The plan to hide her in plain sight begins in earnest tonight. Meetra finds herself the hostess of an impromptu intimate dinner for three. Life has brought her to some strange places so far. But the surreal exercise of being a Jedi fugitive presiding over a dinner party with two Sith Lords might just be the most bizarre. Still, if her and Tony's ruse is to succeed, there will be lots more of this sort of thing. She had better get used to it—and get good at it. Plus, in the aftermath of last night's shouting match and this morning's hesitant detente, Meetra feels like she needs to make an effort as a gesture of goodwill.
And so, beforehand Meetra consults with the cook on the menu. Then, she walks through the table setting with the housekeeper. They think she's nervous to entertain and trying to impress. In reality, she's attempting to familiarize herself with the evening's format to eliminate any social awkwardness on her part. She's determined to pull this off. In preparation, Meetra reviews everything she can find on the Sith holonet about dinner party etiquette. It's more an education than a refresher course. Meetra never learned much in the way of social graces back home. The Crusaders weren't much for banquets and cocktail parties.
When the dinner hour arrives, she wastes twenty minutes primping. Meetra is planning to say as little as possible, so she figures her function will primarily be decorative. She intends to lean into the Sith patriarchal culture as her secret strategy. Hopefully, that will enable her to merely smile and offer up the occasional pleasing banality.
Satisfied that she's ready, Meetra heads to join Sion and their guest in the living room. The men are already there sharing a drink, Mrs. Warrath has told her. Meetra is about to breeze in with what she hopes is aristocratic aplomb, when she pauses to eavesdrop a minute. She stands out of sight hovering near an open doorway to listen.
The conversation is about her.
An unfamiliar voice is speaking. It must be the unknown Apprentice. "Master, I didn't mean to scare her."
"It doesn't take much." That's Tony's voice minus the helmet. "She's skittish. Don't sneak up on her. Santos snuck up on her and she took a shot at him."
"You're kidding me."
"No. Santos was lucky she reached for the blaster, not the sword."
"She's armed?"
"She keeps a lightsaber in her pocket."
"She carries a sword? You let her carry a sword? But she seems so timid."
"I want her to feel safe. If she feels better with weapons, I'm fine with it. If you knew what she's lived through, you would understand her paranoia. Women are not well suited for danger."
"She's lucky you found her, Master."
"I didn't find her, I captured her. We've been tracking that Jedi general woman—"
"The Surik bitch?"
"Yes. That's the one. I thought we finally had her when my guys cornered a blonde woman with the Force who fought like a praetorian. Imagine my surprise when I discovered I had captured one of our own refugees. To say I was skeptical at first would be an understatement. She spent a few weeks in a cell downstairs before I was convinced." Tony sounds almost sincere as he confesses, "I still feel bad about that. Things got off on the wrong foot between us."
"Who could blame you for being skeptical? It's a very improbable turn of events."
"Yes, and that makes me inclined to see the hand of the Force in it," Tony observes, sounding very him.
Meetra listens in closely now as Tony manages to avoid too many outright lies by taking refuge in vague generalities and omissions. He creates a truth-heavy mix of falsehoods that veils his deception to his listener. Blatant lies sing out to Force sensitives, but that doesn't mean you can't mislead them. It helps when you're lying to someone who trusts you, like the Apprentice so obviously does Tony.
"You told me a little in your message, but I take it she's got a sad story?"
"As sad as mine." Tony doesn't offer details.
The Apprentice keeps fishing. "You said she's a widow. Did she lose all of her children too?"
"We found her alone. That's all I know. I've had one conversation with her about children. It's a very touchy topic. Don't go there."
"Oh, I won't. Is it true the Mandolorians rounded up our people and turned them over to the Republic to execute?"
"I've heard what you've heard, and she won't talk about it."
"Too traumatized?"
"I assume so. She still doesn't know who to trust."
"Yes, that's clear if she's shooting at Santos. That guy's harmless."
"Just so you are prepared," Tony confides, "she's very Republic. It shows in subtle ways."
"I heard the accent in the Temple."
"That's just the beginning. Speech patterns, appearance, to some extent demeanor and attitudes . . . it's all a little different. Watch her closely and you'd think she's right-handed. She's clearly been very successfully programmed to blend in with the enemy. After over fifteen years, it's second nature. She lived among the Mandos far longer than she lived as an adult in the Empire. I'm afraid, at times, she comes off as more them than us."
"Right-handed? I've never met anyone right-handed."
"It's a little freakish, but I look past it. In time, she will adjust. She wants so much to fit in."
"Why'd you keep her, Master? Why not send her back to her family?"
"We're having trouble locating them. She's been gone a long time with no contact. Pretty much everyone wrote her off for dead, we fear."
"So . . . no family. Does that mean no dowry?"
"I don't need credits. I need company."
