"He knows!"
"Relax. You're imagining things."
"He knows! I'm sure of it!" Meetra insists. "That priest knows!"
Tony disagrees. "If he or any other Lord tonight thought they recognized you, they would have denounced you on the spot."
That's a reasonable inference, but it does little to calm her. "He knows . . . I know he knows . . . " Meetra resumes pacing in their guest room where they have retreated from the party. "I should never have used the Force, but fighting that thing seemed too risky . . ."
"What's done is done," Tony tells her for the third time. Shaking his head, he observes with relief, "It's lucky for us that no one here has seen a Jedi use the Force. My people don't even know the Light when they see it. I'm not really sure what that says about us actually . . ."
She whirls to hiss, "That's not what the priest said! He couldn't stop talking about the Dark and the Light!" Darth Tenebrae's teasing, insinuating words have thoroughly unnerved her. What's worse, Tenebrae didn't seem at all threatened by her. It was more like she excited him . . . like he knew she was cornered, and he enjoyed toying with her just to see if she would inadvertently reveal herself.
"Tenebrae's a strange fellow. Pay him no heed. No one ever does."
"He knows that I'm deceiving him," she worries aloud. "He started asking me about it, but then Azamin showed up and we got off on another topic."
"If that's what happened, then Tenebrae couldn't have known the truth," Tony reasons. "If he did, he would have enlisted Cornelius' help as a member of the Council."
That sounds right, but it doesn't feel right. That creepy priest seemed to see right through her. And now, a scary thought occurs to Meetra. "Wait—how old is that guy?"
"Tenebrae? I don't know. Why?"
"Is he old enough to have seen a real Jedi?"
"Maybe. People say he's ancient."
"How ancient? Ancient like you or ancient like Vitiate?"
"I heard a rumor once that he's Vitiate's brother, but I didn't believe it."
"He's that old?" Meetra gulps. "That's like a thousand years old . . . "
"I didn't believe it."
"If it's true, then he might have seen a Jedi." If so, then he might recognize the Light.
"It's possible," Tony concedes. "But don't forget that he's a priest, so he wasn't exactly on the front lines defending the Empire. And Tenebrae tried to help you—he threw you a sword, remember?"
That move didn't feel like help. It felt more like an invitation to out herself before hundreds of witnesses, which is basically what rattled Meetra fears happened anyway.
"Tony—"
"Quiet! Someone's coming." Her pretend husband launches to his feet from his perch on the bed and raises a forestalling hand her direction.
Meetra shuts up fast. As they exchange worried looks, there is a knock on the door.
Tony nods to her and replaces his mask. "Let me handle this." Then, he opens the door to reveal a red armored praetorian hulking on the threshold.
Quaking Meetra swallows hard.
"Sion, we're here about your Lady."
"Y-yes?" Meetra answers from across the room. Is she about to be arrested like the priest threatened? She pulls herself up to her full height, lifts her chin, and summons the dyad. They won't take her without a fight.
The Imperial guard keeps speaking to Tony, ignoring her in the way Sith men do when other men are present. The men speak to the men, even when the topic is a woman who's listening. It's very demeaning. "My captain sent me to see if your Lady needs help. We saw what happened. That was a close call."
"She's very frightened and a little overwhelmed," Tony begins.
The praetorian nods. "Never seen that Force trick before."
"Me neither," Tony answers honestly. "She's pretty upset, but she's unharmed. I think we're done for tonight. No more party for us."
"So, there's no need to summon help? Because there are medic droids downstairs. Lord Tenebrae sent us to make sure she is offered assistance."
"She is fine. Please thank Tenebrae for his concern. Lord Azamin's staff has already seen to her needs. All is fine here," Tony announces with finality.
The praetorian accepts that answer. "Very well, my Lord. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
Tony shuts the door and drags off his helmet. "Whew. Now are you convinced that everything is fine?"
"No." It feels like Tenebrae is still trolling her by sending praetorians to scare her. Meetra crosses her arms and scowls grumpily.
Relieved Tony now tosses aside his mask. He gives her a cajoling smile and opens his arms. "Everything is fine. Come here."
Standoffish by nature, Meetra hesitates out of habit. But her reticence only lasts a few seconds. Soon, she walks into the comfort of Tony's embrace. She used to shun this sort of everyday affection, but she's become used to it. Times like this, she sort of needs it.
Through the bond, Tony knows what she's thinking. "Relax," he soothes as he strokes her hair. And oh, that does feel good. "I can't promise tomorrow will be fine, but today is fine." And that's all either of them can ask for, since they are taking life a day at a time while here on Dromund Kaas.
Tony's dressed for a party, and not wearing armor. Meetra shifts slightly to ensure that she doesn't press on his left side. Those are his deepest wounds and even now they are sensitive. It gets her thinking. "I need to heal you—"
"No, not tonight."
"But—"
"It will be alright. Let's not risk it. Not after what happened."
"But you need it," Meetra grumbles into his chest.
