Her pretend husband walks into her new private sitting room without the benefit of a knock. Sion's wearing his armor and cape like usual, but his helmet is tucked under his arm. "Oh, good. You're still up."
Still up? Of course, she's up. It's only eight o'clock at night.
"Have you eaten yet?"
"No." She's been hanging out by herself since their impromptu wedding hours ago. She's been ruminating mostly. But also reading in earnest that datafile he brought her on the lives of Sith Ladies. Now that she is supposed to be one herself, Meetra needs to understand what the life entails. Frankly, it's a little daunting and that's partly why she's hiding.
"You should eat. I would eat with you, but I need to leave."
"Leave?" Wait—he's leaving? He never said anything about leaving.
"Will you heal me now before I go?"
"G-Go?" Meetra echoes weakly. She lays aside her datapad and glares. "You're leaving me? Now? Tonight?" On their wedding night? How will that look?
"Unfortunately, yes. All the Consuls have been summoned."
"Oh." Meetra reads annoyance on Sion's unmasked face and guesses, "Is that bad?"
"It could be. Usually, it means something controversial will be announced. The Palace likes the Viceroys to deliver the news in person to get out in front of the rumor mill and fake news that is sure to follow from the dissenters."
Meetra is perplexed by this answer. "Can you dissent in the Empire?"
"Yes, but you must be smart about it. It has to be couched in terms of proposing alternatives to better achieve Vitiate's stated goals. You're not disagreeing, you're trying to improve things."
"I get it." It comes as no surprise to Meetra that there are office politics everywhere, including in the Empire. Even back home in the Republic, it can be hard to speak truth to power.
"I'm truly sorry for leaving so soon. I know the timing isn't ideal, but I thought it best to get you out of a cell before I left." Sion runs a hand through his hair in a nervous, impatient gesture as he explains, "I don't feel comfortable with you in that cell while I'm gone. So, when I received the summons, I knew I needed to act fast."
Meetra squints at this news and now her tone has an edge. "This sham marriage is all because of a trip to see your boss?"
"The marriage is for all the reasons we have discussed. The trip served to move up the timing. That's all."
"I see." She crosses her arms.
He shrugs and flashes a sheepish smile. "Deadlines have a way of making things happen. And once you said yes, I had to follow through lest you change your mind and slip through my fingers."
"Hardly," she scoffs. "I was in a cell, remember?" Curious, she asks, "So, if today was Plan B, what was your original strategy? Tell me Plan A to get me to the altar."
"Plan A was my usual approach."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"Patience."
His eyes lock with hers and suddenly Meetra can't look away. Sion's being his low key but super intense self again. Revan did something similar and it was hypnotizing.
"Patience . . ." she repeats, suddenly lost in nostalgic reverie for a Jedi who was never hers as she stares into a Sith Lord's eyes. "Patience."
"That's right. Patience. I can be very patient for things worth waiting for."
Meetra has nothing to say in response to that statement. But she thinks she understands the rose petals on her bed now.
She's still staring. Sion stares back. Then she blinks, and he blinks. She looks down and he looks away. The fleeting moment is over. Maybe it never happened. Maybe it was all in her mind.
"I had planned to be here to introduce you around and help you get settled. But I'm afraid that will have to wait until I get back." Sion looks truly regretful about that circumstance. "I'm sorry, Meetra. If I could stay, I would."
"It's okay," she sighs. "I guess I'm on my own then . . ."
"No!" he hastens to correct her. "You are not alone! You will never be alone again!"
His words are so reflexive and vehement that Meetra is once more reminded of those rose petals. She bristles, "Look, this is a fake marriage—"
"I know." Sion instantly starts backpedaling. "What I mean is that you will have the full staff at your disposal while I'm gone. You will have all the help and company you could wish for."
Oh, please. Meetra shoots him some serious side eye. "You mean the staff who you are afraid to leave me behind in a cell with while you're gone?"
"You're Lady Sion now."
That's a distinction without a difference as far as she's concerned. "Maybe you see it that way, but others will not."
"They will. You'll see. Hierarchy means a lot more here than you're used to."
Meetra's eyes narrow. "I hope you're right."
To his credit, Sion looks as frustrated with the situation as she feels. "The only alternative is to take you with me and that's too dangerous. Maybe one day when you are accustomed to our ways and your cover is more established, that might be an option. But I won't risk taking you to the sector capital right now. It's too soon and the bounty on your head is astronomical. I will need to convincingly fake your death first."
She concedes the point. "I understand." Things are dangerous enough as it is here.