"If that's the issue, you could have looked a lot higher for a wife than a refugee who might . . . well, embarrass you."
"That's the thing—I wasn't looking for a wife when I found her. But it seemed like a good solution. She needs a home. I'm a widower. It made sense. It's not such a big deal."
"Master, this is a big deal. Don't pretend otherwise. Tell me this isn't some political stunt with you publicly saving some damsel in distress due to Vitiate's failed leadership."
"Honestly, she's quite fierce. Don't let the little lost girl veneer fool you. She is a valiant Dark soul, a worthy daughter of the Empire. She looks like she could have been one of the original Exiles."
"Oh, so this is some kind of love match?" the Apprentice teases.
"Scipio, I'll pretend you didn't say that," Tony chuckles. And that easy exchange speaks volumes about the close relationship between the two men, listening Meetra thinks.
Tony keeps explaining their sudden marriage. "It's more that her plight impressed me. She needs a stable home with people she trusts who can care for her. Women need to be cared for. I can give her that easily."
"Indeed. But this marriage foregoes an opportunity for you. Had you had married into one of the old families, it might make you—"
"Don't start again. It won't be me. I'm fine with that."
"It should be you. You are the perfect mix of pragmatism and ideology, of experience and zeal. Master, you're an extremely seasoned administrator who could run the Empire with your eyes closed. You could be the next Marka Ragnos—"
"Being Dark Lord has never been my goal. You know that."
"Yes, and that's precisely why you are the best man for the job—you're not in it for yourself."
"Even if I wanted to do it, I couldn't. Not with my health."
"I pray for you daily, Master. For the Force to end your suffering so you can be our next Dark Lord. You seem to be holding steady lately . . ."
"Alas, I'm not. I'm just coming back from another bad spell. I had an eye patch again while I was away."
"Oh. I'm sorry." From his tone, the Apprentice clearly knows what an eyepatch connotes. "How many guys did you have to kill to reverse that?"
Tony sidesteps the question. "I declined very fast this last time. I can't explain it, but it is what it is. I could never govern the Empire. I'm not fit for the job of Dark Lord."
A lull falls in the conversation and Meetra is about to walk in. But then Sion resumes speaking. She can tell from the bond that it's an important topic, and that gives her pause.
"I still have hopes that Cornelius will accept the challenge of leadership."
The unseen Apprentice lacks enthusiasm for whoever this Cornelius fellow is. "That one's very cagey."
"Yes, but he's got no love for the Emperor. And he's got a pedigree and a career that few can rival."
"He is widely admired, I'll grant you that." And now, the Apprentice brings the conversation back around to her again. He enquires, "Does Lady Sion know your politics?"
"Yes. You may speak freely before her," Tony instructs.
"How freely?" his former student wants to know.
"Like she's not in the room."
"Good. Because the rumors are flying lately."
"Yes, I know. I want to hear everything you've heard."
Meetra chooses this moment to sweep into the room, her head held high with a pleasant smile plastered on her face. Is she giving grand Sith Lady born-and-bred vibes? She hopes so. "Oh, I do hope I haven't kept you waiting . . ." she mouths the opening line she has planned.
Both men stand to their feet at her entrance, the Sith being the gentlemanly sort around women. Back in the Republic, that sort of formal gallantry is hopelessly outdated unless you're someplace like stodgy Chandrila. But in the Empire, chivalry—with both its good and bad aspects—is current day practice.
"Ah, there you are, my dear. Come in, come in." Tony beams at her, giving a credible imitation of a doting new husband. "I believe that you have met my old Apprentice Darth—"
"Cohors," she finishes for him. And now, her determined smile becomes rather fixed. Sion's former Apprentice is the priest from the Temple. The red-skinned ethnic Sith who followed her out to ask how freedom felt. Because, of course, that malcontent is Sion's former student. It figures.
She inclines her head. "Welcome, Lord Cohors. It is a pleasure to see you again."
"The pleasure is all mine, my Lady." Cohors bows slightly in her direction.
Tony now explains how Lord Cohors —Scipio, as he calls him—was his final Apprentice trained fifteen years ago. Since then, Tony has been excused from the duty of training young Lords by reason of his mounting health challenges. That information, together with the conversation she just overheard, bring home to Meetra for the first time how much Sion's zombie status limits him. She catches a whiff of melancholy through the bond when Tony laments that he cannot give sufficient attention to both an Apprentice and his system while simultaneously keeping himself healthy.
"You were the best Master a man could ever have," Cohors proclaims loyally. It's clear that all these years later, there is still much respect and affection between the two men.
Watching their exchange of smiles makes Meetra regretful for her own upbringing. She herself had a succession of Jedi Masters, male and female. But she never formed the sort of lifelong bond these men have during her training. Meetra left with the Crusaders as a Padawan. Her formative years were cut short for on-the-job training.
