At dinner that night, there is only the sound of cutlery scraping the plates. Meetra eyes Tony opposite her at the table until he looks up. Then, she instantly looks away and it's her turn to study her plate as she eats. It goes on for five more minutes until Tony puts down his fork and settles back in his chair.

"For how long can I expect to receive the silent treatment?" he inquires.

Her response is frosty and clipped. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Is this you acting Jedi? Are you sucking up your anger? Or is this you acting female? Which is it?"

'Acting female'? What the fuck does that mean? Meetra shoots him a cold glare. "Must the Dark Side genderize everything?"

"The Dark Side calls it like it is," Tony informs her. "And you, wife, have all the indicia of a pissed off woman."

Oh, so he's noticed. Meetra cocks her head, feeling especially irritated because now he's smiling at her. "Exactly how does that differ from a pissed off man?"

"Men act out their anger. They fight it out and move on. Women tend to seethe and to shun. They fight first with social methods, not with violence."

"Shall I light my sword?" She'll fight it out if that what he wants.

Tony shakes his head. "There's no need for another duel, is there?" He gives her a cajoling smile.

"It's a possibility," she threatens, "and this time I won't be compelled to lose."

"Too late. I already killed you," Tony points out. Digging into his pocket, he produces a small holoprojector and plunks it on the table. "I brought the recording from this afternoon. It's pretty good. Do you want to see?"

She sniffs, "Not really."

"Liar!" he accuses playfully. Tony seems determined to lighten the mood. "Admit it—you're dying to see. Let's watch." He points a finger at the gadget, and it activates with the Force.

"I don't need to see this . . ." Meetra grouses. But of course, she looks.

The recording is unedited raw footage. The picture is interrupted by static now and then, and at times the sound is distorted and the dialogue muffled. It's not like watching a studio-produced holonet clip. And really, that's the point. It shouldn't look too good.

Watching the 'duel' recalls Meetra to its ridiculousness. She can't help but to smirk. But on the whole, their mock battle succeeds. She and Tony do a credible job of pretending to be enemies, and he is believably tempted to the Light towards the end. The bickering, she notes, is completely convincing. It is authentically them. And that makes the subtext of her staged 'death' a little unsettling. What is the truth of their relationship? What is the ruse? Are they one in the same in some ways? Meetra is unsure.

"Well? What do you think?" Tony's eager to know.

She responds sourly, still feeling compelled to act grumpy. "I miss those clothes. I hate dresses."

"Is that all you have to say? Come on, tell me what you think or I'll pluck it from your mind."

That's a joking threat Tony can make good on, so Meetra gives in. "Okay. I think I'm getting sloppy on my flips," she judges. "And you appear in more danger of hurting yourself than of hurting me when you use two sabers."

"Point taken. Two swords are the fashion now, but not back when I was trained. But warts and all, I think it's pretty good," Tony opines. "Nothing about it looks staged. The fight isn't overly slick. When we argue, we each look like we believe what we're saying."

"We do believe what we're saying," she points out.

That thought makes Tony frown. "You're right . . . "

She frowns too now.

After a silent, awkward moment, Meetra moves on. "So, what's next? How do you announce that I'm dead?"

"I claim credit for your bounty and submit proof to the Palace."

Tony has a plan. A dead prisoner's cremated ashes will stand in for her own. Tony intends to take a small portion of those ashes and liberally sprinkle them with the charred remains from her fingernail and toenail clippings and a tuft of hair plucked from her hairbrush. That special portion of ashes laced with her DNA will be submitted in lieu of her body as proof of her demise. Along with the ash sample, Tony will provide her blood sample. This will establish her midichlorian count—it's proof she's an actual Jedi with the Force and not just any blonde woman. The DNA from the blood sample will match DNA found in the ash sample to reinforce Tony's claim. But the main evidence—really the best evidence—of her death is the recording of the 'duel' that the droid made.

"This could work . . . this could really work . . . " Meetra realizes aloud. She's as surprised as she is relieved. Being officially dead will take a lot of pressure off her risk of discovery. That thought brightens her mood considerably, and now she's far less peeved than before.

"I'm not going to release the footage publicly," Tony tells her. "I'm going to let the Palace take the lead on how and when to publicize it. That's good politics and it will keep me from looking like I'm trying too hard for glory, which might raise questions about motive."

"Sounds wise. When are you submitting all of this?"

"Tonight before we leave for Rhelg. I've been working on this all afternoon. It's ready to go when you sign off. Are we good?"

"Play that recording again," she requests.

He does. And now, their macabre task turns vaguely humorous as she and Tony re-watch the footage and critique each others' moves.

"You look cute when you lunge," he tells her. He rewinds just to watch it again. "See? You wiggle your ass before you lunge."

He's right. She does. Meetra sees it, and now she can't unsee it each time she lunges. "Huh. Look at that . . ." She had no idea.

