if she were wearing a white dress and a veil and she and Sion were holding hands before a throng of invited guests. But nothing about this crazy impromptu wedding looks or feels like the marriage ceremonies she's used to. That's a big relief.
Sion suddenly seems a little nervous too. He absently runs a hand through his messed-up hair and succeeds in making it worse. But she's in borrowed clothes and looking weary from lying awake all night. Neither of them is at their best. That helps too, Meetra decides. This isn't like a real wedding where the bride and groom care how they look and there are camera bots flying around to record every moment.
"Ready?" he prompts.
"I guess." Time to get this over with.
Sion's voice is low and deliberate. His eyes never leave hers as he begins to speak. He might have his helmet off, but in the moment he's all the intensity of Darth Sion and not the affable jailor Tony. "I will be your passion," he promises in his slow, long voweled, hard consonant version of Basic. "I will give you strength. And together, we will gain power and victory."
As far as wedding vows go, those sound comfortably vague, if very Sith. Trust it to the Dark Side to have brides and grooms pledge emotion, fortitude, power, and dominance for happily-ever-after. Meetra can't resist a smirk. Who knew 'we will gain pow-wah and vict-or-reee!' could sound so endearing? It's a call to arms that sounds like a love declaration.
"Now, you say it. Make your pledge for me."
Meetra dutifully echoes his words, but with considerably less flair. She mumbles fast. "I will be your passion. I will give you strength. And together, we will gain power and victory."
Sion continues in his low, deliberative tone. "The Force has brought us together, the Force will bind us, and the Force will set us free."
That too sounds fairly innocuous. But given her and Sion's strange bond, those words might even be true, Meetra realizes with some shock.
"They are true." Sion squeezes her hands and urges, "Say it."
She obliges. "The Force has brought us together, the Force will bind us, and the Force will set us free."
Sion nods his satisfaction. "Now, for the marks." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, jewel encrusted tool. He slides off one end to reveal a metal blade. It's an elegant, extremely sharp looking stiletto dagger.
Before she can think to resist, Sion grabs her left palm and slashes it with the jeweled knife.
"Owwww!" Meetra flinches and pulls away, pressing hard against the flowing blood and the instant pain. The cut is a shallow scratch. It won't need to be stitched, it's nothing serious. But it stings and bleeds profusely. "What the fuck?!" That just ruined the moment big time.
Sion doesn't react. She watches as he displays his own left palm before slashing it as well. Unlike her, he doesn't outwardly react to the pain. He clasps his bloodied palm to her bloodied palm, and his fingers intertwine with hers. Blood drips down to their wrists as the bond reactivates at their touch.
"Seriously, what the fuck was that?" she huffs. "That hurt!"
Sion ignores her outrage and savors the moment. "Pain is an integral part of any serious commitment for the Sith. Now," he proclaims, "you are my Lady and I am your Lord until death do us part. We are married under the tradition of my people—"
"Fake married."
"I am yours and you are mine. Together forever in this life by grace of the Force."
"Fake together."
He nods. "This wedding contravenes two religions, your Jedi Code, and several laws that I know of. There is no prior Palace consent. It's clearly not legal under the laws of the Empire."
"Yes, and therefore it's not binding," Meetra feels compelled to point out. "This ceremony means nothing." She wants no illusions to the contrary.
But Sion flashes a slow, sly smile and starts riffing romantic. "This is a secret marriage in the Force to honor our secret dyad."
"Whaat?" Meetra is unnerved by the solemnity with which Sion says these words. Unnerved too by the flash of feral yellow she sees in his light eyes. Blink and you'll miss it, but there is the conclusive evidence of just how Dark her pretend husband is.
He placates her now. "This marriage is a lie to everyone but the Force."
Okay, whatever. She's not going to pursue the point further. He knows how she feels. "So, that's it? We're done?" Meetra yelps as she attempts to free her still bleeding hand.
Sion resists. "Not yet. Keep applying pressure. Give it another minute to start to clot. But yes, we're done unless you fancy a quick tryst on the altar?"
"No, thanks." It looks like she's getting away without a 'you may kiss the bride' moment too. So, all in all, other than her bleeding hand, Meetra's dignity has escaped this sham marriage ceremony mostly intact.
