"The Daughters of the Empire are here this morning for their annual coffee. Do you feel up to stopping by to make an appearance? It would honor them greatly."
Meetra looks up from her breakfast and repeats blankly, "The Daughters of the Empire?"
"It's an organization for women who have lost fathers, husbands, or sons in service to the Emperor," the housekeeper Mrs. Warrath helpfully volunteers. "We have a local chapter here. Seeing as you yourself are a war widow, I thought perhaps it might interest you."
"Why yes, of course," Meetra mutters even as she starts panicking a little inside. "But I wouldn't want to upstage what they have planned . . ."
"You won't," the housekeeper assures her. "Gracing them with your presence will please them enormously. They will be thrilled to go home afterwards to tell everyone that they met Sion's new lady before anyone else. And," she advises with a knowing look, "you couldn't pick a better, more politically savvy cause to endorse by making it your very first public appearance."
"You don't think I should wait until my husband returns to do that sort of thing?" Meetra gulps.
"My Lady, you don't actually have to attend the party. You simply drop by, say hello, and then make your exit a short while later."
"Everyone will be curious," Meetra remarks, remembering the reaction of the two young boys she met outside the Temple. "This marriage is sudden and I'm . . . well, I'm . . . " Her voice trails off with flustered self-consciousness. "Well, I might disappoint them . . ."
Mrs. Warrath probably assumes that she's worried she won't be adequately presentable, what with her bizarre hair and makeshift wardrobe. The housekeeper, of course, doesn't know that Meetra's main concern is that she will commit a faux pas that will expose her as the outsider she truly is, blowing her cover immediately. The problem is that she doesn't know what she doesn't know, and that ignorance could lead her to offend unknowingly. And let's face it, even back in the Republic, she was no social butterfly. There were Jedi who were smooth and charming and knew how to work a room, but they were mostly in the Diplomatic Corps. The Crusaders, as a general rule, were the brash types, more likely to argue and offend than to make friends. And that context has Meetra full of misgivings for appearing at a social event without Sion standing by her side to feed her lines and lend her credence.
"Everyone will love you," the housekeeper loyally cheerleads. "They all love Lord Sion. They will love you too, if only out of goodwill for him."
"Lord Sion's people truly love him?" This comes as something of a revelation to Meetra.
The housekeeper is unequivocal. "Absolutely."
"But he tortures . . . "
"Not his own people. So, my Lady . . . will you do it?" The housekeeper looks to her hopefully.
Meetra swallows hard and gives in. "I suppose I will . . . "
"Wonderful!" the woman beams at her. "Finally, at long last, we will have an official hostess around here. Frankly, this place could use a little glamour."
"This group—the Daughters of the Empire—they are a grief support group?"
"Yes."
"I see. Mrs. Warrath," Meetra begins, searching for a way to make clear that she does not intend to discuss her own past, "I would rather not share my own story of loss . . . " That's mostly because she has no idea what, if any, details Sion told his people about her pretend dead first husband. But it's also because trading stories of heroic sacrifice with a lot of crying women whose menfolk Meetra herself may have killed does not sound like fun. Awkwardly, she posits, "Don't you think it inappropriate to discuss my first husband when I am introduced to everyone as Lady Sion?"
Meetra must truly look alarmed because the housekeeper immediately exclaims, "Why, of course! No one wants to dredge up hard memories for you, my Lady. We won't let them. Would it help if I came along to stage manage things a bit? The Master's staff often does that for him. It guarantees a smooth, quick in-and-out. The whole appearance will take five minutes tops."
"Oh, yes please," Meetra leaps to accept this offer. And that's how an hour later, she finds herself publicly playing Lady Sion for the very first time.
She walks in the crowded room and all occupants soon sink to the floor in groveling obeisance. Mrs. Warrath nods a cue to Meetra and she intones, "You may rise," with as much solemnity as possible. Next, Meetra plasters a smile on her face as a photographer snaps a few pictures of her standing next to the president of the local chapter of the Daughters of the Empire. This will go in the quarterly newsletter, the woman gushes with pride. For her part, Meetra desperately hopes that no one of any consequence sees the photograph to identify her. She's a wanted fugitive, so it feels very risky to become a semi-public figure amid her enemy. Still, Sion knows his people and this is his plan. So, she goes with it. Thankfully, what little chatting Meetra does is inconsequential and poses no risks. True to her word, Mrs. Warrath has her out of the reception five minutes after she appears.
