"Why do I have to go to this party again?" Meetra has just dismissed the hairdresser. Her mullet looks good. Sassy and tousled. But nervous Meetra pokes at it anyway.
Tony glances up from pulling on his boots. "Looking like you're one of the family is a credibility boost. The Caesars are a powerful clan. Their women are social leaders. Since they accept you, others will as well."
"Will that matter if we're busted by Vitiate tomorrow?"
"No. But we need to keep the charade going for now. There are still praetorians downstairs."
"Right. There is that," Meetra sighs. She turns back to the mirror and begins affixing her earrings.
"I'll stay by your side as much as I can," Tony promises as he stands. "Lady Advance and her sister will look after you as well. It will be fine. If last night is any indication, everyone will be far more interested in me than in you."
Tony made the rounds at several parties with Cornelius Caesar last night. He wore the concealing mask, but it ironically made him very recognizable. Whether it was from his holonet interview or from the excerpts of the duel that were publicly released, everyone understood at a glance that Darth Sion was in attendance. Tony was mobbed by Lords—friends, acquaintances, and strangers alike—who wanted to meet him and hear the tale of slaying the Exile. If that reception replicates itself tonight, Tony thinks she can easily fade into the background. He will be the diversion to take attention away from her.
But while that is encouraging, Meetra remains anxious. There are a lot of moving pieces to their conspiracy even as the deadline for action ticks closer. "Has Cornelius heard back from Lord Raxus yet?" she frets as she starts to shimmy into her dress.
"Not yet. He said he would let me know as soon as he hears."
"Let's hope Raxus takes the bait . . . " she worries aloud.
While out and about last night—and away from the oversight of the praetorians—Tony and his brother-in-law hatched a plan to ambush General Lacerate. Today, Darth Azamin approached his fellow Dark Council member Darth Raxus to pretend he's had a change of heart. Azamin claimed to have reconsidered the plot Raxus pitched to him after discussions with his brother-in-law and fellow General Lacerate supporter Darth Sion. Supposedly, Raxus and Sion have convinced Cornelius Caesar to join the conspiracy. But Azamin will insist that he meet with Lacerate personally. As a Dark Council member, that's the sort of thing Lord Azamin has standing to request.
Can Raxus get Azamin and Tony a meeting with the General? If so, they plan to make the interview seem like a social occasion—like one of the meet-and-greet visits common during the holiday season. That's key because it will require Meetra to tag along as wife to support the cover story. And that will get her inside for the assassination.
Meetra is fine with that plan so long as the quid pro quo is Revan's life. She doesn't much care if Azamin becomes Dark Lord, but from a practical perspective that's the best hope to ensure that Revan lives. So, yeah, she'll help put Azamin on the Dark throne. He's the far preferable choice to Lacerate. The problem is that Azamin still has yet to commit to being Dark Lord.
That's troublesome. Is he stringing them along? Meetra raised the issue to Tony and he argued not to rush his brother-in-law. One step at a time, he urged. Tony then pointed out that killing Lacerate protects him which protects her. Meetra had fumed a bit. From her vantage point, it seems like Darth Azamin did the convincing yesterday and not Tony . . .
The issue is left unresolved but her ruse as Lady Sion must go on. That's why Meetra has spent the last two hours getting dressed for Darth Azamin's annual holiday party. Her nails are painted, her face is made up, her neck is perfumed, and her hair is the best it's ever looked. Everything is perfect, except the dress. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Meetra regrets that she was ever talked into ordering this dress.
The column gown with flaring hem is a spidery black lace lattice over peek-a-boo skin colored mesh. Meetra had imagined that the high neck and long sleeves would provide maximum coverage and comfort for what is sure to be a long evening. But trying it on for the first time, she discovers that the gown is far from demure. She looks naked beneath the glittery lace.
Meetra groans aloud. "Fuuuuuck. This isn't what I expected." All her social confidence just evaporated.
Tony breaks into a grin and issues an annoying wolf whistle. "Thank you, Lady Advance," he breathes out, his yellow eyes snapping at her. "Turn around. Turn around slowly."
Meetra whirls to wail, "I can't wear this!"
"Why not? It looks amazing."
"It looks naked!"
"Naked and amazing. It's fine. It doesn't actually show anything." The mesh lining gives the suggestion of flesh, but not the actual appearance of her naked body. Still, it's uncomfortably revealing all the same.
"It shows everything! What kind of impression will this make?"
"Not Jedi," Tony smirks. "Definitely not Jedi. This might be your best disguise yet."
"I can't wear this!"
"Plenty of women will be wearing a lot less, I assure you." Tony stands to consider her from another angle and decides, "It's elegant. Very sexy, but still elegant."
"It will attract attention," she frets.
"I can't think of a better way to distract men from noticing your Force imprint than to wear that dress. None of them will be thinking about power when they notice you."
"Hmmmm . . . " Meetra turns back to the mirror to reconsider. Maybe this siren dress is just the thing for tonight. But is the dress too tight across the hips? It clings to what few curves she has. Meetra turns to survey her profile in the mirror and smooths the fabric self-consciously.
"Are you done fussing? We need to go down."
"I guess . . . "
"You're ready."
Meetra sighs, "I don't feel ready." That's partly why she's stalling.
"You know," Tony muses, "you are the only woman I know who's game for political assassination but timid about a party. And actually, I love that," he gushes. "It's so you. Brave in important ways for others, but scared in many ordinary things for yourself."
Scared? What's that supposed to mean? Meetra sticks out her hip and lifts her chin. "Yeah?" she challenges. "Well, back in the day Revan used to joke that I was 'DTF.' That's 'down to fight' and 'down to . . . er nevermind . . ."
"I think I get it," Tony smirks. "Come on. Let's go show you off." Tony grabs his helmet and starts ushering her downstairs to join the receiving line.