"Thank you for understanding. Another woman would be in hysterics right now, what with this being our wedding day. But luckily, you're the logical sort." He cracks a very 'Tony' smile and jokes, "You're my battle-hardened general wife."
"And this is a fake marriage," she points out yet again. Meetra conveniently ignores that she herself spent time this afternoon alternately fretting and anticipating what Sion has in mind for married life. Those rose petals really threw her for a loop. They got her thinking. And that was as he intended, Meetra now suspects.
But enough about that. She wants to Force heal again. She's not keen on this pretend marriage, but she's going to maximize what she can get out of the deal. "So . . . do I heal you now? Here?"
"Sure. Let's do this." Sion starts stripping off his gloves and gets to work unbuckling his armor. That tells Meetra how pressed for time he truly is. Because the last time he needed healing when he was in full regalia, Sion made her take it off. But apparently there's no time for that strip tease tonight. Sion is businesslike as he divests his chestplate and arm guards and then yanks off his undershirt.
When he's done, Meetra takes a moment to regard her handiwork thus far. Sion is still horribly scarred, but much improved. When she looks at him now, she sees his impressive physique first, not his injuries. That's a statement in itself. And wow, look at those pecs and abs. The Lord of Pain is ripped. Not that she's noticing . . .
He must be in her thoughts because he smiles and opens his arms in invitation. "Come here, my dear." It's a throaty chuckle that is thoroughly disconcerting.
He's in a rush, she tells herself. So, Meetra reasons, she won't waste time pretending that she doesn't enjoy healing him. Besides, she already agreed to do this. And that's the excuse she needs to save face as she eagerly walks into his embrace. As always, she feels the jolt of power that comes from the bond fully awakening at their first touch.
Meetra can't help it. She sighs out her pleasure. How she craves feeling the Force.
Healing feels easier each time she does it. She's always been a quick study for Force tricks, even as a Padawan. She thinks that if she heals him nightly, it will become second nature. Maybe healing is her true talent and she never would have discovered it but for Sion. It feels fitting that after a failed career in war, she now turns to something positive and life affirming.
Sion starts talking as she heals. "I'm suspicious of this convocation the viceroy has called on short notice. I worry it means we will soon be receiving a lot more unpopular edicts from the Palace."
"Like what?"
"Probably increased production quotas and cost cutting measures. Maybe even wage cuts and higher taxes. Vitiate has an expensive war to pay for. He will need to stoke the economy."
"I guess that's right," Meetra murmurs. "I don't know much about trade and economics." Business isn't really a Jedi thing. Naively, she didn't think it was a Sith Lord thing either, but she's learning fast how wrong she is. Sion is far less brutish and aggressive than she expected. He's not even a warrior by trade. Frankly, she had never contemplated a Sith Lord acting as an administrator and bureaucrat. Meetra just assumed the Darth job was all epic saber duels, sarcastic trash talk, spooky rituals, and Force lightning. But it turns out it's bosses, budgets, and taxes too.
He complains, "Those sorts of policies can be good for the bigger systems with higher standards of living and a more consumer oriented local economy. But they're usually bad for us. It's always the same when they start tinkering with the marketplace: the rich get richer, and the poor get poorer. And then, inevitably, the poor get berated for being poor even though our trade network is designed to keep them that way."
"So your system is a poor system?"
"Relatively speaking, yes. We are very unimportant. If there is a bright center to the Sith Empire, you're in the system that it's farthest from."
"And you like it that way . . ."
"Absolutely. It means little oversight. I don't like outsiders poking around."
Meetra now asks a question she's been wondering about. "Are there many others who feel like you do about the Emperor?"
Sion thinks a moment before he answers. "His popularity has been at a low point since the Mandolorian defeat. That false flag proxy war tactic was not preferred by the public. Most people wanted a full scale, overtly Sith invasion. So when the Mandolorians lost, few were surprised and none were happy. Vitiate blamed the loss on the ineptitude of our allies, but everyone knows that we were the ones directing the war. We lost a lot of troops for no benefit."
"There were high casualties on both sides," Meetra recalls glumly. She's directly responsible for some of them.
"It's more than that. Meetra, there were persistent rumors all along that Vitiate planned to lose—that losing was his goal in order to justify more delay for the ultimate revenge of the Sith."
She disagrees. "I was there. It sure didn't seem like the Mandos were trying to lose."
"The ploy was classic Vitiate. He gets you to fight a strawman in order to trick you into revealing your strengths and weaknesses. He watches to learn your strategies and tactics. The whole Mandolore affair was mostly an intelligence gathering operation—preparation for the real campaign that is to come."