But enough thoughts of the past. Time to get this evening started, Meetra decides, so it can be over with sooner. She now assumes the role as hostess. "Am I rushing you, my Lord, if I invite us to the table so soon? My husband is in need of a good meal and an early night. He was up all last night with a prisoner . . ." The Apprentice, she suspects, knows all about Tony's health struggles. Which means he should know Tony needs food and rest to recover.
Cohors takes the hint with grace. "I am quite famished myself. Lead the way, my Lady."
Their trio enters the dining room, and Tony's voice is in her head through the bond. I love it when you fuss over me.
Tony pulls her chair for her to sit down. Then, Meetra signals to a waiting servant to pour the wine and begin the table service. So far, so good. If she's made any lapses in manners, Meetra is ignorant of them.
When the servant departs, the table talk begins in earnest. The preliminaries are done. Both men are all business. Cohors begins. "Tell me about the Viceroy's meeting. What is the news of the sector?"
Tony now launches into a long and detailed debriefing of his recent meetings. It comes as no surprise to Meetra that her pretend husband has a very strategic mind which has thought through all the motivations for, and likely consequences from, his Emperor's new sweeping economic reforms. Cohors interrupts with questions now and then, but Meetra merely listens. She looks up, smiles, and nods at regular intervals.
"All that is bad news for your people, but it surely means your tenure remains in place," Cohors judges when Tony has finished his overview. "They won't unseat you as Lord Administrator now that there is so much dirty work to be done."
"I'll be here until things shift one way or another," Tony agrees. "But eventually, either Vitiate or his successor will hand my system over to some crony as payback for a favor. I won't be Lord Administrator much longer."
"And then what will you do?"
Tony shrugs. "I suppose I'll retire somewhere nice and pass the time." He catches his old Apprentice's frankly skeptical look and reacts, "What are you laughing at?"
"You, pretending to retire. You'll be plotting again in no time."
"Probably," Tony allows good naturedly, "probably."
And now, the conversation heads where Meetra always knew it was going to end up with these two men: treason.
"You should be running the Empire," Cohors asserts boldly.
"Are we back to that again? Stop flattering me," Tony waves him off.
But the Apprentice is in earnest. "Regime change is coming. I give it a year or two at most. You said it yourself: Revan was a harbinger of change. He might have failed, but he has emboldened others. It's all anyone can talk about behind closed doors."
"Yes," Tony concurs thoughtfully. "It does feel like something's brewing. There was lots of talk every time the Viceroy left the room last week. But it was the same old stuff—the same names as always—and I wasn't impressed. How about you? Heard any new names to add to the list of wannabes?"
"Darth Lacerate."
"Lacerate." Tony looks surprised at the suggestion. "Is he that the young general from the Clodian clan?"
"Yes."
"Who are his backers?"
"A bunch of military types."
"Naturally." Tony thinks a moment. "From what little I know of Lacerate, he strikes me as a weak challenger. Too young and inexperienced. He's only a general because that Surik woman atomized his superiors sucking them into a gravity well with her super weapon."
"Lacerate claims he could have won the war easily, but Vitiate wanted to lose."
"We all know that."
"Yes, but he's actually saying it. Loudly and repeatedly."
"Then, he's a fool." Tony settles back in his chair and takes a long sip of wine. "Military Lords all think their weapons, fleets, and armies give them a head start at taking the throne. They're wrong. You don't become Dark Lord by launching a successful invasion. You don't besiege the Palace. You must defeat Vitiate man to man in Force combat. It's about raw power."
"He's a Valerian with an impressive count."
"It's not your M-count that matters, it's how well you use your midichlorians," Tony grumbles. "Look at me—I have an average count and two hundred years later, I'm still around while my Academy classmates are in their tombs."
"Not everyone is you, Master."
"So, I take it Lacerate's intermediaries have approached you?" Tony looks troubled at the thought.
"They're really looking to approach you. I'm sure I was intended to be a messenger."
"What did you tell them?"
"I listened, that's all. I told them I would listen again if they had more to tell me."
"Is it a good plan?"
"Not really. It's a lot vainglory from a general who's bitter about the whooping we took by the Republic and his own personal association with it. Lacerate thinks he lost his big chance at Malachor V and he won't get another since there won't be a second invasion of the Republic during his lifetime if Vitiate hangs around."
"He's right on that last point," Tony judges. "And he is understandably angry. We all are. As my Lady can attest, the Mandolorian campaign was a shameful disaster."
With that statement, Tony reaches his hand towards her, palm up on the table. Meetra takes the cue to extend her own hand to respond to the gesture. It's a small moment as they briefly clasp hands and exchange looks, but Cohors doesn't miss it. Are she and Sion giving the impression of a happily married couple in solidarity? She hopes so.