"Well, you look goofy with two swords. Seriously, you suck at two swords. Never try that in an actual duel," she advises. "You'll get killed fast."

"I don't know . . . the double spin at the outset looks good," he preens.

"Yeah," she begrudgingly concedes, "it did." That was a cool flex move. She wants to learn it.

"Did I win on the trash talking?" Tony wants to know.

"I think so . . . That was a lot of pontificating and sucking up after I proposed regime change."

"I know my audience. Here's hoping the Emperor himself watches and personally approves my bounty."

"What are you going to do with the money?"

"I am asking that it be donated to the Daughters of the Empire for the upkeep of widows and orphans of fallen soldiers."

Her response is dry. "How very politic of you."

Tony shrugs. "They need the credits more than I do."

They've reached the end of the recording now. This is the part where she tries to tempt Tony to the Light Side. He laughs a little as they re-watch her heavy handed overture. It's equal parts corny and queasy in Meetra's mind, but Tony perversely delights in it. "You know," he gushes, "that's exactly how I imagined you would be. All Light Side preachy and sexy. Look at you sliding up to me, unsure if you should kill me or bed me," he teases.

"Do I disappoint?" she asks, worried the answer is yes. "In real life, I'm a terrible Jedi."

Two hundred years of life experience have given Tony the self-acceptance she lacks. He shrugs. "Neither of us is the archetype we initially appear to be." Tony is perfectly fine with that situation apparently.

She's not. "I suck as a Jedi, and I've never been much for preaching."

"Oh, I don't know . . ." He slants eyes her way. "You said you still believe all that stuff."

"I do, I guess." Meetra thinks a moment. "I believe all the core Jedi ideals . . . I just don't like how they are applied in practice. Some of the Jedi Code is stupid and unnecessary."

"I think I understand," Tony volunteers. "I believe in the tenets of Darkness, but I don't think we pursue them as we should. If you ask me, there is too much religious justification for politics here in the Empire."

"We have the opposite problem," she laments. "We don't have enough religious influence guiding our public affairs. The Republic is getting too secular in ways that hurt us."

"Somewhere between our two traditions there must be a compromise that works," Tony muses hopefully. "Maybe someday we will find the right equilibrium that will promote coexistence."

"Equilibrium?" She puzzles over the word choice. "You mean like balance?"

"Yes. That's a better term. Much better. Maybe someday we will find balance."

Tony pivots now from his big picture reformist vision for the Empire to the necessity of finishing today's task. "So, are you signed off? Can I submit this video and claim that you're dead? We'll send the ashes when we get back from Rhelg."

"I guess so," she agrees. But then a thought occurs to Meetra: "What did you do with the camera droid?"

"It broke in an uh . . . accidental weapons discharge."

"You mean you shot it?" she giggles.

"Yes. It seemed prudent to destroy it. Meetra, I've been thinking . . . You really should remove that tattoo on your arm. It's too conspicuous in the video, and that makes it risky."

She reluctantly agrees. "You're right." There's no point in going through this elaborate charade of faking her death if she could be exposed by hiking up her sleeve.

"I've got a medic droid here that can do it tonight."

"And then it too will fall victim to an accidental weapon's discharge?"

Tony grins. "How'd you guess? Eat your dessert while I go submit your kill and get the medic droid ready. We'll leave after that. The shuttle is prepped and ready."

An hour later, the Empire is officially alerted to her death and Meetra has a bandage on her right forearm where the words 'for the Force and for the Republic' used to surround the Jedi insignia. The tattoo has long felt like the last remaining vestige of her old life, but erasing it turns out to be easier than she imagined. It's just a tattoo, right?

Tony lets her do the flying for the trip to Rhelg. She pilots the shuttle's ascent while he programs the navi-computer for the jump to hyperspace. Tony hangs around to do the talking to the local orbital patrol. When they hail the ship, no one asks for a code clearance or their destination. They know whose shuttle it is. They simply wish Darth Sion safe travels. And like usual, the well wishes for the Lord Administrator are obligatory but also totally sincere.

"Make the jump when you're ready," Tony tells her before he disappears into the back.

Meetra waits for the hyperdrive to finish warming up before she pulls the lever and the ship leaps to lightspeed. The transition from the sublight engines is smooth and gradual compared to what she's used to. There is no sudden jolt. Tony's new shuttle is very smartly engineered. Sith spacecraft technology, she realizes, is more advanced than the Republic's. That's food for thought as she ponders the undulating, irregular blue swirls of hyperspace.

"You still here?" Tony pokes his head into the cockpit. "It's fine. Put it on autopilot."

She yawns and nods. "Just did." Meetra stands from the pilot seat to stretch. Then, with one last look at the churning vortex of energy that signals the alternative dimension reached only when traveling faster than the speed of light, she follows Tony into the main cabin. Together, they head for the captain's quarters.

"Tired?" he asks as he drapes an arm around her shoulders.

"A little."

"Not too tired, I hope."