Black Sabbath holiday parties have a formal pecking order and a deliberate plan, like everything on the Dark Side. For the first hour, she, Tony, and the rest of the Caesar clan greet incoming guests. The heroic Darth Sion stands flanking Darth Azamin, the paterfamilias and ranking Lord of the family. Meetra stands dutifully at Tony's right side, mouthing 'good evening,' 'thank you for coming,' and 'so nice to meet you' over and over to a sea of unfamiliar, mostly red faces. She has never seen so many Sith elite and never felt so many Dark Force imprints. Part of her feels like a Lothcat cornered in a rancor den, but she swallows her trepidation and does her best to project graceful aplomb.
As hoped for, the attention is all on Tony. So once the receiving line ends, Tony nods his encouragement when Lady Advance tugs her away into the party. They both know that she is safest socializing among the Ladies, where the strictest scrutiny will likely be on her appearance. Sure enough, Sith Ladies are cliquish and unsubtle in their blatant assessment of one another. While the Lords gather in groups discussing the fate of Empire, their womenfolk are relegated to comparing notes on fashion, competing over real estate, talking endlessly about their children, and complaining about their husband's Apprentices. Meetra has nothing to add to these conversations, but she bravely smiles and nods at the side of her social sponsor Lady Advance.
Meetra's reception is polite, but often dismissive. One elderly dowager observes of Meetra in a too loud voice as she walks away, "So common looking . . . and does she have any Force? I didn't sense much Darkness . . ." All in all, underwhelming her audience is a win for Meetra's goal of disguise, but she can't help but feel dissed. If that old dame only knew who she really is . . .
Between the ongoing risk of discovery and the lurking praetorians with unknown loyalties, Meetra knows she needs to stay alert. So, she nurses a glass of wine and busies herself people-watching. Sith Ladies, she decides, are plump by Republic standards. They're either pregnant, were recently pregnant, or were once pregnant on and off for years birthing a large brood. That makes for big bosoms and wide hips. There is a lot of inviting, indolent red flesh on display in tight dresses with cinched waists. The resulting aesthetic is extravagantly feminine in a way seldom seen among the Republic elite outside the Twi'lek culture. Meetra quickly loses all sense of self consciousness about her own dress. She is positively restrained by comparison.
And oh, the grooming! Sith Lady hair is either ridiculously elaborate or deceptively simple. But it is never, ever natural looking. Effortless beauty is clearly not a thing in the Empire. Many women wear long fingernails filed to claw-like points and painted with elaborate designs. How they function with such impractical fingernails befuddles Meetra. But most likely these women are not doing much more than scrolling on their comlinks, giving orders to servants, gossiping with friends, and swanning through crowded rooms at parties. They are definitely not taking morning saber practice with their husbands.
All in all, it is a dazzling array of sartorial excess. There are aristocratic grande dames in their seventies and up who parade by in ultra elegant ensembles wearing a king's ransom in jewels. Then, there are the Ladies of a certain age who have the magic combination of confidence and well-preserved good looks to make them seem devastatingly attractive. In the mix too are a host of young matrons in various stages of childbearing. At least half of them are noticeably pregnant. Where does Meetra fit in on this spectrum? She has no idea.
The party is really filling up now. Guests have fully occupied the public rooms of the villa and many have spilled out onto the large terrace. The gathering has a loud buzz abetted by a never-ending supply of liquor. Now and then, there is a piercing squeal of reunion as two Ladies meet. Boisterous male laughter floats on the breeze above the background music. The chatty crowd is a mix of all ages, from awkward young adults to the elderly gossiping from the periphery in their hover chairs. Still, everywhere Meetra looks, people seem to be having a great time. The Dark Side really knows how to party.
Meetra is absently scanning the crowd when a passing Lord catches her eye. His back is to her, but something about him looks achingly familiar. He's tall but not overly so, and he sports a broad set of shoulders but an otherwise unremarkable physique. He's dressed in a simple black tunic and boots with no adornment, not even a cape. Like her, he's a light skinned, brown haired human, not a red faced, black haired 'pureblood' Sith like the overwhelming majority of guests in attendance. In fact, Meetra wonders momentarily if he is a servant.
Lady Advance now pulls her away for another introduction. Meetra has been introduced to so many Ladies tonight that she will never keep them straight. But she smiles and exchanges pleasantries like expected. As she's chatting, Meetra spies over the shoulder of Lady Advance that same pale skinned Lord who caught her eye moments ago. The man is in profile now. She sees that he is bearded, unlike every other man she's met in the Empire. And that's when it hits her who she is reminded of.
It couldn't be . . . could it?
She has to know. Meetra disentangles herself from her current conversation and pretends to head to the ladies' room. In truth, she is heading for a better look at the pale faced Lord. He's in line at the bar, so she slides up behind him and ever so slightly invades his personal space.
"Excuse me, my Lord—Oh."
When the man turns around and looks down, he's all wrong. Up close, the stranger is a little too tall and his build is not nearly lean enough. His hair and beard are too sandy—they are more of a light brown than the dark mahogany color she remembers. This man's skin is too fair as well. It's pinkish beige like her own, not the swarthy, deep olive cast she was hoping for. Meetra keeps staring and decides that this unknown Lord's face isn't nearly handsome enough. The stranger looks like a Sith colonial commoner. Like virtually everyone, but no one in particular.
"Yes?" the Lord prompts her. He's staring at her with the same curious intensity she gives him. Like he doesn't recognize her, but he wishes he did.
Meetra blinks and flusters. "Your pardon, my Lord. I thought you were someone else. My mistake." Embarrassed, her eyes find the ground as she starts to slink away.
"Who?" the man demands, calling after her. "Who did you think I was? No one looks like me."
Revan does. Meetra almost says the words out loud. Because in the dim party atmosphere from a distance across a crowded room, this man had the build, the bearing, the beard, even the restless mental feel of Revan. But Meetra can't possibly say that. So, she stammers an answer. "No one you know. My a-apologies, my Lord."