"That went well," the housekeeper approves as together they walk back to the private family quarters.
"Yes," relieved Meetra agrees mostly because she's supposed to. Candidly, she admits, "That was nowhere near as hard as I feared it might be."
"You'll get the hang of this sort of thing in no time," the housekeeper assures her. "You're a natural leader. I see it, my Lady—don't be modest and deny it."
After the success of her initial outing as Lady Sion, Mrs. Warrath is emboldened to suggest more activities. Over the coming days, she coaxes Meetra to two more meet-and-greet events. Like the Daughters of the Empire coffee, these receptions are women-only affairs. That reflects the rigid gender roles of Sith society in which women are largely restricted to the domestic sphere. There's not a lightsaber, blaster, or datapad in sight, and frankly, that makes the events feel considerably less risky. The attendees are all local women dressed in their very best, milling around anxiously as their pictures are taken. It is a rare honor to be invited to Fortress Sion, Meetra learns. As a consequence, the women she meets are far more nervous to meet her than she is to meet them. Meetra doesn't even have to say very much. Sith social hierarchy deems it impertinent for the guests to ask her about more than inconsequential things. The common people only speak to her when spoken to, Meetra learns. Plus, Mrs. Warrath keeps things moving, so her interactions are usually limited to a few sentences at most.
"I know these are strange faces that mean little to you right now," the housekeeper tells her after the second reception, "but even a brief appearance means a great deal to our guests. That helps us promote goodwill on behalf of the Master."
Meetra nods like she understands. She's befuddled for how she has become a figurehead whose main responsibility is to show up appropriately dressed to shake hands, talk about nothing, and smile for ten minutes. Still, it's an easy job that she hopes will establish her credibility. Meetra knows that she needs to do her part in order to disappear into her new persona as Lady Sion. She resolves to become the most feminine, most proper, most poised woman in the system. Because, as Sion said, there's no way anyone will suspect who she truly is.
The housekeeper is keen to promote Meetra's role as a social leader and moral examplar among her husband's flock, and that apparently means frequent appearances on Sion's behalf at the fortress and at the Temple. Sure enough, very soon Mrs. Warrath starts angling to get Meetra to church.
"My Lady, might you consider attending vespers some evening? The Master enjoys it. He goes at least once a week."
Meetra is dubious of venturing out into a Dark Side Temple service. "It's been a long time since I attended vespers," she improvises a lie. "I'm not sure I remember what to do."
"You'd just be listening to the music and the prayers. There's no communion. The Temple just does the one Dark mass on Sunday."
"Do you think I should go without Lord Sion?" Meetra asks, hoping the answer is 'no.'
"I don't see why not."
"You don't think it would look odd for a Lady to attend unescorted? I wouldn't want to be perceived as too bold," Meetra adds with feigned meekness.
"You'd be going to Temple, not out to a party," the housekeeper points out. "What could be more appropriate? Lord Sion is a very busy man, my Lady. I'm afraid that you will soon be called upon to be more independent than you're used to being. It's a different life than an Army wife to be the Lady for a Lord Administrator. But I'm here to help you."
When she puts it that way, Meetra has no rejoinder. "Are vespers crowded here?" she probes. "Are they popular?"
"Not usually. It's the same twenty people, I think. Most of us only show up on Sundays." The housekeeper leans in conspiratorially. "Once that lovely cloak you ordered from Dromund Kaas arrives, you need to make certain Lord Sion escorts you to services on a holy day when it's full so he can show you off. I can't wait to see that embroidery in person."
"Yes, well, maybe I should wait until my new clothes arrive . . ." Meetra again attempts to stall.
The older woman looks her over a long moment before she issues another gentle prod. "Lord Sion is known to be devout. It might please him if you take an interest in the Temple."
Yes, and hanging out in Temples is not something a Jedi would do, Meetra thinks to herself. So, in the interest of furthering her cover, she decides to attend vespers as suggested. She plans to show up a little late, slip into the back of the sanctuary, and watch the proceedings at a distance. She's curious to see what the ceremony entails and who attends. She's also cognizant that her getting noticed might be a good thing. And so, in the early evening the next day, Meetra carefully paints her face and draws on the crimson lipstick that is a non-pureblood Sith Lady's version of a Republic girl's nude pink. Then she dons her cloak, settles the hood low, and walks to the Temple.