She knows what he wants. "I'll heal you." She'll never be too tired to heal him to uphold her end of their bargain. Tony is taking an awful risk to hide her, and by faking her death with so much personal involvement, today he has significantly increased his culpability. There's no way Tony can disavow knowledge of her identity and claim he was duped.

"You already healed me earlier, remember? I don't need your healing."

"Oh. Right. You're thinking . . . we need to uh . . . break in the new ship . . ." Sex. He wants sex.

"Not if you're too tired."

"I'm not too tired if you do all the work," she offers.

"Sounds good," he accepts.

The captain's quarters are far from spacious, but there's room for two. And tonight, the small area is outfitted for romance. Meetra smiles as she sees the retractable bed pulled down and made up with fresh sheets and pillows. The bed is strewn with flower petals. "You and your roses . . ."

"They're a little touch of home," he explains sheepishly.

"Hyperspace roses. I love it." It's so Tony.

"Shall I turn the heat up? Will you be cold?"

She shakes her head but adds, "Tonight's a night I might want to snuggle."

"I can arrange that," Tony answers fast.

"Where's the bathroom?"

"To the left."

Meetra busies herself undressing, washing off her makeup, and brushing her teeth. She eschews the fancy negligee the maid has packed for her—why bother?—and emerges naked. She's never been self-conscious about her body, and Tony himself is far from a perfect specimen.

Tony is already undressed and under the covers. She slides in beside him and he whips something metal out from under the blanket to dangle over her head. "I found these in the back."

It's two sets of handcuffs.

"Oh." Meetra blinks. She wasn't expecting this.

"The shuttle has a small cell."

"Naturally," she groans.

"It's because I'm always on the lookout for prisoners."

"To torture?"

"It's how I lived until you came along. And now, I have a reputation to uphold."

"You're the Lord of Pain," she sighs.

"Well?" He's looking at her expectantly . . . hopefully . . . So, Meetra reaches for a set of cuffs and lets them dangle from her fingertips.

"Who are these for?" Him or her?

"Well, you did say I should do all the work . . ."

Her, then.

" . . . but if you would prefer not to—"

He's thinking she's going to say no? How the Hell can two people in a Force dyad miscommunicate so often? Is she really that mysterious to Tony? "I'm game. I'm in."

"You're in?"

"Sure. Are these for my hands or for my feet?" she asks a little wickedly.

Tony's eyes flash yellow at her. He snatches the cuffs back, grabs her nearest arm, and clamps the restraint around her wrist. He proceeds to affix the other end to the headboard.

Amused Meetra offers her other hand for the same treatment as Tony straddles her to reach to secure her right side. In doing so, he skims the bandage where her tattoo was removed. "Wait—will this make it hurt?" Beneath the bandage, her skin is lasered raw and red.

"It's fine. It's still pretty numb."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. But if it hurts a little, then enjoy it," she whispers with a knowing look.

He's troubled by that suggestion. "What we do . . . Meetra, it's not the same kind of pleasure. Being with you—that's very different." This is clearly an important point for Tony. But he's embarrassed as always about his affliction and struggling for the words to express himself. "Pain revives me, and it feels good. Really good. But not good like being with you," he finishes lamely.

"I understand. Sex feels better than pain."

He cringes a little at her bluntness, but nods. "Yes."

"Okay, then." She rattles her cuffed right hand to indicate that she's still untethered. "Hook me up," she commands huskily, "and let's get to it."

Tony attaches the remaining cuff to the headboard. Then, he sits back on his heels to survey his work. This is a fantasy for him. Meetra sees it in his mind. Tony wants her in handcuffs like she wanted that rough tryst by the pond.

He knows that she knows. He likes that she knows. It loosens his tongue. Looking down at her, enjoying the very sight of her shackled, he whispers, "From that night in the greenhouse when you felt my Force and the dyad began to blossom . . . when you were so greedy for my power that you endured my pain and passed out from it . . . I carried you back to your cell, but it took every ounce of willpower I had not to take you back to my bedroom."

He leans forward now to bestow a soft kiss on her lips. Then, he traces a slow-moving finger from her lips down her throat as she arches in response.

It causes Meetra to pull against the restraints. And wow, the handcuffs are even hotter than she had guessed. Maybe, she thinks, this is a fantasy for her too . . .

Tony looks her over frankly and grins. His confession continues. "You don't know how lonely it has been since my wife died. I could have taken a new wife, but I didn't want to do that to some young girl . . . to chain her for life to a man who stank of rot and whose skin shed in bloody strips. But you . . . you knew my condition—you even feared it—but still, you were drawn to me. In that moment, the dyad made it seem like we were each the answer the other was looking for."

His hands have found her breasts. He cups them and teases the nipples. Tony bends forward now to kiss a trail between them before he resumes talking. Like always, he takes his time in bed.