Luckily, Lady Advance swoops in on cue to save her. "Mina, there you are. Let me introduce you to Lord and Lady Repel. You'll love them." Lady Advance starts tugging Meetra off. As they slip away through the dense crowd, Lady Advance leans in to confide, "I had to rescue you from that one. I don't know why Cornelius invites him every year . . . Well, I do know, but he's such a disagreeable man. Now then, come and meet the Repels. They're divine."
Meetra allows herself to be led to meet more partygoers. But she surreptitiously sneaks a quick glance back over her shoulder at the peculiar Lord she just met by accident. He's gone.
Curious, Meetra asks Lady Advance, "Who was that man?"
"No one who matters, dear. He's just the Palace priest."
Tony soon arrives and takes her aside to share some news under his breath. "Cornelius just found me. We have a meeting tomorrow afternoon."
"Where?"
"Here. It's immediately following the ceremony in the throne room. Raxus is on the Council, so he'll be in attendance like Cornelius. Raxus will come back here with us afterwards and we'll meet the er . . . principal."
Meetra is blunt. "I don't like that plan." Worried to be overheard, she starts communicating through the bond. It feels like we might be the ones getting ambushed if those praetorians really are on Lacerate's payroll.
We could be walking into an ambush anywhere we meet. There's nothing to stop them from having a small army waiting for us if we go elsewhere.
True. Does this mean we need to kill Darth Raxus too?
Cornelius thinks yes.
What do you think?
I guess I'm fine with it. As a Council member, Raxus stands to be one of the first in line to inherit Lacerate's support. We might as well kill him now.
I'm not in this to kill guys like Raxus. Meetra doesn't want to be a gun for hire. Assassination isn't a Jedi thing. Well, unless it's Darth Vitiate.
I don't like it either, but let's see this through.
Tomorrow is shaping up to be a dangerous day.
We will do what must be done.
"Sion, right?" They are interrupted by a Lord who wants to congratulate Tony. "Let me shake your hand," the man crows loudly. He's clearly inebriated. That draws the attention of several others, which in turn starts another round of introductions that Meetra smiles and suffers through. Soon, a small crowd of curious Lords has assembled to hear Tony tell the tale of killing the Jedi Exile yet again.
Meetra stays at Tony's side for a few minutes as the dutifully adoring wifey. Then, she excuses herself to flee the scene. She's three hours into what will certainly be a five-hour evening. Meetra feels like she needs to pace herself to make it through. That thought prompts her to duck into the garden to escape the crowd. Meetra heads for a bench she remembers seeing yesterday nearby where she and Tony argued with Darth Azamin. Finding it, she plops down and lets out a long sigh. This party can't end fast enough. Maybe if she hides here for thirty minutes, that will eat up some time.
Everything ok? It's Tony checking in again through the bond. He's been doing it all evening long.
I'm just resting my feet sitting on a garden bench. I'm not used to these heels.
Let me know if you need me.
I will.
It's a clear and balmy night on Dromund Kaas, making her garden spot a comfortable refuge. Meetra lingers there doing a bit of impromptu meditation. She's feeling stressed. It's for tonight's party that's full of smiling guests who would gladly murder her if they knew her true identity. It's for tomorrow's command performance appearance in the Sith Emperor's throne room. And it's for her role in an assassin squad that will execute a hit on the Empire's leading revolutionary. When she became the Exile, Meetra swore that she would not allow herself to get dragged into Sith internal politics. Not by Kreia or anyone else. And yet here she is, deeply embedded in a masquerade to achieve regime change or die trying. What's more, she's shockingly invested in it.
Life has taken her to some unexpected places through the years. Where is life taking her next? Meetra feels very uncertain. All in all, she's surprisingly fine with that situation. Something about experiencing the worst that life has to offer has primed Meetra to surrender control. It used to feel like apathy, but now it feels more akin to Tony's determined fatalism. It's less about giving up caring and more about relinquishing the outcome to the Force. She's recognizing that some things are beyond her control, and that's okay.
Meetra sighs, thinking of her last Jedi Master who used to urge her to 'let go.' She has let go—she's left everything behind. The Republic, the Order, the Crusaders, the war, her career, and more. That string of losses has helped her to reflect on what matters most: her faith in the Light. Through it all, Meetra keeps yearning for the Light. It's the constant she clings to, the absolute truth she extolls, and the comfort she needs. The Jedi Council might not see it that way, but she does. She still wants to be good. Tony urges her to separate the religion she was raised on from the power she wields, but Meetra can't do that. Not yet, at least. But whether she's Light or Dark, Jedi or Sith, she really wants to unseat the Sith Emperor and save Revan. And that's why tonight she feels so anxious. Meaningful things are about to happen.
Wait-someone's coming! Meetra looks up. Her reverie is broken as she hears the crunch of gravel beneath shoes. She immediately concentrates using the dyad. But strangely, she doesn't sense anyone coming in the Force.
Who is this approaching ghost? Meetra calls out. "Is someone there?"
A man's voice answers in a glib drawl. "And here I thought I was the only person looking to hide." It's a cultured voice, deep and faintly ironic. A Lord now appears behind a bush, standing in the shadows.
"There's room for two to hide," Meetra answers easily, keeping up her friendly guest facade. She gestures to the other end of the long bench she's sitting on.
"Hiding is what I do best," the newcomer remarks. Then, he steps forward into the light. For the first time, Meetra can see his features clearly. It's the priest who Lady Advance said is unimportant. The Lord who earlier had reminded her of Revan.
"Hello again." Meetra smiles, automatically transferring to him some of the regard she has for the man he faintly resembles. "Have a seat."
"First tell me that you're married," the man answers back gruffly. "I'm not looking to compromise any widows or virgins by getting caught out here at night alone in the garden."