"One day missed won't matter, and you're already so drained from that trick in the garden."
Tony's unexpected resistance serves to rekindle Meetra's paranoia. She pulls back to raise worried eyes to his. "Oh, so you do think the priest suspects something . . ."
"I think that to be on the safe side, you shouldn't heal me with so many people around."
"So . . . in the morning?"
"We'll see. We need to be careful. Let's not press our luck."
That answer tells Meetra what the bond now betrays: that despite his efforts to convince her otherwise, Tony is as concerned as she is about her public display of the Light Side. That scene in the garden focused attention squarely on her and on her Force abilities. It's everything they were hoping to avoid. Her goal for tonight was to blend in. Instead, she stood out in a way that will be much discussed.
The bond also tells her that Tony hopes tonight's lurid melodrama will cause people to overlook the obvious—that they will ignore her unorthodox use of Force because they were caught up in the plight of the beautiful damsel in distress facing a violent death. Of course, she threw down the sword and improvised with the Force—what else could a Lady do? She's never been trained with a weapon. Hopefully, some of the onlookers will make that assumption. He's also hoping the crowd was generally drunk enough not to have perceived things accurately. Force knows Tenebrae was drunk . . . and maybe that explains his persistent, bizarre threats that weirdly felt like flirting.
"I'll be fine," Tony assures her. "Missing one day won't be bad."
"Alright," Meetra gives in. And now, she's back to snuggling close to Tony. The bond flares to its fullest and that makes her feel especially powerful. She needs that now when she feels so exposed before her mortal enemies.
Like always after a brush with death, Meetra finds herself craving something life affirming. During the war, after a battle the Crusaders would hold a wake for their dead and it inevitably turned into a party. It was booze and maybe a little spice mixed with laughter and sometimes a few tears everyone was too polite to acknowledge. Buzzed Meetra would end up in bed with a colleague—it didn't really matter which one. They all did it, so it was okay. No one cared the next morning. Well, tonight that same impulse for sex kicks in. It's a deep need for comfort combined with a heady recklessness for having survived something daring. Meetra feels simultaneously fragile yet bold. It makes her the aggressor.
She reaches up to tug at Tony's neck and pulls his face down for a kiss. She is hungry, so hungry for him. Things turn torrid immediately. Yes, a hot tryst is just the distraction she needs.
She and Tony have always had a subtext of attraction. From the very beginning of their relationship, there was a subtle charge to the Force surrounding them. Corny as it sounds, Tony was right all along: the dyad wants them together. Their bickering closeness ever since has promoted their interpersonal pull to near magnetic chemistry. One hot kiss with lots of tongue later and Meetra is tugging at Tony's pants.
"Take your clothes off," she orders gruffly. "Let's do this."
"As you wish." He chuckles at her directness as he unzips her dress with the Force.
Meetra would be mortified to admit it, but she never feels so alive as she does during sex. The act is like a physical jolt to the system that wakes up her troubled mind. It's shock therapy for the soul following her latest brush with trauma. This time, she didn't withstand a battle. Instead, it was a Dark-conjured monster and a crowd of Sith onlookers. But the rush is the same—she's alive and she only wants to feel more alive to reassure herself that she survived.
Tony's mind is intertwined with hers. He gets it. That's how I feel with pain. You get there with pleasure, but I get there with pain . . . When it hurts, he knows he's alive, and that matters when you're someone who ought to be dead.
That's the part of Tony which Meetra looks away from . . . the nature of her zombie lover that she tries to forget . . . the fact that the Lord of Pain not only requires pain to live, but he enjoys it. He revels in the Darkness that keeps him alive. He hates that he needs it, but he loves it all the same. The only thing that trumps the feeling is a chance to revel in her forbidden Light.
"It doesn't last," she sighs out the truth of all indulgence. Whether it's sex or pleasure, the problem is the same. "It never lasts. That's why I need it again."
Rotting Tony lives that fact. He knows how especially fleeting satisfaction is for him. How impossible it is for his body to achieve a status quo. Even her daily Force healing is not always enough.
"You're worried. You're so worried," Tony gasps out into her neck. His hands are in her hair, his tongue is on her throat, and his mind is deeply embedded in hers to know her thoughts. These are the moments when Meetra's not sure where she ends and he begins. She frets, so he frets too. "You're so worried . . ."
"Yes," Meetra moans, arching against his hands that tear at her bra straps. She's worried for tonight, for tomorrow, for everything about the future. That dread gives an edge of desperation to her lust. She's clawing at Tony a little. Impatient for more. For tonight feels like the eve before a climactic battle, like the lead up to a life altering decision, like she's standing toes to a giant precipice that she will either successfully hurdle or fall to her death. There's simply no getting around it: tomorrow's throne room appearance is a make-or-break moment.