"But I thought you said he doesn't want war with the Republic. And neither do you."
"Vitiate wants to delay war as long as possible to stay in power. I want to give up on the goal of war entirely. We don't need to conquer the Republic to be a great and prosperous Empire. A real war would be hard and long. Even if we did win, we'd never be able to govern." Sion now confesses something approaching begrudging respect for the Republic. "A few weeks of knowing you has taught me how starkly different our cultures are. Assimilation might take generations."
"We would put up a hard fight," she nods to agree. "How long will you be gone?"
"The meeting will be a daylong event. It's the travel time that kills me. Out here, I am far away from everything. Even at max lightspeed, it's two and a half days each way minimum."
"So you don't get any advance notice? You just have to drop everything and go?"
"That's how the chain of command works. My aides will handle things in my absence. I am gone from time to time. It's not unusual."
"So, you'll be away about a week?"
"Hopefully, no longer."
"What do I do while you're gone?"
"Whatever you wish. You are not a prisoner. You were never really my prisoner. I hope you will someday come to appreciate that."
Not a chance. "Don't start in on that again."
"Very well. That's enough." Sion lays a hand on her shoulder to gently end her efforts. "You're already so tired. I just wanted to get in a quick session before I leave. No need to overdo it."
Meetra ceases her efforts as instructed, but she lingers relaxing in his embrace. Her head continues to lay against his shoulder, her torso stays nestled into his chest, and her right hand is still splayed over the massive scar by his heart. This physical closeness feels so good, and not just because it allows her to share his Force. Meetra cannot deny that she enjoys their connection. Maybe it's the influence of the bond, or maybe it's her neediness born of exile, or perhaps just the bored loneliness from her imprisonment, but Sion's personal lure is potent . . . and growing. And that might be the man's most insidious talent.
"What will happen in the interim?" she worries aloud. "Can you go a week without this?"
"I don't know. We'll find out. It's not an exact science."
"Have you gone a full week without torture before?"
"Sometimes, but I don't like it." He leans down to whisper in her ear, "I shall miss your Jedi magic. I shall miss you as well." And there he goes again being intense and attractive. Meetra shivers involuntarily.
And now, she's spooked. Truly spooked. Meetra disentangles herself fast. She can't think straight when Sion's in her mind, in her thoughts, worming his way under her skin despite her efforts to keep him arm's length.
He doesn't resist. Like always, Sion lets her set her own boundaries.
Standing back, she looks him over. "How do you feel?"
He smiles. "Better than I've felt in decades. I don't think you can appreciate just how much this helps me."
"I can see it. You look so normal now." Like a warrior with battle scars, not a walking corpse. Everything about Darth Sion looks normal and healthy now. Well, more than healthy. With all those rippling muscles, that smooth pale skin, and even hair sprouting on his chest, he looks to be a man in his prime.
"It's all thanks to you."
"No," she corrects him solemnly. "It's thanks to the Light." She is merely the conduit. The credit belongs to the Force.
He nods and reverts to his pious Dark self. "Glory be to the Force, now and forever," Sion intones like he's a mythical angel come to deliver a message from god.
And that thought spooks her again. Because if there's one thing that scares Meetra more than Sion's heavy-handed personal overtures, it's his zealotry. Could her soul be at risk to this man as much as her heart? Even though she's standing in her own sitting room, Meetra decides she will be the one to leave. It's definitely time to go. "Safe travels," she mutters as she turns to head into her adjacent bed chamber.
She doesn't get far. He snags her hand and holds tight.
Meetra looks to him, alarmed. "Hey—"
"I'm trusting you to be here when I return."
She will honor their commitment. She's not leaving. "I will be here."
"Good." Their hands are touching, so he knows it's not a lie. But damn the man, he has her figured out completely thanks to the bond. "Don't get scared and run," he counsels softly. "This is the safest place for you to hide."
"I know that. That's why I agreed to this ruse."
"Meetra," Sion rumbles out her name. "Don't panic over me either."
Is this her opportunity to say something about the rose petals? Should she take him to task for the romantic gesture and set him straight again that this is a sham marriage? Meetra decides no. Instead, she comes at the issue vaguely. "Sion—"
"Tony. When we are alone, call me Tony."
"Tony then. Look, I don't know what you're expecting this to become, but I'm worried that you're going to be disappointed."
"How so?"