She's relieved, but Sion is still angling for more. Well, maybe he's just trolling her now. "I bet we'd make a great disturbance in the Force," he leers, seeming more goofy than threatening. "Tell me, do you think a Jedi and a Sith have ever—"
"No! Absolutely not. And we won't be the first."
Sion chuckles and takes the rejection gracefully. He releases her hand. While wincing Meetra pokes at her wound, he starts to extinguish the candles one by one. Then, he replaces his gloves and helmet. Together, they begin to walk out.
It's over. It's really over. And that wasn't so bad. Meetra now exhales the inhaled breath she didn't know she was holding.
"Do not Force heal that wound," Sion advises. "The knife blade is forged with acid to ensure the cut will scar. It will leave the traditional mark. To convince my people that you're truly my wife, you will need one."
Fine. But Meetra still growls, "You should have warned me. That hurt."
"If I had warned you, you would have fretted over it. And then you would have tensed up and made it worse. If anyone asks why you don't have a hand scar from your prior marriage, tell them the new cut is over the old."
She slants a knowing glance over at the helmeted Sith at her side. "I felt you enjoy that." It was weird, very weird to sense how keenly Sion is attuned to pain. He damn near relished it. Not because he wanted her to hurt, she sensed. But since she was hurting, he took full benefit.
"Pain is power," he answers with soft reverence. "Until you came along, it kept me alive. I respect pain."
"Gross," she mutters under her breath. She's heard him torturing prisoners. She doesn't want to be reminded of his brutal bargain of pain for power.
Sion now resumes talking about the particulars of their ruse. "I will get you a wedding ring. It is traditional for wives to wear rings."
"Fine." Regular couples in real marriages have all these details figured out. But not them. This whole affair is very ad hoc notwithstanding the real risk that discovery could get them both killed.
So, in that spirit of necessary cooperation, Meetra starts asking her own questions. "What do I call you now?"
"Sion or 'My Lord,' same as everyone else. But call me Tony when we are alone. I like Tony."
"Yeah? Who are you really?" She doesn't know his actual name.
"I am Artorius Antoninus Septimus, Darth Sion, son of Darth Acies and grandson of Darth Signal and Darth Hostis."
"Artorius . . ."
"You would say Arthur."
"Arthur Tony Septimus. You really are a Tony . . ."
"Yes. I have a respectable, but not particularly impressive lineage. And for my current level of power, I have a comparatively low midichlorian count. I fly under the radar of the Palace that way."
She's surprised. "Even as the Lord of Pain, kept alive by torment?"
"I'm considered to be more of an oddity than anything truly threatening. Until you came along, I spent far too much time managing my health to do much else besides govern. Officially, I am Consul of this backwater system no one cares about. So long as we make our production quotas and send enough bonus grain allotments to the capital, I remain in power."
Her ears perk up. "Do you have rivals?"
"Not anymore."
He reverts back to the topic of names now. "You will be Lady Sion to everybody. Given names are rarely used outside of the family, so don't invite that informality from others. Meetra is far too truthful and too Republic sounding. Only I get to call you Meetra."
"Alright."
"In general, let me do the talking when we are together before witnesses. Lady Sion should be seen and not heard publicly. That's in keeping with Sith custom, so it won't attract attention."
"And in private?"
"I trust the household staff the most of any here. They will be curious, but they won't ask. You, in turn, should not explain."
"Okay . . ."
"Aloof arrogance is a cultivated art form among Sith Ladies. If a Lady deigns to notice you, that is a mark of distinction. Friendliness will only confuse people and make them nervous. Play your part well and we can pull this off."
"I'll try . . ." she hedges.
"No," he corrects her. "Do or do not. There is no try."
"But—"
He stops to wag a gloved finger beneath her nose. "For both our sakes, you must be convincing. I'm taking an awful risk with this."
She nods and swallows. "I know. We both are."
"I will help you. If we work together, we will pull this off. Now pull up that hood. No Lady has hair like you do."
Meetra complies.