No one is around at the entrance except the pair of guards. They nod respectfully at her approach. Are these the same men who were here when she and Sion were married a few days ago? Do they remember her? Meetra doesn't know. But she nods back coolly to acknowledge their silent greeting and bids them, "Good evening," with as much aristocratic aplomb as she can muster.
The attendees must already be inside, Meetra decides, as she descends the steps to the underground church. She passes through the empty narthex and slips into the main sanctuary.
And, fuck. This isn't good.
The moment Meetra steps through the door into the inner sanctum, she knows she has made a grave error. There are no local townspeople laymen in attendance. The pews are empty. Instead, twenty—no, closer to thirty—Lords of the Sith stand around in small groups in serious discussion.
Meetra's heart skips a beat at the sight of so many black caped warriors conspicuously armed. Just what has she interrupted?
It's too late to slink away unnoticed. Her approach garners instant attention. Heads turn. Voices stop mid-sentence. All eyes—many of them yellow—turn to regard her with keen interest.
Meetra gulps back a frisson of fear. Do these men sense that she is the enemy from her Force imprint? All along, she has been concerned that the voluminous hooded cloak she wears conceals nothing of her true nature from those sensitive to the invisible power that binds the universe together. She might be dressed as a Dark Side woman, but surely her aura is pure Light? Bluffing these guys won't be like fooling the servants.
Meetra needs a quick exit before someone lights a sword. "Your pardon, my Lords. It seems I am early to vespers," she improvises in a squeaky voice that unfortunately conveys all of her nervousness.
A red-skinned man with funky eyebrows and a strong chin walks forward from the group. Unlike the rest, his black cloak is some sort of cassock. It's just the sort of sartorial affectation that Revan would instantly start mocking. "You must be Lady Sion. Welcome," the Lord waves her forward genially.
He doesn't look like he wants to kill her, but Meetra is wary of subterfuge.
She hangs back and sputters some words, instinctively defaulting to the formal speech patterns she has observed from those around her. Smoothing her cloak, Meetra declares, "I have no wish to intrude on your business. Goodnight, my Lords." And did that sound sufficiently composed and convincingly deferential? Meetra's not used to the feminine reticence expected of Dark Side Ladies.
"You are indeed on time for vespers," the Lord in the man-dress tells her. "But vespers on the third Tuesday of every month are a bit . . . special. The townsfolk are not included. Instead, Lord Sion and I convene a friendly gathering of likeminded Lords for a political discussion."
This Lord is speaking his words slowly and in obvious euphemistic code. But whatever the subtext is, whatever the meaning he's trying to convey, it is lost on Meetra. Still, the underlying message is clear: these men gathered on the edge of the Empire in a tucked away Temple under cover of nightfall are up to no good. The group's collective body language conveys defensiveness and fear of discovery. Some of them look as wary as she feels.
"I shall leave you to your discussions." Meetra again attempts to bow out gracefully. She turns to leave, pulling her hood lower as she huddles. She's feeling especially self-conscious of her Republic accented Basic that she knows sounds strange to Sith ears.
"Do not leave us, my Lady. Not yet," the man persists.
And what can Meetra do? Storming out in a huff seems confrontational, which feels ill-advised under the circumstances. Resigning herself to her new—but only overtly—accommodating persona, Lady Sion turns and faces the group expectantly. "Your pardon. Was there something further, my Lord?"
"I'm Darth Cohors, priest of this Temple. Welcome. Lady Sion, you are always welcome here in the House of the Shadow Force." He says with something approaching actual friendliness.
Meetra nods back with what she hopes is appropriate gravitas.
A tall red-skinned man standing beside the priest now offers, "I'm Repel, the Lord Administrator from Zoist. This is Darth Bellator, my Apprentice," he refers to a younger man at his side who has skin nearly as pale as hers. That pair of introductions kicks off a round of additional announcements. One by one, the assembled Lords identify themselves and their positions. Darth Invictus, Darth Banish, then Darth Incise. Meetra will never keep it all committed to memory. Next come Darth Scaar and Darth Rampart. Then some guy named Lord Exsilium. She meets several Lord Administrators, a Rear Admiral, at least four Sith Army Majors, a handful of priests, one Professor, the Treasury Secretary of the Outer Systems (wherever that is), two Judge Advocate Generals, three Agricultural Commissioners, one Regional Minister of Metals Mining, and a lot of tagalong Apprentices.