Ugh. Is he really going to make her say it out loud? "You seem to want a lot from me . . ." she stammers, choosing the vaguest possible words. "And, well, I d-disappoint people." Lately, she's disappointed a lot of people, and spectacularly so. But disappointing a Sith Lord has special risks she would like to avoid. "Look, if you're hoping for an attachment, I will let you down." There's only one man she would ever form an attachment with, and he's both married and gone.
Sion looks at her for a prolonged and increasingly uncomfortable moment, and that's when Meetra remembers that he's still holding her fingers. He knows her thoughts. But his feelings also bleed over into her consciousness. That means she can sense his own trepidation. Don't rush her. Stop rushing her. You've already waited this long. You're scaring her. Stop scaring her. She's far less brave than she pretends. Sion's unspoken thoughts whisper into her mind and dissipate immediately.
Uncertain how to act, skittish Meetra first frowns, next ducks her chin, and then defiantly tosses her head. After all, she's brave. She's very, very brave. Well, she once was brave, but not so much anymore. And she was mostly brave for goals and ideas . . . less so about people . . . She never learned much about people because that might risk an attachment. And so, she finds herself at age thirty-eight an emotionally stunted, standoffish ex-Jedi unable to process her own complicated feelings about her experiences. As the Exile, she's fearful to relate to others, most especially Sith Lords who give her roses and want to help her.
She's traumatized. She's lost. It will take time for her to trust again. But she's worth waiting for, so back off before you make things worse.
"Get out of my head!" Meetra snatches back her hand now. She glares and snarls, "I hate this fucking bond!"
That's how I felt too at first.
"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" Meetra's shrieking now, but it's not really Sion's fault. He can't help it any more than she can.
He nods and calmly speaks aloud. "Do not fight the bond. Embrace it. Accept it. Surrender to the will of the Force."
"Like Hell I will! Listen to me, Tony, I'm not your destiny and I'm not your real wife!" Is he getting this? "Whatever you're angling for—whatever you want this dyad to be—it's not happening!"
He digests this pronouncement and silently observes her belligerent body language. His response is a diplomatic statement that ends the conflict, but does not resolve it. "As long as you're here when I return, my expectations will be met."
"Fine," she snaps. "Then I guess this is goodbye. May the Force be with you," she curtly bids him the traditional Jedi blessing out of habit.
He smirks. "This will be the first time in a long time that I will have someone to come home to." And there he goes again with the attachment talk.
She scowls. "Get going!"
Unrepentant Sion is the picture of gentlemanly decorum as he bows slightly from the waist. Grinning wickedly, he bids her, "Goodnight and farewell, Lady Sion. May the Force protect you until we meet again."
Then he leaves and ten minutes later she watches his starship liftoff from the windows in her bedroom. Was she too harsh on him? Belatedly, Meetra realizes that she just parted badly from the one person in the universe who wants to help her and needs her help in return. Whatever Sion's motivations may be, she's certain that he won't turn her over to his Emperor. But she's suspicious by nature and feeling very manipulated. And that tempers greatly her inclination to gratitude.
The next morning, groggy, bleary-eyed Meetra wanders in the general direction of where Sion had pointed out the kitchen. It's late morning. Last night, she slept like the dead alone in her bed of rose petals, blissfully relishing the luxury after weeks spent sleeping on a hard bench. Sion was right—she was exhausted. Today, she has awoken hungry and thirsty and still a bit dazed about how fast she has gone from prisoner to pretend wife to the Lord of Pain.
Meetra's still wiping sleep from her eyes as she steps into the kitchen. There, she discovers two women nestled at a table chatting and sipping caf. It's quite obvious that Meetra has interrupted a conversation about herself.
"Ooooh! My Lady!" The pair leap to their feet so fast that one topples over her chair from her haste. Exchanging looks, the women sink to crouch on the floor in a cowering obeisance.
Bewildered Meetra blinks at this reception as she stifles a yawn. "Oh. Hi." It's too casual a greeting for the situation, but Meetra is lost for how to respond. "I guess I came to the right place," she mumbles awkwardly.
The women remain on the floor, eyes downcast. "My Lady Sion," one pipes up using the slow, deliberate speech that Meetra has come to identify with the formal Sith, "welcome home. We are honored to serve you."
"Okay." Meetra gulps and continues to stand there, uncertain how to proceed. Even in her general days, she never cared much for protocol. Officers who were overeager with their salutes annoyed her, to be honest. And that attitude was typical of the young, idealistic, egalitarian Crusaders. But she's not a Jedi any longer. She's an undercover enemy of the state deeply embroiled in a nebulous conspiracy with a treasonous Sith Lord. She's supposed to be a Sith Lady born and bred, and that means she should know what to do in this situation.