Together they exit the Temple in silence and climb the stairs back to the surface. Sion speaks to the guards, giving them permission to reopen the Temple as she looks on in what she hopes is appropriately aloof, ladylike silence. After that, they walk back into the fortress.
"Duty calls. I have more to finish before I'm done for today," Sion tells her apologetically, "but let me walk you back to your rooms."
"So long as it's not a cell—"
"You were never truly my prisoner," he insists, and they'll have to agree to disagree about that point.
As they reenter the main building, Sion starts to explain how his fortress is organized. The throne room, public reception rooms, and business offices from which he governs are located in the back. The private family quarters are found in the front. The main building itself is nestled within a large surrounding park, as are the other smaller structures that form the sprawling compound. Sion tells her where to find the landing pad and hangar and where the barracks and armory are located. There are also structures mostly staffed by droids that handle support functions like laundry, landscaping, storage, and maintenance. From what Meetra can tell, Sion's fortress is part office park, part garrison, and part palace. This is your home now, he tells her, you are the Mistress. Familiarize yourself with all of it. You will have the run of the place.
"This looks familiar, I think," Meetra judges as they enter a stately carpeted hallway.
"We're almost to the family quarters." Glancing around, Sion decides, "This place isn't fancy and it's not large, but it's home."
Not fancy? Not large? If this place isn't big and posh, Meetra doesn't know what those words mean. She grew up living in a communal women's dorm and then bunked on a spartan starship. This degree of personal space and luxury befuddles her. As a Jedi, she was taught that stewardship is the proper relation to wealth. To covet material goods is severely discouraged in the Order. A Jedi is supposed to be above that sort of thing.
Looking around, Meetra concludes that she definitely recognizes where she is now. The guards march her this way when they deliver her to Sion for healing. And sure enough, soon they arrive at the familiar locked doors that demarcate the private area of the fortress.
"Only the senior household staff and invited guests are allowed in here," Sion instructs. "All others are received downstairs in the throne room or the reception areas. We will get your handprints and retina scan into the security system so you can come and go as you please," Sion assures her as he activates the doors and whisks her inside past yet more guards.
They're in private now, so Sion immediately yanks off the mask. Yet again, she sees the face of Tony the jailor. He requests, "For safety, please keep within the compound. And always keep weapons on you."
"I will."
"I'll get you a comlink so you can contact me easily. If you're in trouble—even if you just think you might be in trouble—buzz me."
"I will."
"I mean it. I won't mind a false alarm."
"I understand."
"Good. Hopefully, the bond will alert me if you're in danger. But we cannot rely on that." Sion glances her way, frowns, and says what she's thinking. "I will feel a lot better about your safety when you have your Force back."
"Me too," she mutters.
He walks her forward into the middle of the large antechamber she has traversed before, giving her a cursory overview along the way. "This is one of several living areas. The family bedrooms are all down that hallway," he points left, "along with a playroom and small kitchen. This door leads to the dining area." He points again to the left. "The main kitchen is behind it. That's where the cookies are."
"Good to know."
He walks her into the next adjacent room now. "You've been in here before." It's where she heals him at night. The place with the big old fashioned fireplace hearth. "This area is the master suite." He points behind her to a pair of closed doors. "To the left over there are my rooms. To the right through the corresponding door are yours. There's a bed chamber, bathroom, dressing room, small office, and sitting room all for you. I have the same plus a training room to practice."
"Okay," she nods. This is a big upgrade from her cell. She doesn't just have a room of her own, she has five.
"No one's ever lived in the Lady's rooms," Sion mutters, sounding and looking a bit awkward about that fact. "I built this fortress after my original home was destroyed. It was before I failed at my revenge. Back then, I thought perhaps I might marry again. But then, I was injured and became . . . became . . . what I am now . . ."
The zombie walking dead of the Sith Empire, Meetra finishes in her head. And then, belatedly recalling the one-way open bond that communicates her thoughts, she flushes to the roots of her hair.
He ignores her pettiness. "There are a few personal effects from my family that I salvaged from my old estate. They are scattered about. I don't know why I kept them. Feel free to discard them. They are the past now . . . the distant past."
Meetra nods, knowing full well that she's never throwing anything out from his murdered family.