"It was so improbable—so impossible—that I was captivated by the idea. That night, I wanted to tie you to my bed and do this all night long . . . You would awake with my face between your thighs . . . all the while feeling my Force that you so desperately wanted . . . I would give you back the power you lost and you would be someone for me to love again. We would each be happy at long last."

Tony now scoots back from straddling her. He grabs her knees and pushes them up to open her hips wide to welcome him. Then, he dips his head to demonstrate his onetime fantasy intentions.

Meetra sucks in a breath and then surrenders herself to his greedy mouth. It's not like she has much choice since she's tethered to the headboard and his hands hold her thighs down. He's done this plenty of times before. Somehow, Meetra has managed to find the rare man who actually likes going down on a woman. Tony loves to pleasure her, teasing her to the brink but stopping just short of the finish line.

By now, Meetra knows to expect it. "This again? You're killing me. Seriously, I'm dying here." She bucks against him. "Hurry up and stop toying with me," she pouts.

"Tell me what you want," he goads as he repositions himself to grind his hips into her. His body is as ready as hers, but he stalls. She hears his thoughts in her mind: Beg for it.

Well, okay. "Please," she moans out. "Please Darth Sion, make me yours." Put that Sith dick in me and let's do this.

Yes, he's loving this. Tony wants to be wanted. And she knew that—she's seen it time and time again in how he interacts with his people. Darth Sion doesn't want to be a tyrant. He aims more for benevolent dictator.

She starts to writhe against him, yanking hard on the cuffs. From beneath slitted eyes, she murmurs suggestively, "You know you can take whatever you want . . ." It's talk of power designed to appeal to a Sith. But then, remembering how Tony clearly wants sex to have an emotional connection, Meetra rephrases it. "Make love to me. Show me you love me. I know you love me."

His eyes—so yellow!—lock with hers. "Uxor," he sputters Kittat she doesn't understand. "Domina uxor. You wear the cuffs, but I am the prisoner. Never forsake me . . . I need you," he croons.

"Show me," she whispers against his insistent kiss. She is slick and throbbing for him. "Show me how much you need me."

He responds by rubbing his erect body against her stomach, letting her feel the extent of his physical excitement. "My sword is lit for you and only you, Little Jedi."

"Then sheath it," she plays along with his silly metaphor.

"As you wish."

He buries himself deep within her and starts to move. Soon, Meetra is lost to pleasure. So much friction! The length and girth of him never disappoint. And with the benefit of the bond, she experiences Tony's own physical sensations as well. It makes sex next level intense.

As Meetra tugs on the cuffs and practically lifts off the bed to meet his thrusts, it occurs to her that this is the perfect scenario for them both. She gets a taste of the manhandling that she secretly enjoys. He gets the slow seduction and intimacy he craves. As far as sex goes, it's a win-win. And so when they both simultaneously tip into quivering ecstasy, it is satisfying on multiple levels.

Tony collapses atop her with a wave of his hand that releases her restraints courtesy of the Force. Her arms drop suddenly as his fervent wish echoes between her ears. Hold me. She does.

He's the sometime-monster who knows he evokes revulsion and pity. He hates it for so many reasons, but most especially for how much it isolates him. And that's why he tries but fails to understand Meetra's Jedi standoffishness. Why would anyone choose to evade attachment? Tony is baffled by her upbringing, but gamely trying to reverse it.

Contemplative Meetra dutifully strokes his back for the afterglow cuddling she now knows is obligatory. She is careful to avoid reaching too low to where the injury on his hip begins. And that starts her worrying . . .

"I feel like I am failing you," she bemoans into the air as he holds tight, the weight of his body still pressing her down. "You should be more healed by now."

He mutters into her neck. "Hush."

"But why can't I cure you?"

"Be patient. Have faith."

She doesn't have the same faith in their combined abilities that Tony does. He has a grandiose—almost mythical—conception of what he thinks their bond can accomplish. But she has her doubts. "The dyad isn't as strong as you believe . . ."

"We're just beginning to unlock its power. It's only been a few months since I found you."

That's true, but she grumbles, "I wish I could heal you . . . I don't want you torturing anymore." She hates his Lord of Pain moniker.

"I don't need to torture as long as I have you."

The comment sparks a thought for Meetra. "Do you think that's why I can't heal you completely? Because the Force wants you to need me?"

Tony sits up and smiles dreamily at the thought. Damn the man, he's such a pious romantic at heart. "I think you might be right," he endorses her insight. "The dyad makes clear that the Force wants us together . . . perhaps it's managed to make certain that we need each other."

She smirks at this earnestness and reaches to stroke back a lock of his auburn hair. Tony gets crazy bedhead, which she secretly finds adorable. He's such a regular guy beneath the mask, but for the mortal wounds, of course.

"Do you mind how I look?" he asks softly. "I mean, how I look currently. Not when I'm rotten . . ."