So Meetra, direct as always, gamely responds, "Er. Uh. Get up. Please get up." The groveling women are making her anxious. But wait, that sounded churlish. Meetra tries again, this time striving for elegance. "You may rise."
The women stand to their feet. The younger middle aged one has to offer a hand to haul the older one up. The two women stand facing her, eyeing her. It makes Meetra self-conscious for her uncombed hair and crumpled dress that she slept in last night, like every night. Meetra is sure that she is disappointing them. Sion's new bride is a hot mess. So much for a good first impression.
By contrast, the women are neatly coiffed and attired in handsome uniform dresses that match the luxury of the rest of Sion's fortress. They look tidy and efficient. Like excellent employees.
"Uh . . ." Where does she begin?
The women continue to stand there in silence. They look composed with their placid poker faces. They're . . . awaiting orders? Well, alright. Meetra glances longingly at the women's cups and leads with what she came for. "Do you have more caf?"
The two women now fall all over themselves to assist her. Their own cups are whisked away and Meetra finds herself seated at the table with a steaming mug of milky caf and a still-warm pastry in front of her. And even this impromptu meal is unnecessarily formal. Meetra is presented with a cloth napkin, fine china, and fancy silverware. Gingerly, she starts to eat, striving for her best table manners as the two women hover nervously.
Meetra learns that the younger woman, who is probably ten years her own senior, is the housekeeper. She oversees all domestic matters at Fortress Sion. Her male counterpart, the Master's chief of staff, runs things 'on the other side,' which apparently refers to the throne room from which Sion governs.
The older woman is the cook. She's a little gruff and only superficially welcoming, which puts her at odds with her name. She is officially Mrs. Visander, the cook informs Meetra, but everyone calls her Cookie and she should too.
Meetra nods and smiles. "I think I've had a few of your cookies."
"That's because you don't like my cooking. I saw those trays returned again and again barely touched. You ate what the Master ate, and you still didn't like it. So, one day he marched down to that cell with my cookies. And, as far as I can tell, you've been living off them ever since."
The housekeeper attempts to intervene. "Now, Cookie—"
But the cook is having none of it. "Protein bars," she sniffs with professional disdain. "My Lady, I hope you don't mind my saying so, but that's not real food. That's what we feed the prisoners between stim shots so the Master can keep frying 'em."
Chastised Meetra responds by taking another bite of her muffin. And then another. Suddenly, she can't stop eating her muffin.
Seeing this, the cook relaxes somewhat. "Those cookies are a special recipe. They're full of protein, sugar, and fat. The Master requires lots of nutrition when he heals or else he gets too thin. Can't have him too thin," the older woman harrumphs. "No one likes a scrawny Lord."
"Did he tell you who I am?" Meetra ventures, probing around for what Sion has told these women about her situation.
The housekeeper, who is clearly the more diplomatic of the pair, answers. "The Master told us that you are a war widow . . . that you were one of those left behind on Mandolore."
Meetra nods to endorse the lie.
"He told us that you were captured because you were mistaken for a . . . what I mean is that when the men brought you in, they wrongly believed ah that ah—"
"They thought you were an evil Jedi," the blunt cook interrupts.
"Now, Cookie—"
"It's true! She knows it, too-he kept her in a cell while he confirmed it. What's the harm in saying it out loud? She's not actually the enemy."
Again, Meetra nods. She looks both women in the eye as she speaks the truth in a slightly choked voice. "I'm not a J-Jedi." At least, not anymore. And not for a long time either. But still, it hurts to say it out loud. Meetra can feel her bottom lip trembling, so she bites it.
Her audience naturally misunderstands. The housekeeper sympathizes, "The Master said that things have been very hard for you . . . that you have been alone, scared, and hunted as a fugitive . . . first in the Republic and then even here in the Empire . . . "
Meetra looks down. She sighs and again speaks a misleading truth. "I have been on the run since the war ended."
"To be a woman—a Lady!—abandoned behind enemy lines with no protector," the housekeeper frets. "Well, that must have been terrifying! The Master said that you had to blend in to hide, that you only recently found your way home to the Empire, but your family is very small and dispersed, and you are having trouble finding them after all this time without contact."
"That's true," Meetra lies.
"I knew something was up when the Master wanted to feed you well," the cook chimes in. "From the beginning, you were no ordinary prisoner. We knew you were someone special even before he asked for a dress."