But does Cohors sense her nervousness? If so, Meetra hopes the priest chalks it up to a desire to impress. And maybe she shouldn't even be worried, because Darth Cohors is mostly ignoring her presence at the table. He's too intent on his own opinions.
"Well, regardless of his motivations, Darth Lacerate is not the man we want as Dark Lord," the Apprentice is firm. "What is the point of replacing Vitiate with someone less competent?"
"Competency is not Vitiate's problem," Tony appraises. "Our Emperor is very effective. The issue is his wavering commitment to our values and his indifference to what the people want." Shaking his head, Tony grumbles, "I wish I understood his purposes. I'm sure he has some grand plan unfolding. Do not," he warns his former student, "underestimate Darth Vitiate."
His Apprentice is not interested in temperance. He's ready for revolution. "We cannot be a great civilization led by a recluse who won't show his face. What sort of leader is that? Vitiate is craven, and he led us to defeat with his cowardly war strategy. There must be consequences for the Mandolorian debacle! It is unacceptable for a Dark Lord to fail at the revenge of the Sith!"
Cohors has raised his voice. He's nearly shouting. He realizes it, meets her eyes, and murmurs, "Your pardon, my Lady. But my feelings are strong on this issue."
"You know that I agree," his host shrugs off the lapse in manners, "and your opinions can always be spoken freely here. Tell me more about Lacerate. What are his positions?"
"He has none that I can tell, other than blaming Vitiate on the war. That's his big hook: he's telling any Lord who will listen that Vitiate must go because he has proved himself unworthy as a military leader. He says the first duty of the Dark Lord is to defend and protect the Empire."
"He's right. But let me guess, Lacerate says that he is the Lord best qualified to lead the next invasion?"
"He is our most experienced ground commander by default. So, he might have a point. And yes, he's promising the revenge of the Sith. A full-scale war once we rebuild our forces."
"Is it just the Army Lords who are supporting him? Will the Navy have their own contender?"
"I don't know. I guess that depends on your brother-in-law. But Lacerate's emissaries claim to have broad support among the civilian leadership of the major sectors."
"If that were true, he wouldn't be putting feelers out about approaching me. We are irrelevant out here."
"This sector is, but you're not," the Apprentice asserts.
Tony waves him off. "Don't start flattering me again, Scipio."
"Then close your ears, Master. Because everyone knows that you have a model system out here. Things run smoothly, there is no unrest, the people are happy and enthusiastic. Things hum along year to year."
"We're small and we don't have the complex problems other systems have."
"Yes, and you don't have the wealth or influence of the larger systems either. But you still make it work. And you do it with far fewer controls and oversight."
Tony shrugs. "A little freedom goes a long way. Letting people make choices and take risks now and then pays off. Merit matters, and it eventually shows itself. We can tolerate different ways of thinking and living within reason. Not everyone has to think and act the same way so long as we agree on the big things."
"That, in a nutshell, is why people take notice," his student asserts. "You do things differently here and it works. You're not threatened by change and you show a lot of restraint."
"We're hardly the Republic and you know it," Tony mutters.
"True," Cohors concedes. "But this is the freest, fairest, most transparent system in the Empire and it's also the most stable."
"It's not hard to make people happy if you listen to them. Good leaders listen."
"Exactly!" their guest seizes on the point. "When was the last time Vitiate listened to what we want? Master, you bring people together like Ragnos did long ago. He didn't rule in secret, he was out among the people. Ragnos fashioned his Dark Council as a team of rivals and invited the best and brightest to govern with him, rather than sideline them. Like you, he wasn't afraid to share credit—"
"Scipio, my ears are burning. And don't be ridiculous—I'm no Marka Ragnos."
"You are the far superior choice to everyone else who's gunning for Vitiate. Especially General Lord Lacerate. That guy's a blustering opportunist with a personal grudge against the Emperor. It's more about his bruised ego and damaged career than it is his desire to govern better."
"How serious is Lacerate in your estimation?"
"Serious."
"It's not just talk? You think he will actually make a move?"
"Yes. He seems intent on getting organized fast."
"Then, we must be wary. If his men come back to you or if they approach me directly, we will eventually need to choose sides. There is no standing on the sidelines for that sort of conspiracy. At some point, you're either with the usurper or you're his enemy." With a heavy sigh, Tony concludes, "We may need to choose between Lacerate and Vitiate."
"Are you serious? Master, those are terrible choices!"
"I'm absolutely serious. There may be multiple rounds of choices like that. Because you can be sure that if Lacerate is getting ready to make his move, others will emerge soon as well. Don't be fooled into thinking the challengers will join forces no matter what they say. Each will only be in it for himself in the end. And that's when things get really complicated. Regime change," Tony pronounces sourly, "is a bloody business."
He looks to his former Apprentice. "Are you keeping your skills up? Don't neglect your training with too much time in the Temple."