"No," Meetra answers honestly. She looks completely past Tony's injuries. It's easy. She has always been far less attracted by a man's body than she is by his mind. She falls for chemistry and lofty ideals, not for biceps and broad shoulders. So . . . what's a few mostly closed, obsessively cleaned fatal wounds on a guy? She's not self-conscious about her own battle scars or her less than impressive curves. Bodies are bodies, really. The important part is whether they are healthy enough to work. And that's where she feels like she is failing Tony.

"Hold still. I'm going to heal you," she decides.

"Are you sure? You know how tired healing twice in one day makes you."

"We're in bed. I'll just fall asleep."

"Fine. Make it quick, and don't overdo it."

They're back to bickering, as usual. Meetra complains, "Quit complaining."

"I'm not complaining. You're complaining," he complains back.

"Just shut up and let me do this for you."

"Yes, dear," Tony relents. Then, he sighs and relaxes as her healing begins.

"I set the hyperspace reversion alarm," she reports. "We'll exit with full shields up in about seven hours."

"Um. Good. Seven hours to sleep . . ."

"More like six. I want time to shower, get dressed, and eat breakfast."

"Yes, dear. Whatever you want," he sighs contentedly.

Seven hours later, they are both awake, refreshed, and seated in the cockpit when the shuttle exits hyperspace. Tony starts briefing her on their destination.

"Welcome to Rhelg."

"Looks green."

"It is. Rhelg is entirely agricultural. It was once heavily wooded, but the forests were cleared for crops. Rhelg is a sacred world. It's one of five holy worlds in the Empire, and that gives it significance beyond its economics and population."

"I see."

"Ludo Kressh ruled from here during the Great Hyperspace War."

"Kressh . . . why do I know that name?" He was in that Sith history datafile Tony made her read, but Meetra can't remember why.

"Kressh was the longtime rival of Naga Sadow in the years following the death of our first Emperor. Both Kressh and Sadow wanted to be Dark Lord."

"Who won the title?" Meetra doesn't remember that part either.

"Sadow. The infighting between the two men greatly weakened the Empire. For too long, there was no clear leadership." Tony shakes his head and frowns. "Civil war made it easy for the Republic to beat us." The way he says this makes it clear that Tony isn't thinking about the past, he's worried for the future.

A newbie to Sith culture, Meetra wonders aloud, "How come those guys aren't called by the Darth title?"

"During the First Empire, 'Darth' was more of a chosen nickname. Lords were known publicly by their actual names."

"Why the change?"

"I think it's because Vitiate wants to downplay the importance of the leading families. It's easier to obscure the preeminence of the Metellus, the Valerians, and the Scipio clan when their Lords don't use family names publicly."

"Interesting." Like so many aspects of the Sith Empire, Meetra has no frame of reference for it. There is no analog to that sort of Force aristocracy in the Republic. There are no Jedi nepo babies.

Tony's mind is still on the major players for the last Sith regime change. "Kressh's tomb is on Korriban, not here. There's just an ancient temple with a shrine that holds Dark Jedi relics from the exile."

"That's where we're going, right?"

"Yes. Kressh himself had a lot of Dark Jedi ancestry, and he liked to publicly acknowledge it. It was no accident that he made Rhelg his home."

"To boost his Dark Jedi cred?"

"Yes. Back in those days, there were still plenty in the Lord class who looked like you and me. But nine hundred years of preference for ethnic Sith traits since then has made full humans a small minority. If you ever go to Dromund Kaas, you will see how few of us genetic throwbacks are left. It's ironic," Tony observes wryly, "but these days a Lord like Ludo Kressh would stick out."

"You mean like you do?"

"And you, Lady Sion."

"Why are purebred Sith traits preferred?" Meetra is clueless on the eugenics of the Force.

"It is perceived that red Sith genes carry higher midichlorian counts. Hence—"

"More power?" she guesses.

"Precisely."

Tony keeps staring out at the looming green planet that fills the cockpit window. Once again, he brings the conversation back to the distant past which he worries is prologue for the future. "There was terrible Sith-on-Sith bloodshed during the time of Ludo Kressh. I fear that if Vitiate falls, history will repeat itself. It will be civil war until a new Dark Lord eventually kills his way to power . . ."

"And how will installing your brother-in-law avoid that?" Meetra challenges.

"It might not," Tony softly admits. "But I hope the respect Cornelius has earned will deter challengers. He should be acceptable to most, even if he's not their first choice."

Meetra slants eyes over to Tony as she casually asks an important question. "Have you heard from him since his visit? He sure left angry . . ." Which is fine by her, since she was angry too. The guy tried to kill her.

"I'm going to start the landing cycle. I already programmed the coordinates."

"You didn't answer me."

Her comment comes out testy and Tony answers her sharply. "This sort of thing is far too dangerous to send messages about," he informs her, sounding uncharacteristically defensive. "So, if you're asking whether Cornelius is leaving me voicemails on my comlink telling me his thoughts on a coup, the answer is no. I'll only know what he thinks when he tells me himself."