She could be betrayed by her Force imprint, discovered, and murdered on the spot, with Tony executed for his role in her deception. They'll put up a good fight because what will they have to lose at that point? They might as well go out attempting to depose Dark Lord Vitiate. But for all the power of the dyad, victory feels very unclear. Even ever-optimistic Tony thinks the outcome of their plot is dependent on the unknowable whims of the mysterious Force.
Will the Force be with them? Only time will tell.
But if they do somehow manage to escape doom in Vitiate's throne room, they will immediately embark on assassination. Meetra's conscience is already queasy about her involvement in the plan to murder General Lacerate and Darth Raxus, but she can't see a way around it. And that is uncomfortably close to the sort of ethical quandary she found herself in at Malachor V. So, tonight she is going to balm over her misgivings with mind-blowing sex.
"We must trust in the Force and trust in ourselves," Tony urges as he watches her shimmy down her dress.
"I know," she exhales when she looks up. Then, she hurls herself back into his arms. She craves his touch. It's for his Force as much as it is for the attention.
"You can't script these things too much," Tony cautions as his hands squeeze hard at her breasts. Tonight, it seems, their foreplay is a mutual pep talk.
"Yesssss," she agrees. Improvisation is key when facing a fluid situation. "Whatever happens, we will be fine," she tells herself and Tony. Live or die, win or lose, Meetra thinks she can be okay with either outcome. But she's hoping to live long enough to try to free Revan. That task will be much easier, she knows, if Vitiate dies first.
The knowledge that tonight might be their last night together gives an extra urgency—maybe even a poignancy—to their desire. She and Tony are each seeking comfort, maybe craving a little unity, as they face down the awful truth of the risks they will soon confront.
Tony pulls back now and leads her by the hand to the bed. "Tell me what you want," he requests. He's breathless and panting hard. "Tell me what you need. I want to give you what you need."
Meetra nods and whispers back, "Be Dark for me." Be Dark so she can be Light. She wants so much to be Light, even if it's only some silly roleplay fantasy in bed. "Be Dark for me," she mumbles, red faced and embarrassed as her eyes find the floor.
"As you wish."
It's a silly response, really. You don't ask for a Sith to be Dark, they are Dark and you have no say in the matter. Their dominance, the casual manipulation, the outright gratuitous, boundary crossing violence . . . it's beyond your control. All except for Darth Sion, who turns it on and off in an ironic attempt to please.
Force bless him for it, too. For as Tony muscles her back to the bed and literally throws her down onto the soft mattress, it's just the amount of manhandling Meetra craves. She starts to fight him a little—thrashing only because in her fantasy resisting is what she's supposed to do—but she doesn't want to win. Tony's in her head, so he knows this, of course.
That she wants this treatment is humiliating, but whatever. She's pretty sure she's not the first woman who likes to be dominated in bed. Usually, it's a fantasy of allure. It goes like this: the woman is so irresistible that the man cannot control himself. All civilized notions of consent fall by the wayside as the compulsive, primal urge to possess takes over. The woman is simply too beautiful for her man to deny his desire.
Except Meetra's not interested in hearing how pretty she is. She's never thought of herself as the beauty to Tony's beast. The Jedi are mostly indifferent to appearance. In truth, Meetra's far more interested in who she is, rather than what she looks like. And so, the ego stroking she's looking for isn't for how hot she is, but how Light she is. And for that, she needs Tony to represent the opposing archetype of Darkness.
Maybe Tony is right and she's a prisoner of her upbringing, forever stuck in the Jedi mindset she was raised in. But right now, she will roleplay the Jedi prisoner to his jailor Sith, the weaker woman to his stronger man, the Light Side martyr to his punishing Dark warlord. Force help her, but she glories in it. As cringey as this is, it feels safe with Tony, who's in her mind anyway.
Trapped as a willing captive in his arms, Meetra spreads her legs in invitation. Pinned to the bed, she glories in surrender. Yes, this passion feels amazing. Tony is rutting into her. He grunts as he thrusts again and again. He's rough, so her body drags back and forth with his movement. Tony has all the control as he ravishes her. Force help her, for she loves it.
Yes, yes . . . soon his body is tensing in anticipation of fulfillment. His eyes are closed. His expression fierce. Does he sense how close she is too? He does. The bond bleeds her rising sensations into his mind. In return, Tony's escalating pleasure is her impending ecstasy. It makes for a quick spiral of desire that culminates fast. He reaches his peak and it triggers hers in a contagion of quivering, gasping, sweaty, mutual gratification.
All too soon, it is over. For as they both know, these things are fleeting. But still . . . for a few brief moments, the concerns for tomorrow are forgotten.
"That was . . . that was . . ."
"Just what I needed," Tony finishes her sentence as he rolls off of her. They're both naked laying on their backs, crosswise to the bed and staring up at the ceiling. "That was just what I needed tonight . . ."
But as relaxed as they both are now, their worries rush back in to ruin the afterglow. Neither can stop thinking about tomorrow. The pillow talk quickly turns to treason.