The Lords range in age from their twenties to their seventies. Many are red-skinned humanoid ethnic Sith with slightly bulbous facial features, aquiline noses, and strong brows. But there are also plenty of fully human Sith Lords present with complexions that vary from her own white-pink pallor to downright swarthy looking. All of these men, she observes, look indistinguishable from their Republic cousins a thousand generations removed. And red-skinned or not, their hair, she notes, is uniformly dark and straight. If there is a common characteristic among the assembled Lords besides the open carry flash of sabers at the waist and a lot of black fabric, it's straight, dark hair. Straight, dark hair that reminds her of Revan. Sion's red poll must be as unusual as her own blonde, Meetra realizes with some shock.
From the many introductions, Meetra deduces a few things. First, the Lords of the Sith are every bit as obsessed with power and rank as she suspected. Titles clearly mean a lot in this culture. Second, Sion's 'friendly gathering of likeminded Lords' is definitely a conspiracy. These men announce themselves with the quiet dignity of the condemned being marched to a firing squad. And third, her husband's cronies are a diverse group of professionals performing all sorts of functions. From what she can tell, they have come from all parts of the Empire.
Mindful of appearing appropriately aloof, Meetra nods coolly as each Lord reveals himself. Why are they telling her their names? Is the goal to implicate her? Or is she already implicated by virtue of her marriage? Maybe it doesn't matter because if Sion hangs, she will assuredly hang too. Theirs might be a pretend marriage, but she's in it for better or for worse.
What would a grand Sith Lady say in this circumstance? Meetra attempts to fake her way through with maximum dignity. "My Lords, it is an honor to make your acquaintance," she addresses the group. "Now, if you will excuse me . . . " She smiles faintly before she turns to head out the door.
She is followed. Meetra hears booted footfalls ring out on the stone floor behind her. Is it just one man? It is. Meetra keeps walking fast through the narthex, hoping to distance herself from the others. She might be able to take one Lord by surprise with her lightsaber stashed in her cloak pocket. But she'll never prevail against all thirty, even if she had her Force. And once her saber is lit and revealed to be blue, all Hell will break loose.
"My Lady! Please—"
"Yes?" Meetra stops short of the door that leads to the steps back up to the garden. Whirling, she sees that she has been followed by Darth Cohors. The friendly priest in the cassock who welcomed her.
Her pursuer observes with concern, "We have frightened you."
"No, it's—"
"We have frightened you. My apologies. That was not my intention."
Looking down, Meetra murmurs, "I am very new here and recently repatriated to the Empire."
"I know. Sion told me about you. The others don't know, but I do."
Meetra's eyes flash up in alarm. "What did he say?"
"He told me how others initially mistook you for someone else . . . Meeting you now, I see how ridiculous that error was. You're nothing like some mannish woman general."
Uh . . . Meetra keeps her eyes on the floor so her hood conceals her face to the maximum extent. But her right hand slipped into her pocket grips her secret saber hilt with her thumb on the ignition switch.
"You're one of us. Your Force reveals it. Though," the priest puzzles aloud, "there is much Dark Jedi ancestry in you, isn't there?"
She nods. "I-I'm b-blonde," she confesses like it's a horrible secret.
"May I see?" he coaxes, gesturing to his own hood that is thrown back to reveal his head.
"Of course." With a deep breath, Meetra lifts her chin and pulls back her cloak. She's careful to use her left hand since that's the predominant orientation in this culture. Her icy white blonde layers are revealed along with her alabaster skin and grey eyes.
The priest takes her unusual appearance in. "Yes, well I suppose that accounts for the mistaken identity. There is some passing resemblance, I suppose. But only a Force-blind idiot would think you Light."
Uh . . . What does that imply? Meetra is unsure.
"Blonde Lords and Ladies may be rare, but they still pop out of the gene pool now and then. I can see how you were judged well suited to live undercover amid the enemy."