"I won't. How about you?"
"I need to practice more. I need to make the time. There is never enough time," Tony complains.
"You're saying that we cannot decline to support Lacerate if he comes asking or we risk the sword?"
"At a certain point, yes. The solution may be to promise support to every Lord who will mount a challenge in an 'anyone but Vitiate' stance."
"And if they all fail?"
"We go down too. If you're right that I'm important enough to get approached, then I am important enough to punish. All who back regime change will die if Vitiate holds on. He'll slaughter us all," Tony predicts with chilling certainty.
"If you're not with me, you're my enemy . . ." Cohors observes grimly.
"Precisely." Tony now looks to her. "Are we scaring you, my dear? This is dangerous talk and these are dangerous times."
It's a moment for Meetra to duck her chin and lower her eyes as she exclaims that these matters confuse and alarm her. And then, she can affirm that she will rely on her husband's wisdom to decide matters for them. But Meetra can't bring herself to be so meekly accommodating. Before she can stop herself, she has looked from one man to the other as she asserts, "What scares me most is the thought of living in an Empire with no Lord brave enough and strong enough to claim the throne from Vitiate."
And whoops! The bold words come out before she can stop them. Meetra immediately feigns fluster and stares at her napkin. "That is . . . I mean . . . I'm sure you will make wise choices, my Lord. I will support them, of course."
Tony's lip starts twitching. His voice is in her head: Little Jedi, you're adorable as my Sith wifey.
"I see you have found yourself a worthy companion," Cohors remarks, his eyes twinkling at his old Master.
Meetra quickly looks back down, genuinely flustered.
Tony laughs off her outburst. "She might hate the Emperor even more than you do, Scipio. Now then, where is dessert? Tonight, I want dessert."
The plates are cleared and cake is served and the conversation moves to more mundane matters. Meetra hears about Cohors's wife and children and about his new baby nephew. Tony talks about a new starship he's ordering. Then, they both gossip about mutual acquaintances. Neither man, she notes, speaks of Kreia or again raises the name Revan. It's mostly talk of who got what promotion and why. Both men seem preoccupied with the pecking order of the Empire, and how it affects them and others. Competitiveness being the default setting for the Sith, she surmises. It's not hard to imagine that attitude making any revolt against Darth Vitiate extremely treacherous.
The evening winds down and Darth Cohors does not seem inclined to linger. "I'll leave you to your rest and newlywed bliss," the Apprentice grins, clearly enjoying needling his old Master.
"You mean a doddering old corpse like me needs to be put to bed early," Tony grumbles in response. But he takes no offense at the suggestion, and that makes him perhaps the first ever self-effacing Sith Lord.
Has she met expectations tonight? Meetra hopes so. She accepts her guest's gratitude and tells him that he must come again soon. Standing by her side, Tony nods to endorse this sentiment. He tells Cohors to keep his ears open for new rumors to pass on.
And that's when his old Apprentice tries again: "Let me know when I can start some rumors about your candidacy, Master."
Tony shakes his head. "It won't be me." Something about that statement resonates through the bond, and she hears his thoughts in her mind: It won't be me. Maybe it will be Revan, if he's the Sith'ari. But if not, hopefully Cornelius will step up. Someone needs to. Meetra reaches for Tony's hand in another show of moral support. She's going to play her role well for her audience.
"I can tell I have a lot to learn about Sith politics," she remarks after their guest has left and she and Tony are alone. That dinner was illuminating. Meetra realizes she and the rest of the Jedi made a grave error in assuming that the Dark Side is a monolith of thought. There are a range of opinions and likely a large cast of political players who matter beyond mere Darth Vitiate. Even in a system of absolute power, there are competing interests.
"Our politics can be treacherous generally," Tony muses, "but the prospect of a challenge to Vitiate's authority will make things truly dangerous, even for an old campaigner like myself."
That's food for thought. "Has there ever been a revolt before?"
"It's unclear. There is a longstanding rumor that Vitiate beat back a challenge during the early part of his reign. Darth Hostis supposedly led a failed coup attempt five hundred years ago. There's been nothing since."
"Wait—you don't actually know if that revolt happened?" Meetra is taken aback.
"There is no free press in the Empire," Tony explains. "History is the official version of events and let's just say that can deviate from the truth on occasion."
"I see." It's more of the Sith being deceptive, she realizes, only in this case it's the Sith people being deceived.
"If you search the name Darth Hostis, you won't find any hits. If he made an attempt at the throne, there is no record of it. He's been erased. A traitor's fate is an anonymous death."
Meetra understands. "So, no political martyrs . . . I suppose anonymity is the ultimate diss for you glory loving types."
"Naturally," Tony owns the Dark Side's reputation for bravado with an unapologetic shrug.