Still staring up at nothing, Tony recalls aloud, "The last time I was in the throne room, I barely made it out alive. Cornelius had killed his father that morning. It was straight up murder, not some heat of passion argument that got out of hand. But when old Cato Caesar didn't show up for the Council meeting, praetorians came to investigate. They found me trying to help Cornelius. Stupidly, I tried to help."
"He influences you a lot . . . " Darth Azamin—who Meetra has come to respect but not to like—seems to have a habit of dragging Tony into trouble.
"I didn't condone what he did, but I understood why he did it."
Oh, come on. "He killed his own father . . . "
"Cornelius and his father never got along. Cato Caesar was an extremely harsh man. His only redeeming quality was how much he doted on Cornelia."
Meetra says nothing. She lets the bond register her disapproval.
Tony keeps making excuses for his friend. "My father-in-law was a widower, and it he transferred all his love for his dead wife to Cornelia. He vented his grief on his son. He could be terrible to Cornelius."
"That's still not a reason to kill him."
"I know. But it happened all the same. I was dragged to Vitiate as an accessory to the crime. Cornelius confessed it all on the spot without remorse. He nearly died for that attitude," Tony sighs, "and so did I." He shakes his head now, as if to shake away the awful memories.
"What's the throne room like?" Meetra changes the topic. She has heard Lady Advance describe it, but she wants to hear Tony's version.
"The only other time I've been there was my investiture. It is the tradition for new Lords to be presented to the Emperor when they receive their Darth title. It's a ritual of manhood on the Dark Side. I stood there flanked by my father and my grandfather to kneel before the Dark Lord, just like they did years before. That time, there were speeches, not lightning. It was a happy occasion."
"Yes, but what's it like?" she presses.
"Very dark. Very large. Very formal. The Emperor sits above and looks down on you."
"So basically like every Sith Lord's throne room man cave?" she smirks.
"Yes, only more intimidating. Much more intimidating."
"Does he have fire?" she teases, trying to lighten the mood. "You have fire."
"There's no fire, but there's lots of guards with pikes and usually a crowd of cronies standing in the shadows." Turning his head to face her, Tony softly warns, "We'll have to stand and fight if we're discovered, and we will be vastly outnumbered."
"Okay." She knew that. "So we Force freeze everyone we see to buy some time as we head for the throne. You start snapping necks with the Force and I'll grab someone's sword or one of those pikes and—"
"And the Force will decide what happens," Tony finishes softly. He repeats his earlier words. "You can't script these things too much." Meaning that the fickle Force always trumps the best laid plans.
"Yeah. Yeah, you're probably right."
Tony rolls on his side. She rolls on her side to face him. They are side by side, eye to eye as he whispers, "Never forget that you and I—for all our sorrows—we are favorites of the Force, blessed with a dyad. That makes us very special. We are endowed with extreme power so that we can enact destiny through our personal choices—we are people whose free will becomes the will of the Force. We are among those who can make the impossible happen. But only," he cautions solemnly, "if the Force is with us, and we are with the Force."
It's Tony being Tony. He's grandiosely pious with a heroic sense of fate. The man is at his most convincing in these quiet moments when he waxes romantic on his mission to free his people from Vitiate's tyranny. But as a Jedi, Meetra is lost in the Sith concept of a favorite of the Force. Because really, no one person should have that sort of power.
Is Tony, the Dark apostate assassin, the anti-hero of their dyad pairing? Or does that role belong to her as the disgraced Jedi seeking redemption? Tony wouldn't care to debate the issue—he views those sorts of labels as superfluous—but they matter to her. Meetra still longs to be good . . . to once again walk fully in the Light. That's a big reason why she's so uneasy with tomorrow's agenda of more deceit followed by premediated murder. Because does the Force really want them to do that? She's uncomfortable with the idea that the Dark Side of the Force might be ascendant . . . and acting through her own choices.
Tony has no such scruples. But he wants to talk about what happens after tomorrow. "Meetra, if you make it out and I don't—"
"That won't happen."
"It might. Anything could happen. Listen, if you live and I don't, I want you to free Revan. He's in a space station hidden in the maelstrom nebula between the Albarrio and Relgim systems."
"Okay . . . " Meetra nods slowly. She's a little surprised and deeply touched by what Tony is confiding in her. "Where is that?"
"It's the middle of nowhere. The coordinates are already programmed into the navicomputer on the shuttle. Flee, take my ship, and free your friend. If I die, help him to kill Vitiate."
"I will," she promises without hesitation.
"That nebula is extremely dangerous to navigate and the very existence of Revan's prison is a state secret. Perhaps because of those things, Vitiate leaves it lightly guarded with only a handful of praetorians. It shouldn't be too hard to get in."
"But Revan's still alive?" Meetra has wondered about that.
"Yes, as far as I know. Supposedly, he's kept in some sort of drugged stasis state. I don't know any details. But bring a medic droid with you, if you can."
"Okay."
"If I'm gone, avenge me by thwarting Vitiate. Turn your friend loose and let the Force decide if he's the Sith'ari."