Is he serious? He is. Meetra fights the urge to roll her eyes at this latest Sith cultural idiocy. "A bachelor, eh?" She chuckles. "Never fear, you're safe. I'm married."
The man's response is a grunt. He sinks down heavily on the bench four feet away from her. Then he takes a long slurp of the drink he's holding and observes, "You're not with the Ladies."
"And you are not with the Lords."
"They are all talking treason. It bores me."
"It bores you?" Meetra raises an eyebrow at this sentiment.
"Yes, it bores me. Who's going to try it and when, who's all talk . . . who might actually win and who's a fool for even thinking about it . . . They're all fools! None of them can win. Darth Vitiate is all powerful," the Lord announces proudly. Then he tosses back the rest of the drink he's holding and slumps dejectedly.
"Perhaps you should go tell them that before anyone does anything rash," Meetra suggests. It's clear that talk of treason upsets this man, rather than bores him. His body language reminds her of how stressed-out Darth Azamin is currently.
The bearded Lord stares glumly at the empty glass he's holding. He shakes his head. "They wouldn't listen. No one respects me. I'm out of favor."
"You made the guest list."
"It's hardly exclusive. There are at least three hundred people here," the Lord snarls. Then he crosses his arms and glowers at the rosebush opposite them both.
After a long moment of sullen silence, Meetra offers up, "I hate parties."
The Lord beside her instantly agrees. "I hate parties."
"How do you know if you are out of favor?" Meetra's curious about his earlier remark.
"I got fired off the Dark Council. It was very public. There was no doubt."
She's been publicly fired too. "What did you do?"
"I opposed the war." The Lord peers at her and squints. "Where are you from that you don't know this? Everyone knows this."
"I'm not from Dromund Kaas."
"Does that explain your accent? You sound like you belong in the Republic."
With a sheepish smile, Meetra attempts to charm her surly bench mate and to deflect away questions. "I don't even know who you are, my Lord," she murmurs, looking sideways at him from beneath her lashes.
"Tenebrae. I am Darth Tenebrae."
She knows that name. This is the Lord who Azamin warned not to meet with Raxus. The Lord who Tony's brother-in-law lost his temper with.
"You are a priest, yes?"
"I prefer the term sorcerer."
"Yes, of course. Forgive me, my Lord."
"Technically, that should be 'your holiness,' but that sort of thing has fallen out of fashion. I am the Sorcerer Supreme for the realm," the man informs her, "the Grand Pryor of Darkness, Defender of the Faith, Kittat Patriarch of Korriban, Cardinal Crusader for the Force, President of the Pontifical College of Power, and Apostolic Minister of Marriages."
"How impressive. You must be very powerful," Meetra automatically strokes the man's clearly fragile ego.
"And you are?"
"Lady Sion."
"Sion . . . He's the one who killed the Jedi General woman. A Lord Administrator, correct? From some place in the middle of nowhere . . . some provincial outpost system?"
"We call it home," she pushes back softly.
Tenebrae grunts. "It's a remote home."
"It is on the edge of the Empire," Meetra concedes. "It's practically in the Republic."
"If it's the permissive system I'm thinking of, some say it is the Republic," he jeers back. And geez, this grumpy priest is intense. He seems preoccupied and angry, but not at her.
"Sion . . . He's the freakish zombie . . . the Lord of Pain or something self-aggrandizing like that."
"Er . . . yes, my Lord. That's him."
"Is he as gross as people say?"
"He can be."
"Needs the mask?"
"Yes."
"I guess you two are beauty and the beast then."
Was that a compliment? Meetra's not sure. It's said in such a biting tone.
Lord Tenebrae appraises her now. "You look like an exile. Either that, or a colonial commoner."
"So I have been told," she sighs. "I suppose you get remarks like that as well?"
"Mostly, I get comments on the beard. Lords tell me I look like a vagrant or a Jedi. I get Jedi a lot," he snorts. "Do I look Jedi to you?"
"Not with those yellow eyes."
"Here." Tenebrae blinks away the yellow tint. His eyes are grey blue now, like hers. "Do I look Jedi?"
"No, my Lord." Meetra's quasi-flirting, trying to keep things light. She leans forward in a confiding manner and again strokes his ego. "You're far too menacing."
"Good answer. But it would be more convincing if you didn't giggle."
Meetra can't help it. She giggles again.
He smiles.
She smiles back. And now, for the first time the surly priest starts to relax.
"I've met a few Jedi in my time," Tenebrae offers offhand. "I guess some were technically former Jedi . . . but once a Jedi, always a Jedi in my mind."
Meetra gulps but says nothing. This is not a topic of conversation she wants to pursue.
"Jedi always reveal themselves in time. Their compassion leaves a trail."
"Let us hope so," Meetra nods, endeavoring to sound like a good Sith.
"Their weakness shows. It's catching, too. Weakness begets weakness. The Light, you see, has a tendency to spread."
"O-Oh," she replies, secretly pleased at that observation but hoping she appears otherwise. "I didn't know."
"Lucky for you Lord Sion is so stalwart in his Darkness that he was not seduced by General Surik. I saw the video of the duel. I saw that woman casting her lures. Even I might have fallen for her," the priest muses. He sounds weirdly wistful.
"My husband killed her," Meetra responds with intensity of her own. "He killed her with his bare hands."
She's making the point that General Surik is officially dead, but her audience hears it as welcome misogyny. "That was the best part," Tenebrae leers. "I watched it five times at least. I know how he felt, my Lady, trust me, I do. All the most powerful Dark souls simultaneously despise and lust for the Light they cannot have."
Er . . . what? "I don't understand."
"The Light won't have us as we are—that's the crux of the conflict. The Dark only possesses the Light it seeks when it becomes Light. That's why balance between the two sides of the Force is impossible. We want what we can never have, you see."
The priest's eyes are yellow again. Piercingly so despite the dim light. It's unnervingly like some nocturnal predator animal's eye-shine. Those penetrating eyes make it feel like Darth Tenebrae sees right through her.