Meetra keeps lying. "He believed me. No one else did, but he believed me."
"That's the Master for you. He's a Lord who thinks for himself. Not a follower, Lord Sion," the housekeeper approves.
"I'm still learning who he is," Meetra admits yet another truth.
"It's just like him to take you in, my Lady. Darth Sion is as responsible as they come. If only the Empire had more like him," the grumpy cook laments. "Instead, we're plagued by Lords who neglect their duties because they're too busy politicking on Dromund Kaas . . . going to parties at the Palace while we lose a humiliating war and even the major systems languish . . . all because the Lords are too busy sucking up to cowardly Vitiate. If you ask me, none of them have their priorities straight."
The housekeeper nods agreement with this blunt opinion and Meetra now starts to wonder how much discontent exists in the Empire. For these laywomen feel very comfortable dissing their leadership to her at their first meeting.
"Well," the cook grunts, "you're home now where you belong. Time for a fresh start. My Lady, the Master told us to look after you and that's just what we intend to do."
The housekeeper nods vigorously to endorse this view.
Studying the two women, Meetra decides that she needs them as allies. So, she enlists their help, not as a grand lady issuing commands that must be obeyed, but as the damsel in distress Sion has portrayed her to be. Gulping back her misgivings, Meetra requests, "Can you help me to be Sith again?" She gestures to her unkept shaggy mullet. "I'm a wreck. I used to be a respectable Lady." Cringing inwardly, Meetra tells the women, "I want to please my new Lord," like that is her foremost concern in life.
And now who is the deceiver? Who is the manipulative schemer? Meetra has resisted the Dark Side since Malachor V, but here she is volunteering for a Sith Lady makeover. She's come a long way since she refused to wear the dress the guards brought her.
Her sheepish appeal succeeds, like she knew it would. The cook immediately undertakes a campaign to fatten her up. Pleasingly plump is the feminine ideal in the Empire, and Meetra is judged too puny by comparison. For her part, the housekeeper turns her attention to outfitting Meetra as befits Lady Sion. She promises to produce a few locally sourced garments in the coming days. But the good stuff, the housekeeper attests, must be ordered from the couturiers on Dromund Kaas. That is apparently an obligatory expense. The housekeeper commits to arranging long distance appointments to remotely commission her new wardrobe with all the seriousness of plotting an invasion. That attitude is a clear indication to Meetra of how important appearances are in the Empire and how they function to reinforce the social hierarchy. As Lady Sion, it is imperative that she be the best dressed woman in the system.
That same day, a hairdresser arrives to confront the mess that is her hair. I chopped it short in a pixie cut to look like a Mandolore clan woman, Meetra lies. We were told to blend in, she explains. The hairdresser decides that until her hair grows some more, there isn't much to do other than style it. So, she works away. The hairdresser isn't enthusiastic about the results, but Meetra loves it. Her newly conditioned, sparingly trimmed mullet looks tousled, not shaggy. It's shiny and sexy with spiky, face framing layers and saucy flicked ends. Judged by the Dark Side's beauty standards, it's boyish and ugly. But back home, it would be just the right amount of glam edge.
Some makeup will help, the hairdresser whispers. Paint your eyes and lips. People will look at your pretty face and look past your hair. Do you think I should dye it, Meetra asks. The hairdresser advises no. She thinks the white blonde color to be arrestingly rare and very memorable. Frankly, that worries Meetra. But it's a decision that can wait. With the hairdresser now engaged to wash and style her hair three times a week, there will be another opportunity to revisit the color issue.
By the end of the second day, Meetra looks like a more polished, far more feminine version of herself. She's wearing a new burgundy dress beneath the long, high collared black outer garment that hides her ever-present weapons. Her hair is styled and her face is made up. She's even wearing jewelry. This is the most presentable that Meetra has ever looked in her life. Standing before the mirror, she contemplates her new Lady Sion disguise. She looks important. A little intimidating. Powerful but in a female way. It's very different from what Meetra's used to, but it's not necessarily bad. Still, it will take some getting used to. If she squints, Meetra thinks she can kind of, sort of see her old self beneath the winged eyeliner and shiny lip-gloss.
Once her primping is done for the day, Meetra finds herself bored. She has nothing to occupy her time other than reading. The housekeeper and cook dutifully report the daily goings on at the fortress. As the seat of power for the system, there are ongoing meetings, ceremonies, and receptions even without Sion's presence. And that means a lot of protocol, planning, and menus. The housekeeper solicits her views on the details, but Meetra has none to offer. It has all run seamlessly without her input, so why fix what isn't broken? Plus, Meetra is pretty certain that her viewpoints won't be welcomed. So beyond affirmations about the chosen colors of the flower arrangements, Meetra withholds comment. She will delegate the household preparations to the professionals.