"I will. I promise I will." Meetra leans in to kiss Tony. "Thank you for trusting me with this information."
He reaches to brush back a lock of hair that has fallen in front of her eyes and tells her, "There's no one else I trust to rescue Revan. Remember that-trust no one about Revan, not even Cornelius. Maybe especially Cornelius. Understand?"
She nods. "Is there anything else I need to know?"
"Yes." Tony flashes a wan smile. Talk of worst-case scenarios has made them both feel subdued. "Meetra—little Jedi," he breathes out softly, "I love you."
I love you. His words resonate across the bond as he speaks.
Meetra blinks.
She sucks in a quick breath.
Then, she chokes. "Whaaat?" Meetra physically pulls back and starts to panic. The news of Revan's location was a lovely expression of trust on the eve of their big moment. But this? This news is unwelcome and threatening. Is she supposed to say she loves him back? Because she can't say that. She refuses to say that. That would be a lie and ever since that ruse of masquerading as his own jailor was over, she and Tony have always been completely honest with each other. Brutally honest, at times. Bickering is kind of their thing.
Flustered, she sits up and lashes out. "You're scared and thinking with your dick."
"No, I'm feeling," he answers mildly. "You should try it some time."
What the fuck is that supposed to mean? As a Jedi, she was taught to move past her emotions, rather than to invest them in specific people. "We're friends, remember? We agreed to be friends." Just friends.
"We're more than friends."
"Yes, we are friends who fuck," she snaps. "I'm using you for sex. You know that right?"
"We're a dyad. There's nothing casual about us." Tony now says it again, "I love you," and he refuses to take it back. But it's clear that he has anticipated her reaction. He's not upset by it.
She's the one who's pissed. Meetra fumes, "You're right, there is the power angle involved. I'm also using you for power. I'm using you for sex and for power—"
"You don't have to reciprocate—"
"Good because I don't do attachments." She doesn't love. Not in the way he wants to be loved. That's a ground rule of their alliance and he's known it all along. "I don't do attachments." She is emphatic.
He nods but quizzes her. "Why do you cling to the rules of those who cast you out?" Tony seems genuinely befuddled.
"It's easier." It's not that she doesn't care for Tony—she does—it's that she refuses to let that regard influence her decisions or dictate her emotions. That's how you get to attachment, which is how you can open yourself up to the Dark Side. Best to avoid all that, Meetra thinks, recalling her scary yellow eyes in the mirror months ago.
"Look, this marriage is fake. Do not forget that! We are friends who are allies in a dyad—"
"Alright, alright . . . Have it your way." Tony is still naked and casually lounging on the bed as he smiles up at her. "I just want you to know that I love you. I will always love—"
"Stop saying that, will you?" she half-shrieks.
"It makes me happy."
"It doesn't make me happy!" It makes her feel like she is failing him, like she's not holding up her end of the dyad. But actually, she is being true to herself—her Jedi self.
"Awww . . . don't be mad," he cajoles, "it's not my fault. Everyone falls in love with you. That's what it says your official report," Tony teases. He mocks himself now. "I can't say I wasn't warned."
Meetra glares at him with consternation. She's not appreciating his sentiment, nor its timing. For why is he telling her this now? Tonight of all nights he picks a fight? Great! Now, she's freaking out, but he's irritatingly calm. So much for the blissful afterglow . . .
Unrepentant, Tony smirks and jokes, "Is this your way of saying you're going to dump me if we find Revan?"
"It's my way of saying don't fall in love," she snarls.
"Too late."
"Tony, it's for the best."
"Coward," he accuses playfully, like he's enjoying her discomfort.
She doesn't dispute the label. She glares instead. Can't he take the hint to get off this topic?
"It's okay. Like I said, you don't need to reciprocate. I just want you to know."
"So . . . no pressure?" Is she really off the hook for saying 'I love you' back to him?
Tony affirms, "No pressure," adding, "I learned long ago not to pressure you. Asserting leverage pushes you away. That's why I always default to my Meetra strategy."
"Your Meetra strategy?" she echoes. Raising one eyebrow, she demands, "What's that?"
"I give in." He raises his hands in mock surrender. "I give in. You win. That's the Meetra strategy."
"Oh, so now I'm the bad guy?" She resents that.
Tony chuckles. "No, I'm the bad guy. I'm the Sith Lord, remember? That's my turf."
He can tell how much he has upset her, and so he drops his attempts at humor. Tony is suddenly serious as explains, "I wish I had gotten a chance to tell Cornelia and the kids that I loved them one last time. So, given what we're facing, I want you to know how I feel. I will always be grateful for you. You will never know how much you have brightened my life. It's the healing, but it's also you. I think I would love you even without your magical Light Side skills."
"Okay . . . " Meetra nods and shifts her weight uncomfortably.
"I have so many regrets with my family," Tony confesses hoarsely as the bond lights up with pain from his long-ago loss. "I'm telling you how I feel so I do not have regrets for you."