Meetra can't help it. She shudders involuntarily.
He notices.
"Never fear, my Lady," the priest assures her. "The Light is easy to spot here amid so much Darkness. A mere flicker of it gets my attention."
Meetra nods. She's really regretting having invited this conversation.
"It draws us venerable old Lords like the moth to the flame. We like to circle it. To behold it. Maybe even to fantasize about controlling it or using it. But we know to keep our distance, lest we get too close and it consumes us."
"R-Right," Meetra nods, feeling increasingly threatened by this bizarre monologue.
Darth Tenebrae now sternly warns, "Beware the Light. It is dangerous! If you are not careful, it will bewitch you and then it will seize your soul and you will become it. You will become the very thing you swore to destroy."
This diatribe seems to require some response, so she mutters, "I'll be careful."
"Darth Sion must be a superhero of the Shadow Force to have resisted Surik." The priest now goads in a nasty tone, "Maybe he should be the one to challenge Vitiate . . ."
"My Lord!" Meetra jumps to her feet and feigns outrage as an excuse to leave. "I will not hear this treason! Now, if you will please excuse me—"
"Sit down," Tenebrae complains as he waves her back into her seat. "Sit down and talk to me. You're the most interesting person here. Besides, treason is everywhere tonight. Running inside won't help. I know. I tried."
Meetra shoots him a reproving look, but she sits back down. Something about this man's drunken metaphysical ramblings makes her wary to cross him. He's clearly thought way too much about Meetra Surik.
One hundred meters away inside the villa, Tony senses her distress. Are you okay? What's wrong?
I'm fine. Nothing I can't handle.
I'm coming.
I'm fine. Stay away. I've got this.
Darth Tenebrae stretches long legs out in front of him now. Glancing at her—he keeps looking at her—he softly declares, "A rival Sith might sneak up on Vitiate, but a Jedi never will. He'll sense them coming. They are too obvious. They are lousy at stealth."
"I w-wouldn't know . . ."
"The Jedi are terrible liars." The priest is really smirking at her now. He sniffs, "Revan marched right into the Palace and issued a challenge. How's that for brash?"
"You were there?"
"I was there."
"Why didn't the Emperor kill him?"
"He did kill him."
"No one believes that."
Darth Tenebrae sidesteps the point. Looking smug, he muses, "Revan versus Vitiate was a good fight while it lasted. If you ask me, Vitiate enjoys a challenge. He is the alpha of all alphas, and he must defend the title Dark Lord to merit it."
"Yes, my Lord," she mumbles. "Well, I've enjoyed chatting but—"
"Sit down."
"My Lord, I really must be getting back—"
"Sit down. Sit down and tell me what you're hiding so desperately."
"W-What?" Meetra blinks and gulps.
"How are you deceiving me?" Darth Tenebrae raises his eyebrows mockingly at her and purrs, "I know that there is something you don't want me to know. Confess! Your secrets are safe with me, pretty Lady."
Meetra highly doubts that. She's searching for how to answer the priest when their host appears. For the first time ever, Meetra is happy to see Darth Azamin.
"There you are. Tenebrae, I should have known that you'd be hiding. Are you over here making trouble? Yes, I can see by her face that you are."
Azamin addresses Meetra now. "Forgive him, Lady Sion. He can be a bit awkward with the Ladies. The Emperor doesn't let him out much. Keeps him on a short leash. Talk to him a few minutes and you'll see why."
"Go away," the priest pouts. "Admiral, your timing is terrible."
"Tenebrae, are you drunk?"
"Not yet, but I will be soon. I hate parties . . ."
"You shouldn't tell that to your host," the little Admiral points out.
"Could you not be more selective with the guest list? Half of the Empire is here. Even the skinny, colonial looking wives from the flyover systems." The rude priest gestures dismissively to Meetra.
Azamin now turns to her to instruct, "Do not take offense. When Lord Tenebrae insults you, it means he likes you."
"Is that so?" She's skeptical.
"No, it's not," the priest glares at his host. Tenebrae's combativeness now shifts to Azamin. "Why do you invite me? And why do I come?"
"Are those existential questions?" Darth Azamin chuckles. "I invite you so you can conjure a beast from the Force to let loose in the garden. It gives everyone a good show and something to hunt. A little violence caps off the night nicely and a ruined garden gives my lawn crew something to do for the rest of the year."
"What am I getting out of this?" Lord Tenebrae complains.
"Fun," Azamin answers. "You need more fun in your life."
To Meetra, Admiral Azamin now explains, "He's a surly fellow, but our Dark pontiff is excellent at alchemy. Every year, I offer one hundred credits to the Lord who slays Tenebrae's latest dragon."
"Party tricks," the dissed priest moans. "I'm only here for party tricks."
"It's a far safer pastime than the discussions that are going on inside, I assure you. Now, will you please conjure something scary that will divert everyone from drunkenly storming the Palace?"
The priest looks up sharply to frown. "Is it that bad?"
"Yes. Plus, there are praetorians about and one of them looked ready to draw his sword at me after he overheard a few unfortunate remarks."
"He's worried you're the Navy's candidate," Tenebrae accuses.
"I'm not a candidate," Azamin insists.
"Parties like this make it look like you are."
"I've been having parties for a hundred years or more."
"This one is rather large and suspiciously timed."
"It's a holiday party—it's the same time every year! If it's crowded, that's because everyone accepted the invitation now that I'm on the Council. Look here, Tenebrae," Azamin grinds out, "for the last time, I do not want to be Dark Lord! That's a thankless job that puts a target on your back."
"Indeed," the priest harrumphs.
"So stop accusing me of wanting it. I do not want to be Dark Lord! I. Am. Not. A. Traitor."
Tenebrae nods slowly. He believes Azamin.
So does Meetra. It worries her.