Meetra reaches to swipe back a lock of hair that has fallen forward to brush at her cheek. Seeing the self-conscious gesture, the priest remarks softly, "It will grow. You will fit in with the rest of the Ladies soon enough and all will remark on your beauty."
"I hope so," she whispers, playing the part of shy and meek wifey. "I am happy to be home again at last."
"Sion said you lived undercover on Mandolore through the entire war."
She nods, worried for where this conversation is headed.
"Did you see much fighting?"
What does she say to that? Meetra nods and adds, "It was brutal at the end," thinking of Malachor V. "So many were lost at the end . . ."
Darth Cohors misunderstands. He thinks she's referring to the chaotic and deadly aftermath of the Sith pullback. For once the Sith involvement in the war was exposed and the final campaign lost, their military forces fled. They left behind a large number of embedded collaborators and support personnel to fend for themselves. The victorious Republic Army captured some but killed most. It didn't help matters that the conquered Mandolorian clans were only too happy to expose their former Sith allies once the war was lost.
That regrettable history is apparently a sore point for the local priest. "Our withdrawal from Mandolore was shameful," Lord Cohors hisses. He's angry, but not at her. "It was a dishonorable end to a craven war! That we simply fled after a decade-long misadventure compounds the failure! Leaving our own people behind . . . leaving our allies in freefall with no choice but to turn on us . . . well," the priest sighs indignantly, "that was never how any of us ever imagined the revenge of the Sith playing out." Looking her up and down, Darth Cohors tells her, "I am sorry that you and so many others were so cruelly abandoned by order of the Emperor."
The priest seems utterly sincere in how aghast he is at the decisions of his leadership. It makes Meetra want to say more. But mindful of her precarious position, she merely nods and mumbles vaguely, "It was a difficult time . . ."
The priest seems disappointed that she isn't more vehement in her views. He assures her, "You don't have to make nice about what happened around here. This is Sion's system. We speak our minds without fear."
That's good to know. But what nest of malcontents is her pretend husband nurturing here on the outskirts of the Empire? Meetra's not sufficiently schooled in Sith internal politics to hazard a guess, so she declines to speak further. Averting her eyes in what she hopes is a convincing mix of demure discomfort, she explains, "The retreat is not my favorite memory, my Lord. Things have been hard ever since . . ."
"Yes, of course. Sion told me. Forgive me. If I may—"
"Yes?"
"When you have some time . . . after you are settled in, that is . . . Well, I would love hear about the Republic," Cohors blurts out.
She nods to the hopeful looking priest. "Yes, my Lord. Provided my husband permits, my Lord."
Meetra wants to snort at that cringeworthy show of deference. But she's savvy enough to lean into the whole helpless woman routine since it's the furthest thing from the truth of who she is. It's only been a few days, but she's starting to see the wisdom of Sion's idea to hide her out in the open. And if taking a war widow refugee for a bride is a political statement against Vitiate on Sion's part, then that might earn her some goodwill as well. For Sion's disgruntled cronies seem like the secret-keeping sort that protect each other.
For his part, the priest smiles at her stated concern. "Knowing Sion, he'll be the one asking you questions," he laughs. "You'll soon learn that, if you haven't already."
"Is there something in particular you wish to know?" Meetra asks, curiosity getting the better of her.
The priest nods. With a prior glance around the empty narthex as if fearing to be overheard, he leans forward to speak in a low voice. "What did freedom feel like?"
What did freedom feel like? A Dark priest of the Sith Empire is asking her about freedom. Meetra can't resist a grin at the extreme irony of this moment. She too leans in as she confides, "Amazing. Freedom feels amazing." Then, she flashes a genuine grin.
The man grins back.
A new Sith Lord now slips into the narthex to join them. It's one of the Sith Army Majors, Meetra thinks but she isn't certain. The newcomer tells the priest, "We're ready to get started." Then he turns to ask her casually, "How is he these days?"
"I'm sorry?" Meetra's not following.
"Your husband. Lord Sion. How is he? This time last month when I saw him, he seemed like usual. Tell me he's not in one of those bad spirals again."
"He's fine," Meetra yelps. Then, worried that's too truthful a response, she amends, "I mean, he's coping . . . like usual . . ."
The new Lord nods and grunts. "That's one damn tough Darksider you married. The Empire needs more Lords like him. More men who revere the Force more than they chase their own glory."
The priest nods his agreement to this praise.