Meetra feels like she should say something in return, but she's uncertain of the right words. She's not good at verbalizing her feelings. And then, before she can mumble something, she gets distracted. Meetra frowns and peers closer at Tony. "Your head . . ."
"What?"
"Hold still." She leans down and tentatively pokes at his right temple. "This looks like a bruise has formed. I need to heal you . . ." It doesn't seem possible, but in the space of a few minutes, Tony seems to have begun to visibly deteriorate. As he tilts his head, she sees yet another bruise forming on one cheek. "Are you feeling okay?"
"I'm fine. It's nothing." He looks sheepish now as he jokes, "See what I get for being all lovey-dovey? I'm a Dark Side guy by nature. I'm supposed to be raging or I revert to zombie."
"At this rate, you are going to be bad by tomorrow morning," she frets.
"I'll be fine," he brushes off her concern. "Let's get some sleep. Sleep always helps."
Tony wakes in the morning feeling uncomfortable but not in any real pain. His face looks a little worse, but it's basically the same. And so, he convinces her to forego healing him first thing. I'm fine, I'm fine, he insists. Save your strength. You might need it today, he urges. Meetra can't argue with that advice, so she relents.
By tacit agreement, the next morning both she and Tony keep things light and positive. She ignores what he told her last night, and he doesn't bring it up. There is no further mention of Revan and no last-minute strategizing either. While she's far from relaxed about what is to come, Meetra is comforted by how low-key the day begins. After all, there's no point in dwelling further on the risks. Whatever happens today will happen. If there was a way they could avoid this command appearance in the throne room, they would.
The initial task for the morning is glamour. By long tradition, you must appear your absolute best for presentation to the Emperor. The hairdresser and lady's maid Meetra brought from home flutter about her with meticulous preparations that have been planned out for weeks. Because, as Lady Advance decreed, Meetra's fancy Palace gown is just one part of an overall fashion 'lewk' that includes many important detailed choices. The hair, the makeup, the nails, the jewelry . . . everything gets leveled up from last night's party version.
As usual, Meetra is impatient with all the girlishness. Today of all days, it grates. By contrast, her helpers are so excited that you'd think they themselves were going to the Palace. The hairdresser keeps snapping pictures while the maid takes video snippets to edit into a 'get ready with me—the Lady Sion Palace edition' montage to share with friends back home. But whatever. Meetra tolerates it.
When the time comes to don her dress, the women bicker about who will be the one to zip her up. Then, when they pin the glittering tiara to her hair, both women start tearing up. And that's when Meetra belatedly realizes that the two women are living out a fantasy through her. Moreover, they are incredibly proud that one of their own will be honored at the Palace. It makes Meetra inwardly cringe for having so thoroughly deceived them.
When the finishing touches are done, Meetra stands before the mirror dismayed at how thoroughly she has disappeared into the disguise of Lady Sion. The woman staring back at her looks serenely feminine and gravely composed. Like a grand lady in every sense of the word. Jewels sparkle at her ears, her wrist, and her fingers, but the eye-catching crown is the dazzling showpiece. The silver-grey dress that serves as a backdrop for all her bling is masterfully cut and expertly tailored. Though the design is plain, it is conspicuously expensive. Lady Advance has perfectly aligned Meetra's comfort zone with what Sith decorum dictates for the occasion. Even unsophisticated Meetra can tell that today will be a fashion triumph.
Her helpers are fluffing the cape that is sewn to the shoulders of the dress when Tony knocks at the door and pokes his head in. "Is it safe to come in?"
The two women now stand back and curtsy to acknowledge their Lord as Meetra slowly turns around.
Tony beams approvingly from the doorway. "We never had a proper wedding," he says softly. "You never had your big dress moment. But even if you had, you couldn't be more beautiful than you are today."
Meetra feels herself blushing.
The maid and the hairdresser exchange glances and then promptly excuse themselves to give Lord and Lady Sion privacy.
Amused at their quick retreat, Meetra cocks her head at her pretend husband who is also dressed for the Palace. "You don't look so bad yourself. Drip, drip, Lord Sion. That's some serious swag you've flashing there."
He squints at her in clueless confusion. "Huh?"
"It's a Republic thing."
"A good thing?"
"Oh, yes." She circles him, taking a good look at the hand-engraved heirloom ceremonial armor he's wearing. Meetra realizes for the first time that the etchings on the armor match the etchings on his mask. "They're the same as your helmet . . ."
"Yes. The helmet is part of the set." Tony is sheepish now. "I first wore it hoping to impress you . . ."
Meetra smothers a smile. It's only been months, but it feels like forever since she was a prisoner marched before the throne of masked Darth Sion to listen to his proposal to trade power for healing.
"I love it," she smiles. "The armor is beautiful worn altogether." Truly, Tony looks like a storybook version of a Sith Lord. At once fearsome and pretty. Scary and dashing. Tony's giving serious Dark prince charming vibes, Meetra decides. It's absolutely perfect.