"Priest, make me a beast! That's an order!" commands huffy little Azamin. "I want to start the hunt."
"Alright," grumpy Tenebrae relents. He hauls himself up and stalks off to do his alchemy.
Azamin waits for him to leave before he advises, "My Lady, that one is not good company for you to keep. Did he ask any hard questions?"
Tenebrae was about to. But Meetra answers, "Mostly, he lectured me on the Force."
"He does that to everyone. Even when he's sober."
"Good. Because it made me very uncomfortable."
"That's just him. He is a deeply unhappy man."
Meetra thinks the priest is an incel creep, but she keeps the opinion to herself as she heads back to rejoin the party. She stands around smiling and nodding while she waits for Darth Tenebrae's alchemy. But soon the priest is ready, and the party game is announced. And now, the lead up to the evening's entertainment begins.
First comes the display of the prey for the hunt, the result of Darth Tenebrae's off-stage Dark wizardry. The creature he created looks like a bantha crossed with a porcupine, mixed with a Gamorrean. It has four legs and a massive body covered in sharp, bony spines. Its huge face is vaguely piglike with an upturned snout and toothy jaws. Sharp horns stick out from above its eyes. The formidable creature is the size of a midsize transport, making it dwarf every Lord who has volunteered to kill it. The beast is presented to the crowd with great fanfare and received with whistles and applause. There is no danger yet because the animal is kept firmly frozen in the Force by its maker Lord Tenebrae.
Next comes a brief reminder of the rules for the hunt from Darth Azamin: Every Lord fights for himself, meaning no working in teams. The only weapons permitted are a sword and the Force. No disintegrations. The fight must stay in the garden at all times. The winner is the Lord who slays the beast. Wounding it does not count. Finally, all Lords fight at their own risk. Darth Azamin points to two medic droids he has standing by for those who are wounded.
The preliminaries are now concluded. All guests raise their glasses in salute to the combatants. Then, Darth Azamin bellows, "May the best Lord win! Let the hunt begin!" after a bunch of stuff in the Kittat Old Sith language that Meetra doesn't understand.
On cue, Darth Tenebrae releases his Force freeze. The beast roars, rears back on its hind legs, and charges at the crowd of Lords who surround it. They scatter, the onlookers cheer, and the hunt begins.
Meetra stands on the terrace with the rest of the Ladies and the Lords who have declined to participate. The vantage point gives her a good view of the gratuitous violence. She watches as the pack of Lords chase the poor beast. When they get close enough, the men stab it with their swords and hack off its spines. The creature responds by breathing fire, swiping with its claws, and scampering away. It leaps over bushes and plows down trees in an effort to evade its pursuers. And when one of the Lords gets close enough, it bares its sharp teeth and snaps them shut with a lethal-looking chomp.
Someone is going to get trampled or lose an arm or maybe even a head, disapproving Meetra thinks. And for what? Bragging rights until next year? She forces herself not to shake her head at the utter stupidity of it all. It's a bunch of overly competitive drunk Sith Lords with lightsabers chasing a rampaging monster in a dark, dimly lit area . . . what could go wrong?
As the action shifts to the left side of the garden, the crowd of Ladies moves with it to the far end of the terrace. Meetra stays put. She's not enjoying the spectacle. It seems a perversion of the Force to create that miserable animal for the sole purpose of making a sport of its kill. Meetra highly doubts that the beast will end up being slaughtered for food. This hunt is about the thrill of the kill, not necessary violence for survival.
Watching the confused and desperate creature attempt to flee, Meetra can't help but self-identify with its plight. For in a different setting, she herself has been hunted prey for the Lords of the Sith. That makes the gory battle in the garden hit uncomfortably close to home. Sour Meetra decides that she's rooting for the beast.
Down the other end of the terrace, Ladies continue shrieking encouragement to husbands, sons, and brothers down below. They are as fully vested in the hunt as their menfolk. The naked bloodlust turns Meetra off, so she stubbornly remains away from the group as a silent statement of contempt. Maybe it's a little stereotypically Jedi of her, but she feels the need to shun these cruel Dark sadists.
How long is this hunt going to go on? It's been at least twenty minutes already. Meetra shifts her weight and contemplates getting herself a stiff drink. This hunt tradition—well, really this entire evening—makes her want to drink.
"For you, my Lady." As if someone has read her mind, a hand from an unseen man suddenly reaches from over her shoulder to dangle a glass of champagne at her eye level.
Who is this temptation from? Meetra accepts the offered drink and turns to find Darth Tenebrae. Well, fuck. He's the man she can't locate in the Force but also the man she can't manage to escape. He's the sorcerer beastmaster of this wretched hunt who gives the Sith aristocrats the violence they crave. But strangely enough, Tenebrae looks as unenthusiastic about it as she feels. Something tells her he's rooting for the beast he created, like she is.
As Meetra gawks in unwelcome surprise, Tenebrae clinks his own glass with hers. "Salve ad Imperatorem!" is his jaunty Old Sith toast.
Meetra has no idea what that phrase means, but she automatically smiles and takes a long drink.
Tenebrae winks at her and playfully reproves, "You're supposed to say 'Et Imperium!' back at me first. It's the traditional response."
"Right. Whoops." Meetra takes another drink to cover her ignorance.
Darth Tenebrae smirks but says no more on that topic. He stands beside her now, also facing the action down below. "You're like me. You don't have anyone to talk to."
"My husband will be right back," she assures him.
Tenebrae doesn't take the hint to go away. Instead, he lowkey argues with her. "No, he won't. Sion's in the hunt. He's off chasing my beast with the rest. I recognized the mask."
Well, damn. Then she might be stuck talking to this creepy priest. Meetra sighs inwardly and takes another drink.
"I've been watching you," Tenebrae confides like they are friends. "I've been watching other men watching you. Not all of them. Just the truly powerful ones. They're all wondering 'who is she? She's different. She's new. She's absolutely beautiful.' Like me, they can't stop looking."