That means she has a lot of time on her hands. After weeks spent in a small cell, she craves freedom and movement. Meetra begins to spend time wandering the fortress grounds. She discovers that once you get past the outlying buildings to the east, there is a meadow with a small, placid pond and a copse of trees. It's a solitary spot. Meetra meditates there, hoping that basking in the natural environment will promote her reconnection to the Force. She's standing still by the pond, deep in thought two days later when the grass starts rustling behind her.
Someone's approaching.
Meetra's senses heighten. Her adrenaline reflexively begins to pump. Slipping a hand into her pocket, she grips the small blaster Sion gave her. Then, she whirls.
There's a man dressed in black closing the distance between them fast. He's not dressed as one of the fortress guards, but he's got a pistol holster strapped to his hip and thigh. Meetra doesn't recognize him. He could be anyone with any allegiance and any purpose. She's caught out here on her own. If he fires that pistol, there is no one within earshot to hear. And that means a cry for help will be useless.
Meetra gulps. Ever since she became the Exile, she has lived in fear of men like this. The minions of the Sith are everywhere, she has learned. And though she's masquerading as one of their own currently, that doesn't make this one any less foe.
"Halt!" she calls, revealing her pistol and raising it to eye level to take aim.
"What?" the man appears—or maybe feigns—confusion at this reaction. Foolishly, he keeps advancing.
"I said halt!" Meetra snarls back. "This isn't set to stun." To underscore her words, she delivers a warning shot an inch above the man's head.
"What the Force?!" She has his attention now. The man freezes. Eyes wide, he pats at his hair. Satisfied he's unhurt, he complains, "Stand down, Lady. I'm not the Republic."
"Raise your hands!" Meetra orders. "Go on! Keep them where I can see them!"
"My Lady—"
"I'm not your Lady! Who are you? What do you want?"
"I'm Lord Sion's assistant."
"Yeah?" she snarls, trying to gauge whether he's telling the truth. It's moments like this when she dearly misses her Force. "What do you want with me? Why are you here?"
"To give you a comlink. He wants you to have a comlink."
Sion did say that, Meetra recalls.
"Look, I mean you no harm, I promise! I'm just here to deliver the comlink. So stop shooting, will you?"
"You couldn't give it to the housekeeper?" she counters.
"Sion said to give it to you personally. He wants you to keep it on you at all times. To help you feel safe."
Meetra nods slowly. That sounds like Sion.
"It's in my pocket. Let me just—"
"Keep your hands up!"
"But my Lady—"
"Keep your hands up! You make so much as a twitch towards that blaster and I'm blowing a fucking hole in you! You'll be dead before you hit the ground!"
The scandalized man blinks and gapes. "Did you just say—"
"Yes, I did! Where's the comlink? Which pocket?"
"The left one." Left handedness is the dominant trait among the Lords of the Sith Meetra has observed from a few duels. Apparently, the inherited tendency extends to laypeople as well. She orders, "Keep your left hand high where I can see it. Reach over and get the comlink with your right hand."
The man nods and attempts the awkward maneuver twice before he retrieves the comlink.
"Good. Throw it on the ground at my feet."
The visibly annoyed man complies.
Her eyes never leaving him and her trigger finger still poised to squeeze, Meetra bends to scoop up the comlink.
"Satisfied?"
"Not yet. Turn around and walk back towards the fortress. Keep your hands high where I can see them." Meetra wants to get closer to others for safety.
Again, the man complies. But he also starts to complain. "Is this really necessary?"
"I haven't stayed alive by trusting random people."
"But you're not in the Republic anymore."
"Keep walking. Less talking."
They walk in silence for ten full minutes. They are almost back to the main complex when the man wonders aloud. "So . . . was that a lucky shot or are you really that good with a gun?"
"I've survived more than you will ever know!" Meetra hisses back the truth. "Do not underestimate me. And do not sneak up on me again."
"I won't," the man relents. "Sion said you were having trouble readjusting to life back home. I can see he didn't exaggerate."
"Shut up!"
Suddenly, a comlink starts to buzz. Loudly. It's not her new one. It belongs to the man who claims he is Sion's assistant.
"Can I answer that? It's him. That's his ringtone."