"I know you love a man in a mask," Tony smirks, alluding to Revan.
She laughs. "I also love a man in a cape." Meetra walks forward to adjust Tony's cape with the inner lining fabric that matches her dress. Then she turns around to regard them both in the mirror standing side by side in their finery. "We look too good to die," she announces firmly.
Tony snorts. "Because we . . . er . . . drip?"
"Yes. Because we're dripping," she grins. But she frowns as she realizes, "Your face looks worse."
"It is. All of me is," Tony sighs.
"So soon?"
"I deteriorated very fast those few days I was gone from you, remember? I worry that's happening again . . ."
"I'm healing you on the ride back here," Meetra announces in a tone that will tolerate no argument. That's assuming there is a ride back from the Palace . . . but she won't go there. Meetra resolves to be ruthlessly positive. "I don't want you going into a fight not feeling your best."
Tony shrugs. "Killing someone is just what I need right now." His eyes narrow and his face darkens. "General Lacerate can heal me this time."
Meetra frowns and shifts her weight. She's still very uncomfortable being an accomplice to an assassination. But that's the plan and she doesn't have an acceptable alternative. So here she is, making yet another moral compromise.
"Ready?" Tony asks.
Does he sense her misgivings? Meetra brushes them aside. "Ready."
They exit Darth Azamin's villa to hop in the speeder that will fly them to the Palace. That's when she and Tony discover that most of the villa staff have assembled to see them off. It's a charming gesture that underscores the importance of the occasion.
Their host grumbles good naturedly about it. "I go to the Palace at least once a week and no one comes out to see me . . . "
"Yes, but you're not as pretty as Mina," Tony teases Lord Azamin.
Once all three of them are in the speeder heading to the Palace, Tony asks his brother-in-law under his breath, "Is everything ready?"
"Yes."
Darth Azamin has weapons stashed strategically throughout the house and even in the speeder in anticipation of the bloodshed to come. Because once they return from the Palace—if they return from the Palace—all Hell is going to break lose at Fortress Azamin.
But first, they have to make it through the presentation to the Emperor. Fears for that moment have Meetra's determined optimism wavering. She confesses through the bond, I've got a bad feeling about this. A really bad feeling.
Me too. Ever since I woke up this morning.
Are we fools for doing this?
Probably. But I've long been a fool for the Force.
Meetra looks worriedly to Tony in his mask. He reaches to take her hand. He squeezes it for reassurance. Whatever happens, we must stay together. We are strongest together.
I know. She's slowly come around to Tony's view of their dyad. Meetra squeezes back.
At the shared touch, the bond blooms and Meetra senses Tony's pain firsthand. You're getting worse by the moment.
He makes light of his situation. See how much I need you?
When the speeder arrives at the Palace, their trio proceeds into the giant antechamber that abuts the throne room. Like the rest of the Palace, it is overly large, conspicuously lavish, and full of lethal looking guards. It is simultaneously a show of wealth and a show of force.
It's also a scene. For this is the spot where the most prominent Lords of the Sith convene to see and be seen. It's where they politic and plot while peacocking in their ceremonial armor and waiting for their five minutes with the Dark Lord. Today is an unusual day since the Emperor's agenda is a series of honorary appearances. But the entire Dark Council will be in attendance, and that augments the list of notables.
Darth Azamin starts working the room, shepherding Tony around to greet each of the Council members as Meetra flows serenely in their wake. She smiles and nods at the appropriate moments, giving even crusty Lord Raxus a shy smile as she plays the role of provincial wifey awed by such impressive company and nervous to meet her Emperor. Fortunately, none of the Lords pays more than cursory attention to her, which makes it easy to be an afterthought.
Still, Meetra feels like she's being watched. Glancing around the room, she sees only unfamiliar faces focused on other people. Until, that is, she catches sight of a tallish, pale-faced Lord wearing a formal looking cassock. It's Darth Tenebrae, the creepy, threatening priest from the party last night. He's staring at her now from his position alone in the far corner of the room.
The priest is here. Tenebrae.
Yes. Vitiate opens every throne room audience session with a prayer. That's Tenebrae's job.
He's watching me. Tenebrae's arms are crossed as he positively stares her and Tony down.
Pay him no heed.
But he's staring at me.
You're beautiful, Little Jedi. I'd stare at you now too if I could.
I don't like it.
Keep smiling. He's not the one to worry about.
This morning is supposed to be a triumphant occasion. It's a newsworthy one, too. There are representatives of the state media present in the antechamber asking softball questions to Tony and the other honorees to provide feelgood quotes for their holiday programming. Tony is in his element at those sorts of quick interviews. As a longtime Lord Administrator, he is very smooth with the press. Jauntily glib, too. Meetra's job is to smile adoringly her husband as he speaks. Then, she and Tony pose for a few pictures. She strives to appear happy and relaxed.
So far, so good.