Meetra's smile becomes rather fixed as she keeps focused on the spectacle in the garden.
Tenebrae persists. He has a happy, mischievous tone like he's making trouble and enjoying it. "You walk by and they do a double take. They don't know why they're interested. They don't know why you catch their attention . . . but I do." Tenebrae leans in to whisper, "I know who you are," like a child's singsong taunt.
"Yes," Meetra turns to smile brightly up at him, sticking to her ruse. "I'm Lord Sion's wife. The Lady of Pain, so to speak . . . " she attempts a lame joke.
"You know . . ." the priest's response is a goading,husky drawl, "I can take whatever I want."
This conversation is getting uncomfortable, but Meetra endeavors to play it cool. She lifts her chin and gives a little shake of her hair. "No one can do that."
"I can." The priest says it like a fact, not like a boast. "I'll ask him to give you to me. You'll be mine forever to do with as I please."
"I belong to Lord Sion," she scoffs.
"I'll kill Sion. Or he will kill Sion. Force knows, he has plenty of reasons. Not that he needs a reason. And then when Sion's dead, you'll be mine," the priest gloats.
Is he serious? He sounds serious. He's acting serious, too. But who can tell with this sardonic, peevish priest?
Tenebrae is in her personal space now in a way that Meetra is certain would raise eyebrows were others to see it. But everyone on the terrace is watching the hunt, not them. And so, somehow this aggressive flirting is taking place unnoticed.
"You're drunk and talking gibberish," Meetra sniffs as she edges away.
He follows. "If you think you've found yourself a monster in that rotting zombie, wait until you know me. He is nothing compared to me. I am a true monster . . . and you like monsters, don't you?"
"My Lord—"
"Maybe I'll just have him arrest you since the praetorians are already here. They will come for you. They will drag you in chains to be cast at my feet. And then, you'll be mine."
"My Lord—"
"I'll make you my prisoner and lock you away. Alone in private, you can safely tell me all your secrets and I'll tell you mine. We'll break all the rules, and our combined power will rip the galaxy wide open. It will be glorious . . . simply glorious." Tenebrae smiles at the thought and takes a long swallow of his drink.
"You're drunk."
"Yes. But not so drunk that I can't recognize you." Again, Tenebrae leans in to croon in her ear. "I have seen you in the upstart's memories."
"If you will excuse me, my Lord." Meetra has heard enough. She makes to walk away from this tormenting priest who is playing games and messing with her head.
But he catches her wrist to stall her for a moment. "Oh, look. Here comes the beast," he chuckles wickedly. "Careful, my Lady."
Whatever. Meetra wrenches free and stalks away down the terrace steps and onto the wide lawn. And then suddenly-just as Tenebrae said-the beast abruptly emerges from the garden to rush up at her. Without warning, the enormous creature looms threateningly. It's less than ten meters away. Heaving and bleeding.
"OH!" Meetra stops short and drops the glass of champagne she's still holding.
Behind her, the crowd reacts with alarm.
Behind the beast, its pack of pursuers catch up, including Darth Sion.
"Mina! Mina! Don't move!" Tony calls frantically as he recognizes her. She's focused on the beast but vaguely aware through the bond that Tony is calling off his fellow hunters so they don't herd the beast closer to her.
"Freeze it! Tenebrae, freeze the beast!" It's Tony's voice ordering the priest to take charge of his creation.
But Darth Tenebrae calls back, "It's too late for that."
"You created it!" Tony accuses.
"And I released it. I cannot control it now," the priest declares. And while his words ring true in the Force, he sounds rather pleased about the situation.
For her part, Meetra's heart is racing as adrenaline kicks in. She takes a deep breath to calm herself. Panic will only make matters worse.
"Mina, stay still!" Tony starts improvising a plan. "We will lead him off and you run—"
"No, here! Lady Sion!" Lord Tenebrae attempts to get her attention. But Meetra won't dare turn around. She refuses to tear her eyes from the huge animal that regards her intently, like a predator preparing to pounce.
"Lady Sion, on your right!" It's Tenebrae again. The priest must have grabbed a lightsaber from a guest. He tosses it to her with expert aim. With the help of the Force, Meetra catches it without looking. And now, at least she has a weapon. Her thumb fumbles to find the ignition switch.
"Slay the beast, milady!" Tenebrae exhorts. To her ears, he sounds somewhat gleeful.
"No—wait! Wait!" It's Tony again.
As precious seconds tick by, Meetra considers her options. If she lights the sword, it's a provocation to a creature that has already been wounded by saber cuts many times. It might stop eyeing her and finally pounce. But if she starts fighting the beast, she's going to shock everyone with her unfeminine saber skills and possibly betray herself as Jedi. Half the Empire has watched Meetra Surik's acrobatic fighting style in the excerpts released from her 'kill' video. And that makes the sword Tenebrae just tossed her feel like a setup.
Moreover, while fighting in this case is self-defense, she will effectively have joined the hunt and Meetra does not want to join the hunt. She refuses to enjoy these peoples' pointless cruelty they view as diversion. And maybe that makes her a buzzkill, but whatever. She has no quarrel with the beast. Mostly, she feels sorry for it. It effectively was created to die and that feels like a subversion of the Force.
Tony's in her head. As always, he's trying to help. On the count of three, light that sword and throw it. Aim for its eye. Then I'll toss you my sword and—
No. She shuts him down. Stand back. Do not interfere.
I'm coming to help.
No! Do not! I've got this.
But—
Do not interfere! Let me handle this.
Meetra, I've just chased that thing for-
Trust me. Trust the Force. It's the appeal she knows Tony will always heed.
Alright. He reluctantly backs down.
Keeping her eyes locked with the beast's gaze, Meetra now drops the sword Tenebrae just threw her.