That's pretty much a non-answer, but Meetra lets it slide. Tony is a little rattled, she's sensing through the bond. It's making her wary as well.

The new shuttle descends smoothly. They're under the cover of the atmosphere fast. Meetra feels the sudden heaviness in her ears and lungs as the planet's air pressure and gravity kick in.

Tony now stands to check his swords hanging at his waist and then the blaster he has strapped to one thigh. The movement catches her attention, and she spies something unusual.

"Is that a grenade tucked up your sleeve?"

"Yes. Here." He slips one out from his other sleeve and hands it to her. "Put that in your cloak pocket."

"Okay . . . " Meetra is used to seeing Tony armed, but his sudden concern for weapons is making her nervous. Or maybe that's his actual nervousness leaching across the bond. But whatever the reason, she pockets the grenade as told.

"Where are we going that we need grenades? I thought we were meeting your contact in the Temple."

"We are . . . supposedly . . ."

What the fuck? That didn't sound confident at all. "I thought you said you trust this guy." Fixing her pretend husband with a stern look, Meetra reminds him, "You never did tell me who we're meeting . . . "

Tony's response is grim. "If he's not who I'm expecting, I plan to start shooting."

"You think this is a trap?" Her eyes grow wide.

"It could be. I have no way of verifying if the message I received actually came from the man who purported to send it. These are treacherous times . . . Keep your eyes open. You've got your sword and a blaster, right?"

"Right." She pats at the secret pockets of her concealing Sith Lady cloak. She wishes Tony had let her bring her own lightsaber, but this time he insisted she bring a red one. If you light up a blue sword in public, things could get tricky, he had told her. Meetra had no rejoinder to that logic.

"Tony, what are we doing here? What are we really doing here?" she demands.

He ducks her questions and focuses on the instrument panel scanner. "Looks like an average size crowd today. It's all civilian craft parked at the Temple except for one."

Her eyes follow Tony's gaze and Meetra deduces, "That's a Sith military shuttle . . . " She reads the scanner report. "It's idling with no lifeforms aboard."

"Let's hope it had only one passenger."

"Just who are we meeting?" He still hasn't said.

"We're meeting in the Temple sanctuary out in the open. We'll follow his lead for how to interact if we attract attention. But I'm hoping the Temple won't be too crowded. It's a weekday and we're between the daytime worship services, plus the tourists mostly go to the shrine itself . . ."

"Tony—"

"He would not have asked for this meeting unless it's important. That's why you're here. This concerns us both." Meaning, of course, that this meeting concerns treason for which she is an integral part.

Tired of Tony's stonewalling and starting to feel very manipulated, Meetra snarls, "Just how dangerous is this meet-up?"

"I know the priest here. He's in the monthly vesper group. He'll cover for us if anyone comes asking later. If he knows this is a trap, he will find a way to tip me off."

That answer isn't making Meetra feel any better. "So the priest is a fellow malcontent?" Great. Just great.

"He's a patriot and a friend."

The ship settles down now. Tony deploys the ramp.

"You aren't going to tell me who we're meeting, are you?" Meetra complains as she fluffs her hood and settles it low over her head.

Tony pretends not to hear while offers her his arm. "Remember we are Lord and Lady Sion on a penitent visit to the Temple."

"What does that mean? How exactly do you sin on the Dark Side?" she grumbles. "Lying, cheating, hating, scheming, and killing are fine."

The flippant comment earns her a look. "Do you really know so little about us by now?"

"Yeah, I guess so." Meetra looks to Tony. "Tell me—how does Lady Sion sin?"

"Today," he informs her curtly, "your sin is doubt. We are a determined people whose resolve does not relent. Trust me. Meetra, when will you learn to trust me . . ."

"Not today." Irritated, she tosses her head and shrugs off his supporting arm. "Trust works both ways, you know. And you haven't seen fit to trust me with the identify of your contact." That's making Meetra very suspicious that they're meeting someone who Tony knows she wouldn't agree to meet. It must be an old foe. "Is this Nihilus?"

"No."

"Kreia?"

"No."

"Then who?"

"We need to get going. Are you coming?" Tony stares her down and then not-so-subtly goads her. "If you're scared, you can stay in the ship."

"And leave you to have all the fun with the grenades?"

"It's your choice. This might go better if I leave you behind, but I would prefer if we were in this together completely. I can't follow through on any of my plans without you."

The moment suddenly feels like a test. Like she can be all-in on being Lady Sion, one half of the dyad he thinks can start a revolution, or she can be his behind-the-scenes Jedi enabler on a side quest to help Revan. Which is she? Meetra isn't exactly sure. She's been struggling with a series of identity crises since the war, attempting first to answer what it meant to be a Crusader, next deciding whether she should follow the others to the Dark Side, and then confronting her status as the Exile. Who is she, if she is not a Jedi? Meetra has never discovered an acceptable answer to that question.