They're within easy distance of the fortress now. Meetra lowers her gun and agrees. "Go ahead. Prove who you are."
She watches as the man hurries to accept the call. She listens to his half of the conversation.
"Yes, my Lord, I just gave it to her. It's in her pocket now. How does she seem?" The man looks her over and frowns. "Well . . . I'd say she's very fearful. She shot at me as I walked up to see her. Yes, I'm fine. At the head, my Lord. Good thing she missed."
"Give me that comlink," Meetra interrupts.
The man hands it over. He has been truthful. Sion is indeed on the other end. "Meetra?" She'd know that drawling baritone anywhere. No one says her name like Sion does. He makes it two equally long syllables.
"For the record, I didn't miss," she informs him. "That was a warning shot."
"How very Jedi of you," comes his sardonic reply. "The Sith don't fire warning shots. If we shoot, we shoot to kill."
"I'll remember that. And just so you know, I can bullseye a target at a hundred meters without a scope. If I miss, it's intentional."
"I believe you. But don't kill Santos. He's a good man and he keeps me organized."
"Fine. But don't send any more armed men to ambush me alone."
"Got scared?"
Meetra doesn't answer that.
Sion lets the point go. "Every man of any significance is armed in the Empire. But that doesn't make them all threatening."
"Not to you, you mean." Glaring at the assistant, Meetra reminds Sion, "I haven't survived this long by giving anyone the benefit of the doubt."
"Santos won't hurt you."
"I know that now. Look, it's fine. He's alive, I'm alive, and I have the comlink. No harm, no foul. I don't know what he's even whining about. There's not a scratch on him." And wait—did that sound defensive? Because she's definitely not defensive. This Santos guy was in the wrong sneaking up on her like that.
"Try to stay out of trouble until I get back," Sion sighs. He sounds tired. "I'll be home on Wednesday. Hopefully in the morning."
"I make no promises," Meetra blusters.
Sion ignores her posturing. "Use the comlink if you need to reach me."
"I will." She smirks and deploys her sarcasm. "Should I call you before I shoot someone else?"
"Meetra, try to act like a Lady. Being my wife is the best disguise available." And now, he's the sarcastic one. "Cultivate some grace and refinement, and no one will ever guess it's you."
He's right. "You're right."
Sions chuckles. "Goodbye, my dear."
"Goodbye."
Meetra hands the comlink back to Sion's assistant. She's relaxed around him now, having established his identity and motives. And really, she was the one in the wrong. So, Meetra takes responsibility.
"You are Santos, I presume?"
The man nods. "Santos Tor, Chief of Staff to Lord Sion."
"Mr. Tor, I'm sorry that I shot at you. That was reckless and unnecessary. I should have handled the situation better." Squirming a little, sheepish Meetra continues to own up to her mistake. Santos might have been showing deadly force when he appeared, but she was the first to use it. "Lord Sion is right that I am still adjusting. Please forgive me. I promise to do better in the future."
The man looks surprised—no, shocked-by her apology. He immediately makes light of the situation, brushing off the risk. "Like you said, there's no harm done. I'm just glad you've got such good aim, my Lady. Not many have your skills." Is he trying to relieve her embarrassment with that praise? Maybe.
Meetra fidgets guiltily at her easy absolution. "Thank you for your understanding. I suppose it uh wasn't the best first impression . . . " But truthfully, far from being a disaster, her mistaken aggression seems to have earned Meetra respect. A show of force is something well understood in Sith culture, she realizes belatedly. On the whole, now that the danger is passed, Sion's assistant seems more impressed than angry. And now, he is far more deferential.
"My Lady, you're not what I expected. Well, I didn't really know what to expect. Congratulations on your marriage. I wish you and Lord Sion many fine sons and daughters."
"Thank you." Meetra gives her best impression of a regal nod even as she suppresses a cringe at his words.
"If you don't mind my saying so, I think you and the Master will be perfect together."
"Oh?" Meetra activates the safety on her blaster and tucks it back into her pocket. "Why is that?"
"You're both survivors." The man smiles at her for the first time now. "We Sith are survivors. Whatever happens, Darkness endures."
"That sounds like him talking."
"I suppose it does," the man agrees. "The Master said you have spent over ten years away . . . that you look different and speak different and even think different in some ways . . . but he said that's he's certain you're a Sith through and through." With a nod of approval, Santos endorses that view. "After meeting you, I know he's right. You're a true Sith." The man downright beams at her.
Meetra blinks at this speech, inhales a deep breath, and affirms, "Yes. Yes, I suppose I am."