There is an audible gasp from the crowd. Meetra hears exhortations from Ladies to their husbands to 'do something!' to help her. But no one moves. They are too afraid of provoking an attack that might kill her.
"I will not fight you," Meetra announces loudly to the beast. "I do not wish to hurt you." The creature doesn't understand her words, of course. But she coats the statements with a heavy dose of Force that she hopes will calm the animal's fears of more injury.
Meetra now raises her right hand slowly and summons her full power. She's drawing on the dyad like she and Tony have practiced so many times. This is the power that gives them incredible skills. It's the magic energy field that knits the universe together. It binds and penetrates every living thing, whether they are consciously sensitive to it or not. Meetra has the Force and the beast has the Force. And that's the commonality she will rely upon now. She will trust in the Force, not for aggression but for peace.
The Jedi have long recognized the Force ability to influence nature, especially animals. Meetra has never tried to use her power for that purpose before, but there's no time like the present. She stares down the bleeding, slobbering, miserable creature and attempts to soothe it with her mind.
Is it working? She can't tell.
Blue static starts emitting from her trembling outstretched hand. It's tangible evidence of the Force at work. The sparks do not dissipate. They linger in the air. And as the seconds tick by with Meetra concentrating hard and everyone else holding their breath, the lingering sparks collect together and start to coalesce. Quite unexpectedly, they morph into pretty blue chimera butterflies that flutter away into the night sky.
Meetra doesn't know what that means—she's never seen it before. But if there is a Light Side counterpart to Sith alchemy, surely this is it.
She can feel the Force flowing through her and she can sense the creature's pain very strongly now. The pain makes it want to lash out. To hurt like it has been hurt. Recognizing the sharp feeling of suffering from her many healing sessions with Tony, Meetra attempts to heal the beast's wounds.
It's awkward because she's at a distance. Normally, she heals with hands on Tony. But little by little, she creeps forward until she has her right hand touching the beast's chest. She's standing right beneath its jaws. It's a very precarious position. But sure enough, the dyad works. The creature's torn and bleeding flesh begins to rejuvenate. Its missing spines regrow before everyone's eyes. Soon, the snarling beast visibly relaxes. Its yellow eyes fall closed, and it settles down on its thick legs, tucking hoofed feet beneath it. Then, as Meetra steps back, it ducks its chin.
The beast is now mercifully recovered and asleep.
Meetra keeps retreating. She lets her arm drop. The danger has passed.
With her deep concentration broken, Meetra suddenly becomes aware of her audience again. The first thing she hears is an old Lady's voice loudly wondering 'is that girl righthanded?' as if that circumstance—and not her incredible use of Light Side power—is what makes her freakish in this company.
Behind the sleeping beast still stands the pack of pursuing Lords with sabers lit. One of them loudly complains, "Did she just win? She can't win if she doesn't kill it, right?" Others clearly agree. The Lords' relentless competitiveness apparently blinds them to the truth of what just occurred; they can only see that their opportunity for glory has been lost.
But maybe the real issue is that in the Empire, few have seen the Light Side in action. Just like how no Jedi alive had ever encountered a Sith Lord and seen the Dark Side until the Crusaders did during the war. What the two sides of the Force know about each other is mostly ancient lore. Would these people even recognize a Jedi without a blue saber and the traditional dress? Meetra wonders. How absurd is it that the Sith cannot identify the Light Side they supposedly hate?
No one will get the chance to slay Tenebrae's dragon this year. For the relaxed and sleeping wretch now happily yawns and stretches. Then it rolls over and fades into thin air.
What the Hell? Meetra blinks. Where the two-ton creature had stood, there is now nothing.
Confused, she looks to Tony who is striding towards her fast. What just happened?
It came from the Force, and it's back to the Force. That's how Dark alchemy works.
Oh. She was wondering if the Dark creature had been killed by the Light Side. Did I just ruin the party?
You sure put on a show.
Get me out of here, will you?
"I guess I now know what you do for the zombie every night . . ." The voice from behind is Darth Tenebrae. Meetra can't sense his approach—the man is a curious blank in the Force. But she'd know that mocking baritone anywhere. "Fair lady, you do not disappoint."
Meetra stiffens, but says nothing.
Tenebrae isn't finished. He looms in close from behind to purr over her shoulder. "Like I told you . . . compassion leaves a trail."
Meetra whirls now, uncertain how to understand that remark and worried she is about to be exposed.
Luckily, Tony is still heading for her fast. Look confused and scared and throw yourself into my arms. Maybe pretend to faint.
Okay. She'll gladly play the helpless female role if it will save her from discovery.
"Mina! Mina!" Tony reaches to her side. "Are you alright?"
Meetra immediately buries her face in his chest and holds tight. Tony's dressed for a party tonight, without his usual armor. As he strokes her hair, the breeze pulls his cape forward to envelop her.
"I thought for sure you were dead!"
Meetra pulls back and looks up into the familiar mask. "A-Ant-on-inus," she gasps out his formal name she never uses, "I-I was s-so s-scared . . ."
"I know. You're safe now," Tony declares as he clasps her to him. They're both very aware that the entire party is watching them. Most especially Darth Tenebrae who's right here.
"Can she tame me next?" It's the priest again. He's acting like the drunk jerk he is.
Darth Azamin, their host, now appears. "Let's get her inside," he urges Tony.
They need no further encouragement. Tony plays the protective husband role, sweeping her up into his arms to stride away with her. Meetra clasps her arms around his neck. The posture gives her a chance for a quick peep over Tony's shoulder at worrisome Darth Tenebrae.
Tenebrae is glaring hard at her as they leave. No, not at her. At Tony's back. Meetra still can't sense the provoking priest in the Force, but she can sort of sense his emotions. Is he angry? Suspicious? Ready to denounce her as a Jedi? Anxious for revenge on the secret Meetra Surik? No. Mostly, she senses jealousy. In the moment, the priest's envy is keen.