Anxious to be away, Meetra mumbles, "Yes, my Lords. As you say, my Lords," and picks up the hem of her skirt to slip through the door and head up the stairs. She wants to take her leave of the Temple and all dangers lying within. But she's not quite away before she overhears the two men assess her in the way men comment to one another about women.
"Skittish little thing, isn't she?"
"Indeed. Sion took a waif for a wife. She's clearly no Jedi."
"Pretty though. I like that blonde."
Meetra doesn't know whether she should feel annoyed or relieved by those remarks.
This time, no one follows her out. But the priest's curiosity and the riddle of what those men are up to meeting in the Temple stays with Meetra. The Sith are not a monolith of culture, she's learning. Despite their overt lockstep fascist conformity, there exist people with different ideas and contrary perspectives that don't line up with the official version. Naturally, they cannot be overt about it.
And that span of opinions is not so different from the Republic. The oft-repeated goals of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness mean different things to different people back home and, regrettably, there is not equal access to those goals for all. The persistent social disparities of the Republic are not hypocrisy, Meetra believes, but more an indication of the complexity of life. There is more to be done to raise the living standards of the non-Core, non-human worlds and to provide more opportunity for disadvantaged citizens. But failure to achieve the stated goals of the Republic for all does not mean those goals are inherently flawed.
She analogizes it to her own experience as a Jedi when she and others failed to live up to their commitments for one reason or another. Maybe in some ways that means the Jedi Code could use some reform. But in most ways, Meetra acknowledges, she and others were the ones mostly at fault. They needed to be better Jedi.
But might Sion be right that he's the good sort of Sith? Are those Lords who flock monthly to the dissenters' haven he quietly provides good Sith as well? Meetra wonders what would happen if those Lords knew that their host's new bride is actually a Jedi. Would they revert to type and take refuge in violent opposition? Or would they be more curious than angry?
Meetra returns to the fortress and spends a few minutes picking at an early dinner. While she's eating, the housekeeper drops by the dining room to let her know she's on her way out. Is there anything Lady Sion needs before she leaves for the day? Meetra shakes her head no. She is bidding Mrs. Warrath goodnight when she stops mid-sentence.
"Sion . . . " Meetra whispers the name aloud before she can stop herself. She's so surprised by the jolt of mental recognition that she feels startled. This sort of thing hasn't happened since . . . well, since she had the Force and could recognize the proximity of close friends and colleagues. "Sion!" Meetra leaps to her feet with excitement at the discovery that she can recognize his Force imprint.
Ignoring the housekeeper, Meetra races to her bedroom and out the door that leads to the gallery balcony that runs the entire length of the fortress. Sure enough, she sees a starship swooping low to land. Is that Sion's ship? It must be.
"Is something wrong?" It's Mrs. Warrath who has followed her out.
"No. It's just . . . he's back . . ."
The older woman smothers a smile, mistaking Meetra's reaction for a new bride's excitement. The housekeeper clearly finds Meetra's Force recognition of Lord Sion to be charmingly romantic.
"He's back. That's him. I can feel it," Meetra luxuriates in the mental familiarity.
"He's early. That never happens. I'll go tell Cookie before she leaves," the housekeeper excuses herself. "She'll want to prepare a proper breakfast for two for tomorrow."
Meetra isn't attending. She's too busy focusing on what she feels. This is the bond at work, she decides. It has strengthened even during Sion's absence. For she has a subtle but unmistakable awareness of the imminent homecoming of Sion separate and apart from any sensation of the Force generally. She can't sense Mrs. Warrath standing beside her, but she can sense her husband on his starship.
Meetra concentrates hard and that's when she perceives it. He's in pain. The Lord of Pain, Darth Sion, is suffering.
Meetra blinks back a rush of involuntary, empathetic tears. Her breath catches and her eyes begin to water. He hurts. Oh, how he hurts. And though it's phantom pain, she hurts too. But she also has the remedy to his discomfort.
"Sion . . ." Again, she whispers the word aloud into the air.
He must hear her five hundred meters away in his mind, because his gravely baritone registers awareness through the bond. Meeee-trrrraaaaah . . . His voice in her head sounds like his voice in her ears, with long drawn-out vowels and a rolled 'r.' Mee-trah. He says her name like a wistful sigh.
You're hurt!