"We need to get you some new clothes. You will need proper attire to pull this masquerade off."
Meetra shrugs and smooths her borrowed cloak. "That's not necessary. This is fine."
"No, it's not. A Lady doesn't wear the same dress over and over again." Sion sighs now and looks away. His expression is pensive. "I thought it wouldn't bother me to see you in those clothes . . . but it does. It shouldn't, but it does."
Sion looks vulnerable now. Two hundred year old grief is etched across his features. His grandfather was right, Meetra thinks. Darth Sion really does need his mask because Tony has no poker face.
"You aren't anything like Cornelia . . . except in some ways, you're just like Cornelia . . ."
Meetra isn't sure what that means and she's not certain she wants to find out. This conversation is making her very uncomfortable.
Thankfully, he moves on to a new topic. But it too feels awkwardly laden with unspoken expectations. "Run the household as you wish. Change whatever you like. This place could use a woman's touch. People will expect you to make changes as the new wife."
Meetra frowns. "But we're just roommates temporarily . . ."
"No one knows that. I won't get in your way. I spend most days on the throne and in meetings. I take a lot of meetings. My main office is right off the throne room. I'm mostly there if you need me. All I ask is that you make yourself available to me in the evenings to heal me."
"Of course," she nods. That is their quid pro quo. She personally loves to heal him, even if she'd never admit to it out loud. It is in those moments when she feels most like a Jedi again.
"We'll take this slowly," Sion says, sounding like he's mostly trying to convince himself. "I think I am just beginning to learn how deep our differences go, but I think we can overcome them if we both try." He looks her over and frets aloud, "Don't let all the superficial change that is to come threaten you. How you are called, the way you look, the public role you play . . . those things are all in service of the greater goal. Don't lose sight of that."
"What's the greater goal?" Meetra puzzles, not following his point.
He answers solemnly. "Achieving the destiny of our Force-given dyad."
Yikes! There he goes again with his religiosity. Meetra feels like she should say something—anything—in response to his grandiose vision of their future. But what? She's in this pact to find sanctuary and hopefully get her Force back. The rest—his revolution and revenge on his Emperor—is still very much an open question. She's here temporarily for practical reasons, not for his mystical Force quest.
"Why don't you take a nap," he suggests. "I can see that you didn't sleep at all last night." He waves a hand and the door behind her to the right slides open. "I will see you tonight," Sion takes his leave.
She watches him walk a few steps before she calls out, "Wait!" With all today's tense marriage negotiations and then the impromptu ceremony plus the unmasking of his Lord Sion/Tony deceit, they have never spoken about his crackpot theory that Revan is a natural born Sith. Meetra has a lot to say about the matter, but one point rises to the forefront.
"You're wrong about Revan. You're wrong! He's not Dark by nature. No one is. The Force is a choice. You choose Dark or you choose Light."
"That's certainly the Jedi version of things," Sion drawls. But he considers the point. "What about those like you who waffle in between? Who are both Dark and Light?"
Meetra feels her cheeks flush. "That's a sign of failure," she sighs. She hangs her head. "I think I need to try harder to be Light . . . I lost my Force because I could not stick to the Light."
He disagrees. "You lost your Force because you turned away from the Darkness within you. No," he raises a gloved hand to preempt her objection, "don't tell me otherwise. Meetra, you know it to be true. When you can face who you are—including the Dark parts of you—I suspect you will rediscover your power."
"No, that's not it!" she snaps, irritated by his implicit assumption. "I am not Dark!"
"I agree. I think you are grey. Mostly Light, but with shadows nonetheless."
What the Hell? "I am not Dark!"
Sion digs in. "I realize that what I am asking of you flies in the face of all the repression and self-loathing you have been taught. It contradicts our teachings as well," he admits. "The idea that a person could swing between Light and Dark at will, that they might be empowered by both Sides, rather than paralyzed by inner conflict . . . Well, it's experimental, I realize. But our dyad already upends our traditions. There is something to the idea of balancing our religions . . . of bringing the Force back into harmony instead of conflict . . ." His voice trails off before he posits sheepishly, "Maybe that starts with us. Maybe you need to explore your Dark Side and I need to experience the Light."