But ever since she was captured—or maybe it's rescued?—by Darth Sion, she's been offered the role as sidekick to the would-be assassin of the Sith Emperor. It's a ride-or-die chick gig if there ever was one. It's also a chance to effect meaningful change and to rescue Revan. All logic tells her that she ought to fully embrace the role Tony's offering her. Except Meetra can't quite get there yet. Sure, she's sleeping with Tony and masquerading as his wife in public. But yesterday's fake duel was clear evidence that she's still a little too Jedi and he's regrettably far too Sith.

So, what does she do now? She likes Tony and she needs Tony, and so she can't let him get killed in an ambush while trying to help a friend. This is not the time for existential navel-gazing. Meetra decides to view this decision like she views that tattoo removal: it's just a decision, and not some overarching symbol heavy with meaning.

"Look, I'm here and you might need back up. So, I guess we're doing this. But just so you know, I'm not happy about it." She steps past Tony heading for the ramp, leaving him to jam on his helmet and follow. "We will discuss this more later," she tosses back over her shoulder in her best Republic General voice.

Outside, Rhelg is humid, cloudy, and cool. As the shuttle's repulso-lifts power down, they exhale water vapor that instantly turns to steam. It adds to the foggy ambiance that surrounds the Temple. The main structure is a large windowless building made of weather-stained grey stone. It has conspicuous bright green moss growing up one side, but it's the distinctive shape that Meetra reacts to first.

"I guess I know where you got the inspiration for your greenhouse." The Temple is a giant pyramid with a square base.

"Triangles are a Sith thing," Tony explains. "Some say the shape is a metaphor for focus. But whatever it means, it is everywhere among the artifacts of the First Empire. Not just for buildings, tombs, and obelisks, but for holochrons and jewelry, too. You can find triangles engraved on old suits of armor in museums and on ancient heirloom lightsaber hilts. They were all the rage in the time of Marka Ragnos, when this place was built. Come," he urges, "let us go in."

As a Lord and Lady, she and Tony automatically jump the line of sightseers and pilgrims queued up to enter. For as always, the laypeople of the Empire instantly defer to their betters. On Rhelg, Tony isn't the Lord Administrator, but he is still entitled to preference by virtue of his Lord status. Regally formal as always in public, Darth Sion inclines his mask and waves a gloved hand to acknowledge the courtesy. He returns respect with respect here just as he does back home.

Egalitarian minded, Republic born Meetra bristles at this treatment. "I hate your caste system . . . "

"I can't change it, so I won't fight it," Tony responds. "I pick my battles for how to improve the Empire."

"You're picking the hardest battle of all," she responds dryly. Regime change isn't exactly starting small.

"If I achieve my goal," circumspect Tony declines to actually state his treasonous intentions out loud, "I will do more to improve the lives of the commonfolk than any feelgood social equality measures ever could. I let the customs remain as they are and focus on bigger things."

She's skeptical. "Are those peoples' lives really going to change appreciably if the big boss falls?"

"Far fewer of them will die if we do not pursue war with the Republic," Tony answers bluntly.

Meetra pauses now on the threshold of the Temple, staring up at the Kittat writing above the main entrance. "What does the inscription mean?" Please don't let it be a curse on the Jedi, she thinks.

Tony translates. "Look in the shadows for the answers that elude you."

"That is very Sith sounding."

Tony snorts at her irreverence. It's a goofy sound coming from beneath his mask. She tries and fails to stifle a nervous giggle in response.

The momentary levity passes fast. Tony is abruptly serious once again. "Stay alert," he hisses, and the bond betrays that he means this admonishment as much for himself as for her. He takes her arm to ostensibly squire her around the Temple. Since they're in public, Meetra does not resist.

But as they duck into the ancient sacred space, Meetra is once again momentarily distracted. "Wow . . ." The interior is nothing like she expects, mostly because it is outfitted exclusively with wood. "This place is gorgeous," she gushes, openly gawking. Nothing wooden she's ever seen—not even the Jedi Temple treehouse on the wookiee world Kasshyk—has this sort of awe factor.

Tony is pleased that she's so impressed. He gestures around them. "Behold all that remains of the ancient forests of Rhelg."

As they venture deeper into the Temple, Meetra lapses into combat mode. She lets Tony lead her around but intentionally keeps a clear line of sight on the exits. This is a large public space. It makes her feel very exposed. Life on the run has taught her to always know where the doors are and to look for obstacles to use as potential cover.

Taking it all in—and covertly scanning the premises in the process-Meetra judges that the ornate Temple interior cannot possibly be the work of droids. The high gloss hardwood pews in neat rows, the intricate patterned floors underfoot, the thick support columns carved in high relief, and even the arched buttresses overhead all reflect a level of skilled craftsmanship far beyond mechanical workers. People made this Temple with painstaking attention to detail. It must have taken years, she marvels.

"Where is your guy?" she worries under her breath as she keeps scanning the Temple occupants. "Are we late, or is he late?" Tony is seeming more relaxed now that they're inside, but she's not. If anything, she's more nervous.