Together, they start walking back towards their respective bedrooms and Meetra keeps up her questions. "How long has Vitiate been in power?"
"Around nine hundred years."
"Wow. He's old."
"Not just old. Immortal."
"Is that even possible?" Her eyes narrow with suspicion. "Maybe he just wants you to think that."
"Possibly. But I tend to believe it's true."
"Everything dies," she's skeptical.
"No, everything does not," Tony corrects her. Then, he smirks and flashes a devious grin. "Perhaps it's more precise to say that not all dead things die."
His point is well taken. "Could Vitiate be like you? Could that be why he's a recluse?"
"I do not know. The man is a riddle wrapped in a mystery. Very little is known about him. Lacerate will have an uphill battle if he makes a move. He'll be fighting a shadow."
"Do you know this Lacerate fellow?"
"Only by reputation. Do you?"
"No. We never met our true adversaries during the war. The false front of Mandolore confounded us until almost the end." She thinks a moment before asking, "Are you afraid of Lacerate?"
"For myself? No," Tony answers. "There are about twenty Lords in the Empire who I fear to fight. He is not one of them. But I fear Lacerate for others who I care for whom he could hurt. And if he kicks off a stampede for the throne, things could get very bloody, very fast."
Wary Meetra keeps probing away. Tonight's dinner gave new and deeper context to Sion's stated desire to kill his Emperor, and she wants to know more. Just how precarious is Vitiate's hold on power? "Are there many like your Apprentice who want regime change? How widespread is the support for a revolt?"
Tony replies, "I'm two hundred and thirty-seven years old and I have never seen the Lords so discontent. Scipio is one of many across all ages, professions, and perspectives who feel defeat by the Republic ought to end the reign of Vitiate."
"He adores you. Lord Cohors, I mean."
"Scipio's a good man. I take pride in him."
"He's like a son to you?" she guesses.
"In some ways, yes. The bond between Master and Apprentice is very special."
"I never had a Master take a particular personal interest in me," Meetra grumbles. "It was a close working relationship, but always professional." Not like the deep affection and mutual respect she witnessed tonight. And hey—is there anyone who doesn't like Darth Sion? If so, Meetra hasn't met them. Outsider that she is, she utterly failed to appreciate at their initial meetings the standing the zombie Sith Lord has among his peers.
"By professional you mean—"
"It was very arm's length."
"Who was your Master?"
"I had several in quick succession. They were all fine teachers, I suppose. Not that any would claim me as student now . . ." she laments.
Tony must hear her glum rejection loud and clear because he shoots her a look of sympathy and offers her his hand, which she accepts.
Their touch activates the bond and now she knows precisely how Tony feels physically. "You seem better than this morning."
"I'm better now that you're staying," he jokes.
"Would it help if I healed you some tonight?" Meetra offers hopefully.
He accepts. "Yes, please. I will never get enough of your magic. Come, and let me get this armor off." He tugs her along towards the set of rooms that are his.
Meetra follows heedlessly as he breezes through a door he waves open with the Force. She walks in and looks around a moment before it occurs to her. "Wait, this is your bedroom."
"It's also my armor closet." Tony has already begun divesting his shiny silver exoskeleton that hides the ruined body he secrets beneath. "Give me a moment, and I'll have it all off," he promises while he diligently works away at his trappings.
Glancing around while she waits, Meetra decides that his bedroom is a masculine mirror image of her own quarters. It's ornate and impressive, but honestly a bit of a letdown. "Where are the whips and chains?" she teases. "I imagined that the Lord of Pain would have a dungeon for a bedroom."
"Have you spent much time imagining my bedroom?" Tony wonders dryly as he strips off his breastplate.
"No, but if I had, I'd be disappointed. This looks a lot like my room. Where's the ball gag, spanking bench, and the handcuffs?"
"I sprung you from your cell and you want handcuffs?" He's amused. Or maybe that's offended. She's not sure.
"I just assumed that the Lord of Pain would want some violence with his sex."
"Did you now?" He raises an eyebrow and his light eyes flash yellow.
"I know how you enjoy pain. I've felt you enjoy pain."
"Pain is not my preferred form of pleasure. But it is my main source of pleasure these days. Well, besides cookies," he adds as an afterthought. Tony tosses aside another pauldron and muses drolly, "Perhaps I should have been the Lord of Cookies."
"Sugar is your vice . . . Stop there, Tony, because you're ruining your Sith Lord cred. Next, you'll be telling me you like rainbows and unicorns."
"What can I say? I live a life of duty and faith for the most part. There isn't much vice. I'm a boring guy."
She doubts that. "So no sex?"
"My wife has been dead two centuries."
"No mistress?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Do you know me so little?" he challenges softly.
She meets his eyes and assesses, "You're the wife type."
"Yes. I like my sex with love, with commitment."
"With attachment."