Nothing about this feels good. Meetra's sense of danger is triggering all sorts of mental alarm bells now. It's got her adrenaline kicking in and her senses heightening in anticipation of a fight. Almost involuntarily, her eyes keep wandering back to Darth Tenebrae glowering from his far corner. The priest is still staring at me.
He has nothing else to do. He's very out of favor.
The Emperor's Master of Ceremonies now takes them aside for a discreet reminder of what is expected of them in the throne room. It's a sure sign that the official proceedings are about to begin. Darth Sion will be the very first Lord to be honored, meaning after the Dark Council members enter the throne room to take their places and the priest says his prayer to Almighty Darkness, she and Tony will be introduced.
Darth Azamin brushes by them now, whispering good luck as he hurries to join his colleagues. Meetra watches the quick, but meaningful exchange between Tony and his brother-in-law, and again swallows her burgeoning sense of dread. It's clear the two men feel exactly how she does, but neither wants to let on.
Revan did this, Meetra reminds herself, so she can do it too. That creepy priest said Revan walked right into the throne room to challenge Vitiate, which actually sounds very true to the man she once knew. So, at the very least, she can kneel and smile today, Meetra tells herself.
The thought prompts her eyes to wander yet again to the corner where Darth Tenebrae stands alone. The priest catches her glance and nods to acknowledge her. At this distance, his expression is inscrutable.
"My Lady?" At her side, Tony gallantly proffers his right arm.
Meetra tears her eyes away from Lord Tenebrae and gives a slight nod. She's as ready as she'll ever be. She lightly rests her left hand atop Tony's gloved hand.
The giant throne room doors now open with a creaky sigh. Cameras begin flashing as the press in attendance captures the big moment when she and Tony begin to process inside.
Vis vobiscum. Force be with us. Tony's quick prayer filters through the bond as they take their first steps into the Dark Lord's lair.
It takes a moment for Meetra's eyes to adjust to the blue-black sepulchral gloom inside. Vitiate sits on high far above her sight line. He is a shadowy figure in a cloak on his tall throne, barely distinguishable from the empty dark space that surrounds him. By contrast, his visitors are brightly lit by a single shaft of light from high above. Ironically, the lighting only serves to blind and obscure things further.
Meetra recognizes this setup to be classic posturing. From his vantage point, the Emperor sees all, but his subjects see very little. She knows this to be no accident. Meetra has come to appreciate the cues that promote and reinforce the balance of power in the Dark Side's hierarchical society. It all boils down to this: the Emperor prevails over his Lords, who in turn prevail over their command posts and all the people living and toiling in them. If the Empire is a giant pyramid of power, the Dark Lord sits at its apex. It is fitting that here in his throne room, Lord Vitiate has the literal high ground.
Supplicants to the Dark Lord customarily are men. Sith Ladies have no place in the public sphere. For in the rigid patriarchy of the Shadow Force, all glory and honor inure to men, at least officially. And that makes Meetra's inclusion today a very special honor. It announces to all that Darth Sion's feat brings honor not only to himself but to his entire family. Because that's how great his contribution to the Empire rates. Killing General Surik is a big fucking deal, and this proves it.
As they walk in to take their place in the bright spotlight, the Emperor's Master of Ceremonies announces them according to formal custom.
"Consul Lord Administrator Artorius Antoninus Septimus, Darth Sion, son of Darth Acies and grandson of Darth Signal and Darth Hostis. And with him, Lady Sion."
Meetra doesn't even merit mention by name, only by title in relation to her husband. But that's fine because her supposed pedigree is the sketchiest part of the lie that is Mina Septimus, Lady Sion. She's an enemy Jedi—the Republic General who gave the order to annihilate the Sith fleet and their Mandolorian allies—and here she is in disguise and unarmed at the very heart of the Dark Side's government. This is either the stupidest thing she's ever done, or the most daring.
The throne room is so dim that it is impossible to gauge its full size. But there are others present in the chamber to witness their presentation. Up front assembled in a semicircle at the base of the throne stand the Emperor's cronies who observe official audiences in order to better advise in private. They comprise the Dark Privy Council brain trust, and their membership includes Darth Azamin. To Meetra's eyes, they look like a bunch of dour, pompous men, not unlike the Jedi High Council back home. Along the walls, stand red robed praetorian guards wielding wicked looking Force pikes. Meetra counts at least ten of them. But for all she knows, there are a dozen more lurking covertly in the shadows. And wait, is that the creepy priest? It is. Darth Tenebrae's pale face and light hair look strangely luminous in this setting, whereas all the red faces of the Council members he flanks fade in the prevailing gloom.
She and Tony have reached the spotlight at the center of the room. Meetra sinks to the floor in the supplicant's pose she has practiced many times. On her left, Tony takes a knee as a loyal vassal before his Dark Lord.
Vis vobiscum. Tony repeats his silent prayer. Force be with them. Meetra supplements it with a prayer of her own. Force please, please save us from this folly. Let us survive today to fulfill our destiny.
Then, they wait to be spoken to . . .