"I hope you're right," she frets with no small amount of dread. "Because this—this—" She searches for the right word.
"Heresy?"
"Yes! It feels very dangerous." Meetra is very dubious for where this pact might lead. Were she not desperate to get her Force back, she'd never entertain this crackpot scheme.
"It must be dangerous," Sion assures her with a conspiracy theorist's knowing tone. "Because long ago the original Jedi Exiles were shunned for their interest in the Dark Side. Whatever it was they discovered or dabbled in back in ancient times—it terrified their leadership on Coruscant. So much so, that they were dumped to die in the farthest known reaches of wild space to purge your Order of them. To stop the progression of their ideas, the Light Side stopped just short of mass murder."
It's hard to disagree with that logic. Meetra has no rejoinder. But she's not responsible for the long ago past and she doesn't really know what happened. The Jedi Order certainly doesn't teach much about the schism and she's deeply skeptical of the Sith version of events. Shifting her weight uncomfortably, Meetra mutters aloud her worst fear, "Look, I don't want to lose my soul in all this." She doesn't want to follow the path of the other Crusaders.
"And I don't want to lose my life," Sion responds with his own foremost concern. "I am a creature of the Dark Side. Whether it is by choice or by nature, I must be Dark to survive at this point in my life. You can heal me with your Light, you can teach me the Light, but you cannot make me Light. Do you understand?"
She gets it. "You don't try to corrupt me to the Dark Side and I won't try to redeem you."
"It's a deal," he accepts. "You don't have to be what I am in order to join me."
Meetra's not so sure about that. Because what does it mean to join a Sith Lord in his conspiracy if it doesn't mean falling to the Dark Side? Can you be Light and seek Dark aims? The Crusaders tried to be Light and use Dark means and that plan ended badly . . .
"Meetra," Sion interrupts her latest round of second thoughts, "think of me as a good Sith."
A good Sith. "Is there such a thing?" The comment comes out flippantly, but it's a serious question.
"Absolutely. There are good Jedi, too. You're one of them. I'm sure of it."
She bristles. "All Jedi are good."
"No one believes that here in the Empire."
And now, they're back to the culture war of the Force. Back to rehearsing the 'he said, she said,' reflexive finger pointing, line drawing arguments about who's right and who's wrong. Sion says he wants to move past all that. But does she? And can they? Meetra isn't sure.
"Go get some rest," he urges again. She must really look bad because he's looking at her with concern. "We can talk tonight. There's so much I want to ask you about, so much I want to learn from you. But there's no rush."
"Alright." Sleep sounds good. And sleep in an actual bed—not on a hard bench with no pillow and no blanket—sounds heavenly. Suddenly, Meetra feels all the weariness of weeks of stressful captivity. She can't wait to sleep it off and renew herself for what lies ahead. So, when Sion resumes walking out, she turns around to venture into her new abode.
Lady Sion's bedroom is absolutely regal, Meetra discovers. Velvet bed curtains hang from a dramatic high canopy. They match the luxurious window drapes and complement the gilt-edged furniture. The room's colors are dark. The fabrics are exquisite. The styling is bold. It matches the rest of the fortress in its decidedly Sith 'more is more' aesthetic. Somehow, it manages to be at once impressive and off putting.
But Meetra's eyes only skim the handsome furnishings. Her attention is on the roses. Are there any red blooms left in Darth Sion's rooftop greenhouse? Meetra suspects not. Because the room is bedecked in gorgeous red roses that overspill their vases. And on the bed, there are petals strewn lavishly. The effect is decadent. The fragrance is heady. Surely, this is the lush private bower where a pampered fairytale Sith princess slumbers, not the Jedi Exile.
Taking it all in, now more than ever Meetra worries for the meaning of today's fake marriage. This looks like the setting for a honeymoon tryst. Nothing about it says 'pretend marriage of convenience.' What is the meaning of this extravagant gesture? Meetra isn't sure, but it sure doesn't seem like Sion intends for them to be mere roommates.
Oh Force, she thinks as she yanks off her black hooded cloak and casts it to the floor, what has she done?
END PART ONE
More to come . . .