"I hate that word. I hate the way you say that word."
"So no women in two hundred years?" She's being very nosy, but she can't help it. She's curious. Plus, Meetra feels like her fake wife status—and maybe that torrid kiss this morning—give her standing to ask.
His reply is matter of fact. "Pain dulls the drive for that sort of thing. When on occasion I burn, I channel those energies into power." He slants her a teasing glance as he observes, "I guess you might say that I'm practically a celibate Jedi."
"Hardly," she sniffs.
"More celibate Jedi than you."
She bristles at the barb. "Stop the slut shaming, will you?"
"Oh, I'm not shaming you. I'm angling to get on your list of conquests. They say once you go Sith, you never go back . . ."
"Who says that?"
"You will, I hope."
"In your dreams, laser brains," she scoffs. But her attention is diverted by Tony's bare chest as he yanks his undershirt over his head. "This is better. This is much better," she judges, pointing at his scarred left torso. It now looks as good as when he left her to see the viceroy. He has hair on his chest. She's beginning to see defined muscles again like before.
"I will be coaxing you to focus on the other two original wounds soon."
"Yeah? Okay. Remind me where they are?" Meetra asks as she steps closer to better inspect his current status.
"The blaster shot is to my back and there's a stab wound on my upper thigh."
"Show me blaster shot. I want you to keep your pants on."
He obliges by turning around and fingering below the waistband of his pants, dragging it down some to reveal the gory wound that's below.
"That isn't really your back." It's his butt.
"Well, perhaps it's my hip."
"If it's your back, it's your backside." Meetra peers down his pants for a quick peek. Yuck. That looks terrible. "Geez, how do you sit with that?" The flashburn is enormous.
"I'm used to it."
"Okay, well that is not going to get healed tonight fully, but I suppose we can start on it. Where's the antiseptic?"
"Behind you on the nightstand. Heal me all you want, but do not pass out again." Tony turns back around to emphasize his point. "I mean it. That scares me."
She chuckles. "If you think I'm going to swoon just because I've seen your rear end, you're wrong." Stepping up behind him to gingerly place her hands slightly under his waistband—and no farther—she prepares to concentrate. "Ready?"
"Always."
That's all she needs to hear. He wants her healing, and she wants to heal. And what does it matter what she's healing? Meetra resolves to think of the process clinically, like a physician would. There's nothing personal or weird about helping someone heal. So, what if it's his posterior?
But mischievous Tony starts reminding her otherwise. "Do your best now. I don't want a half-assed job," he jokes.
Meetra groans. "Puns are the lowest form of wit. No, wait. Maybe that's sarcasm."
"Not here in the Empire. Sarcasm is what passes for sophisticated banter," Tony informs her. "They should call it the Snark Side."
"That's terrible. Just terrible. That's Dad joke quality."
"What's a Dad joke?"
"Goofy humor. Stupid humor."
"That's pretty much my only humor. But, back to my butt—"
"Stop it. You're killing me."
"I am the one who's technically dead. Slain in part by my literal ass hole, which caused me to bleed to death. So never call me an asshole because it brings up bad memories," he urges.
"I'll remember that. When you fake my death, it won't be by a bullseye blaster shot to my backside."
"Now, don't get cheeky, little Jedi."
"Ugh. Stop it. I mean it. Stop. This is going to take a lot of sessions to heal. I need to concentrate."
"I know. Take your time. Like I said, I don't want you passing out again."
"You just like the feel of my hand on your rear."
"That too," he agrees affably. "See if you can heal it big and round. I want a juicy ass that's very grabbable."
"Are you for real?"
"Yes. It's been two hundred years since I had an ass. I want a good one."
"Your other side isn't big and round," she points out. "It's rather flat from the looks of it."
"Grab it and see."
"Fuck you, Tony!"
"Can't blame me for trying."
"I can't see you, but I can tell you're smirking," she accuses.
"All I really want is an ass that's better than Revan's."
"Is he the standard? Not Vitiate?"
"Yes. I want the sex appeal of Revan and the power of Vitiate."
"I can give you neither."
"Sure, you can," he affirms. "I'm counting on it."
"Stop it. You sound like you actually believe that."
"Oh, I do. The whole Empire may be counting on it."
"Whatever."
Tony falls silent and lets her concentrate now. She works at healing a good ten minutes, but the wound is complex and she tires rapidly.
Sensing this, he intercepts her hands and puts a stop to things. "That's enough for tonight."
She doesn't fight him. Last night, alarmed at his condition and fearful that she would never feel the Force again, Meetra had stubbornly insisted on continuing. But now that she's staying, she feels confident that there will be more opportunities to heal again soon.
"Okay, well, I guess we're done." She takes another pump of antiseptic to clean her hands again. "Good night. See you tomorrow." She starts to leave.