"I don't see him yet."

"What does he look like?"

"I'll know him when I see him."

"Will he know you?"

"Yes."

She and Tony draw plenty of looks, but Meetra puts it in the category of peoplewatching. With the fearsome mask, shiny armor, flowing cape, and conspicuous swords, Tony looks like a textbook Sith Lord. She's certain that when many of these pilgrims return home, he will feature in their stories to loved ones. Meetra draws comparatively less interest, and that's a good thing. She is swathed head to toe in the heavy black Sith Lady cape that obscures her face and figure, most importantly her blonde hair. It's a very effective disguise, helping her to fade into the shadow of Tony's swagger.

Meetra turns to face the high altar. Much like the Temple facade, it bears a large inscription in Old Sith. "What does that one say?" she asks.

"It's an old-fashioned unity prayer." Tony translates: "Please, O Force, teach the wicked your ways so that the Jedi sinners may live in your full abundance, with Dark and Light together once more."

"Huh." That's an unexpected sentiment. "How shockingly ecumenical . . . "

Tony gives her the context: "Before the Hyperspace War, there was still hope among the Sith that the two sides of the Force might reunite. Back then, the revenge of the Sith was envisioned more akin to a triumphant homecoming than a vengeful bloodbath. You see that idea reflected in the religion and politics of the First Empire. We weren't exactly conciliatory," Tony explains, "but we were far less hellbent on total destruction of the Republic back then."

"What happened to sour everyone on those ideas?"

"Defeat and mass murder. When every Sith man, woman, and child with the Force came to be considered an existential threat to the Republic, we gave up on reconciliation. Hearts hardened. You won't find a prayer like that in any modern Temple."

"But that was all such a long time ago . . ." Many centuries ago.

"My people have not forgotten the genocide that nearly wiped them out," Tony fairly growls. But then, he adds, "Making peace with the Republic will be a hard sell. But I believe it is the pragmatic choice for the long run . . . and I'm not alone."

Tony now leans in to confide in low tones. "I don't sense a trap. I don't sense any danger. Do you?"

"N-No. Not exactly . . . ". Meetra concentrates and decides that the Force seems a little jumpy and erratic, but far from insistent like it does when peril is close at hand. If anything, the Force feels kind of low key excited. It's a neutral-to-good kind of read on the situation.

Tony knows her thoughts. "I agree," he decides with obvious relief, "but stay alert. Things could change fast."

"Yes, my Lord," she dutifully responds since they're in public.

"I'm going to say hello to the priest." Tony nods in the direction of the bald, red-faced man up front mediating before the high altar. The priest is the only other member of the Lord class in the Temple currently. "It's something I would normally do, and it will give him a chance to warn me if he needs to."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Walk around a bit. Maybe snuff a candle out in one of the side chapels," Tony suggests, alluding to the quaint Sith blessing that comes from literally putting out a light that symbolizes the Light in this context. "Then go take a seat in the back. Make it an empty pew. I will join you."

"Where is your guy?" she worries. "How long do we wait? If that's his shuttle parked outside, what's taking so long?"

"He'll probably come from the shrine next door once he figures out that we're here. We're supposed to let him find us."

Antsy Meetra reluctantly agrees, "Alright."

They split up and Meetra takes her time wandering the perimeter of the beautiful sanctuary, openly gawking like the rest of the tourists. She's hoping that curiosity will mask her surveillance. So far, nothing seems amiss. Tony's conversation with the priest appears uneventful from this distance. But still . . . Meetra is not comforted. The longer this wait goes on, the more like a setup it seems. Meetra now reluctantly—and warily—turns her back to the main exit as she takes a seat at a rear pew. She bows her head and pretends to genuflect on the awesome power of Darkness.

He's here.

She looks up. Tony is walking towards her down the center aisle of the sanctuary.

Her eyes narrow. Where?

Don't look back. Look at me and smile. Good. Now, look back down and resume your prayer. This needs to seem like a chance meeting if anyone ever looks at the security tapes.

Is it who you were expecting?

Yes. There is no danger. You can relax. There is no trap.

Where is he?

Don't look, but he's on your right.

Sure enough, as Meetra hears Tony's voice in her head through the bond, she senses someone approaching from her right side. They are walking along the length of the empty pew to take a seat beside her even as Tony slides in from the left to take the open seat on the aisle next to her. Meetra is neatly sandwiched between the two men, a literal go-between.

Not yet. Don't look.

Screw that. I'm looking.

Meetra looks, and she's not happy. She groans aloud when she glances to her right and instantly recognizes Tony's contact. Even with the hood of the man's Lord cloak pulled low, she'd know that red face and slight frame anywhere.

"You!" she hisses as her hand reflexively reaches for the sword hilt in her pocket.

It's none other than Darth Azamin. Tony's brother-in-law who tried to kill her during pre-dinner cocktails.