I'm fine.
But you're in pain—I can feel it!
That's normal.
You weren't like this when you left.
This is how I am without you.
I can fix it.
You'll get your chance. But first, let me handle it my way. Give me a few hours on my own.
Okay.
Our bond is strengthening.
Yeah . . . it is. This telepathy is clear evidence.
It is as I hoped. The Force is with us, little Jedi.
The ship has landed now. Meetra watches as the crew and several passengers descend the ramp to mill about on the brightly lit landing platform. They're all dressed in black, of course. But even from this distance, Meetra can make out the black robed figure in silver armor. It's Sion striding fast towards his fortress.
You're really hurting. She can sense it keenly as the distance between them closes. And now, she's hurting again too.
He knows it. My only regret for the bond is that you now share my torment.
Yeah . . . she regrets that too. Because try as she might to block out his pulsating, burning pain, it is impossible to ignore. And even secondhand, it's awful. Meetra suddenly fears that she too has become a zombie. And that thought has her panicking to check her own body for actual signs of physical injury. Does she share Sion's wounds now as well as his pain? She does not. Meetra heaves a sigh of relief even as she worries about her suddenly twitching right eye.
I am sorry. I will get this tamped down as soon as I can. It will be better soon, I promise. But keep your distance and maybe that will help some in the meantime. Busy yourself with something. It helps to take your mind off it.
I'll try. Truthfully, Meetra is dismayed by his condition. You were gone only a week . . . How has he regressed this much so fast?
Through the bond, she senses the disappointment that Sion's trying his best to hide. He knows she is repulsed by his condition and he would rather she not know how far and how fast he can deteriorate.
Meetra squirms a bit now, feeling responsible. She's a newbie at Force healing, and apparently she has room for improvement.
I had hoped that your healing would be more lasting, but it will be fine. Just give me a few hours. Together, we can make this right.
And that's when understanding finally dawns on Meetra. If Sion is promising to tamp down his pain on his own, that can only mean one thing. He's planning to spend those next few hours torturing someone.
Fuck! She only agreed to heal him in the first place to avoid him hurting others. Are they back to this again? Meetra won't stand for him reneging. Outraged, she marches out of the family quarters and starts heading for the detention center. She knows the way.
With each step closer to Sion in proximity, the secondhand pain she's experiencing sharpens. At one point, Meetra pauses, wondering if she should continue. She's panting and starting to sweat now. It's not from her own exertion, but from coping with Sion's affliction. By the Force, she grimaces, just how potent is this dyad?
And now, the pain starts to abate some. Relief washes over Meetra. And then . . . comprehension. If Sion feels better, that can only mean one thing: he's found someone to injure. The knowledge gets her moving again.
Finally, she arrives at the detention center. She recognizes the guards and she's certain they recognize her, not just as Lady Sion but as their former prisoner. Blithely she breezes past them, ignoring their attempts to intervene. Which cell is her husband in? She concentrates a moment for the answer and the Force leads her to him. The Lord of Pain is busy in the fourth cell on the right.
Meetra activates the cell door and storms inside. Sure enough, she finds Sion frying some helpless guy writhing on the floor. The wretched villain is using both hands to deliver Force lightning to maximize the hurt.
Glaring up at him, she hollers, "Stop! Stop it now!" She's here and ready to heal Sion. He doesn't need to torture.
Sion ignores her and continues stoking pain. His mask doesn't even turn to look at her as he drawls, "Does this mean you missed me?"
The flippant remark infuriates Meetra. "Hell no, you fucking asshole! It means I'm mad!" He knows why. "Now, stop it! I mean it! This is unnecessary!"
"Stay out of this." The dismissive Sith doesn't bother to cease his efforts. He commands, "Wait outside for me to finish."
"I will not! Now, stop!"
"Stay out of this. Wait outside or return to our quarters."
Frustrated and unwilling to shout any longer, Meetra decides there's more than one way to stop Sion. Impulsively, she leaps in front of the miserable prisoner.
The ploy works. Maybe it's the immediacy of the bond or maybe it's Sion's incredible reflexes, but he stops his onslaught in time to avoid harming her. The final sparks of blue Force lightning bounce around as they dissipate harmlessly.
And that's when the squinting, heaving prisoner on the floor pants out, "General Surik?" in disbelief.