Tony chuckles at her confused sense of direction. "Other door. That's the bathroom."
"Right." She heads for the next door over.
"Choose again. That's the closet," he snickers.
"Oh. Oops." She frowns with consternation. Where exactly should she be heading?
"This one. Over here." Tony jabs a thumb at the door behind him. "This one leads to your room."
"Got it." She walks past him towards the doorway he waves open with the Force.
"Meetra—"
"Uh huh?" she pauses on the threshold.
"Thank you for staying. I am very glad that you are staying."
She meets his eyes and nods. "Yeah, well, it seemed like the right thing to do."
"It is. You won't regret it," he promises.
"I hope not."
That candid confession elicits his concern. He approaches, looking like he wants to say more. And there's that look of intensity in his face that reminds her of someone else.
"Don't look at me like that," Meetra mutters.
His response is soft and coy. "Like what?"
"Like you're about to do something you shouldn't." Like kiss her for the second time in one day.
"Oh, I am definitely about to do something I shouldn't. And then, like you, I'm going to pretend it didn't happen."
She looks up to protest. "Hey—"
Tony moves fast. He places his hands on her upper arms, firmly rooting her in place. "This isn't happening, understand? That means you don't need to pretend you don't like it."
"Whaaat?" she counters, shaking her head at him. "Tony, don't ruin this. Tonight was good."
"I'm not ruining anything," he counters. "I'm making it even better." And then he lands a big kiss on her lips. As she gasps—more from irk than from surprise—he takes full advantage. And now, the kiss is deepened and fast heading for where things left off in his office.
What is she doing? This is a big mistake. Sion is a dangerous man to tempt. He toes the line between antihero and villain and owns both those roles without excuses. But the point is this: he's no hero. He's just a convenient ally for now. But that's easy to forget when his hands are in her hair and his hot breath is on her cheek and his thoughts jumble with hers.
Where does her mind end and his begin? With the dyad activated, she can no longer tell. The bond confuses things. It tends to balm over their differences and magnify their similarities. Tonight, she sees that Darth Sion is very much a broken soul, fractured but glued together and holding stable for now . . . until the inevitable rot sets in again, that is. And that feels a lot like her own experience. She's never made peace with being exiled, and she doubts she ever will. She's a wound in the Force that festers and never resolves. Like Tony, she will soldier on doing her best to fight the good fight, all the while knowing she is a shadow of her former self. She'll never be the great hero the Republic needs, just like Tony will never be up to filling the Emperor's job. Someone else will have that privilege and they will be forced to look on from afar. Neither of them will be a main character in their era's history. At best, they will play a supporting role. Is the dyad connection their consolation prize? Meetra doesn't know. But it is extraordinary, without doubt.
Alarm bells start going off in her head now when she hears herself moan aloud into Tony's mouth. Damn the man for being so seductive. For a man who hasn't had a lover in two hundred years, he hasn't lost his skills. Yet again, she's getting worked up fast. But this needs to stop. He's already half naked and she's in his bedroom. Suddenly, this feels like a very compromising situation. Sure, she's got a blaster in one pocket and her sword in another. But they both know that without the Force he could easily overpower her. Their deal was no sex. Still, it's clear he would gladly renege. But will he?
He wouldn't.
Would he?
He won't. "Goodnight, Meetra." Tony abruptly pulls back.
She stares up at him, uncertain whether to feel relieved or not. Because she's very tempted to surrender her agency and allow herself to be swept up in his passion. This man has reluctant leader written all over him, like Revan once did. Meetra knows she is a sucker for that type. They protest that they're not the best choice while others muscle their way to the forefront to initially seize the limelight. But in time, it becomes clear who is motivated by selfish ambitions and who is the servant of the people. For despite their misgivings or doubts, they are worthy. Tony's Apprentice sees it—why can't Darth Sion himself acknowledge it? Tony says he wants to kill Darth Vitiate. But he also says he doesn't want the job of Emperor. He told her he will be a kingmaker . . . but once a new king is crowned, will the king let the one who put him on the throne live? If that king's name is Revan, then maybe . . . And what might happen if the new Sith Emperor sought peace with the Republic? What could the Dark Side become with a more moderate, tolerant leader? How would that upset the conventional wisdom of the Force?
After one long, spellbound moment full of grandiose possibilities and foolish fantasies, Meetra recovers her wits. "Right. G-Goodnight."
Time to go. She ducks her chin and steps fast through the doorway into her own bedroom. Half turning, she feels the need to announce, "I'm going to lock this door," to make clear he's not welcome. Because what the Hell was she just thinking? Living among the Sith must have their scheming ways rubbing off on her.
Tony's eyes are flashing yellow again. Is that a sign of excitement? Of lurking threat? She can't tell. But, like always, he lets her have her way, agreeing with her, "That's probably a good idea."