Witches. Who gives a fuck about witches? Not him. But here he is, dropping out of hyperspace near some flyover world that isn't even on the standard star charts . . . all for a mission about witches.
This is stupid shit. It's a waste of his vacation time.
He'd rather spend the Senate recess back on Naboo. He could schmooze with rich constituents once a day to collect campaign cash and then relax for the rest of his downtime. It might give him an opportunity to make nice to Cresta. She's still pouting on Alderaan over that stage manager he killed in a fit of jealousy. How was he supposed to know that guy was gay? She spent so much time with him that it definitely looked suspicious . . .
Fuck! He doesn't want to think about Cresta. It gets him down. Really down. And stressed out. And that makes his bad attitude even worse. He needs to stay focused. He should land on this lousy planet, find the kid his normally rational Master irrationally fears, and kill him. Then he can go home and chill out.
But first, there are witches . . . fucking witches . . .
Why should he care about witches? There have always been isolated Force cults tucked away in sleepy corners of the galaxy. They don't matter. The only Force users who matter are the Jedi and the Sith. The witches of Dathomir are irrelevant. Really, he takes offense at the very idea of a Force user calling themselves a witch. It smacks of superstition and the occult. The Force isn't hocus pocus, it's power.
Yep, he hates this mission. He hates it almost as much as he hates his Master. But he's stuck as the Apprentice until he figures out a way to kill old Plagueis. And that means he needs to go to the witch world to kill some unsuspecting witch boy.
Resigned, he finishes piloting his starship to Dathomir. The planet's outward red appearance turns out to be a miscue, probably the reflection of a nearby sun on outer atmospheric gases. For once his ship descends beneath the lower stratosphere cloud level, Dathomir is revealed to be lush and green. What other deceptions are to be found on the witch world? Soon, he will find out . . .
As his ship continually lowers, he makes out thick forests, swaying grasslands, neat crop fields, and pretty mountains. His scanners pick up only two settlements. He heads for the larger one. Is there a spaceport on this backwater dump? Predictably, no. So, he settles his ship down in a wide-open prairie about a mile from what passes for the capital of Dathomir.
Ion engines make a lot of noise, and on a rural, technologically dumb planet such as this, they immediately attract notice. As hoped, it lures the locals to investigate.
His ship is met by two young women who seem to be acting as roaming sentries. They are tall and lithe warriors holding archers' longbows at the ready. The curved, taut weapons echo the women's long, strong thighs that are exposed bare between the tops of their high purple boots and the hems of their short scarlet tunics. As Sheev looks at the women curiously, the morning breeze lifts their clothing. It reveals that they wear nothing underneath those red miniskirts.
Wait—is that witch pussy he just glimpsed? Sheev blinks at the flash of female genitalia. That was unexpected.
He worries he has been caught leering. But if the women take offense or are embarrassed, it doesn't show. They look him over coolly as they brandish their weapons. The Force tells him they are not afraid of him.
Neither is he afraid of them. He's armed with Dark power, with Force-attuned reflexes honed from years of Sith training, and with a lightsaber hidden inside his cloak. The two women will be easy to kill, but that's not his plan. He'll play the good guy, like usual.
Do these gals speak Basic? They do. "Hail, stranger," the taller one greets him cautiously.
He slowly raises his hands in submission, flashes an 'aw shucks' affable smile, and leads with a lie. "I come in peace."
The women exchange glances and continue to study him.
Sheev does the same for them. The pair have pale skin and silver-brown hair worn braided close to their heads. The women appear fully human, although they wear tiny facial tattoos that exaggerate the angular nature of their features. The light dusting of alien runes across their foreheads and along the slope of their cheekbones is an attractive exoticism to his eye. And just look at those full, pouty lips and their arresting kohl-rimmed eyes. The witch women have an aggressive yet feminine beauty that he likes, plus they're not wearing panties. They're also holding weapons, and danger always wets his appetite.
Yep. They're hot. It turns out the witches aren't as boring as he feared.
A slow smile spreads across his face. "I mean you no harm. I come in peace," he lies again. "I am only seeking knowledge."
This time, he coats his words with a heavy dose of suggestion in the Force. It's the same technique he uses when he lies to a Jedi's face in a Senate conference room. Naturally, it works. He's had lots of practice at deception.
The two women lower their bows. The shorter one speaks under her breath as if to remind her companion, "She said he would be coming . . ."
Sheev nods and leans in to that suggestion of welcome. With his practiced politician's demeanor, he smoothly announces, "I am Sheev Palpatine, Senator of the Galactic Republic. I'm here on a diplomatic mission to promote goodwill." More lies spoken convincingly.
He's off to a good start because the taller woman nods to her companion. Then, she turns back to him. "Follow us."
"Might I speak with your leader?" he inquires as respectfully as possible.
The shorter one, who still tops his own height, answers. "We're taking you to Mother. She's expecting you."
Sheev doesn't know what that means, but it sounds good.
The walk to the settlement leads into the nearby forest. Once inside, Sheev discovers a sprawling encampment beneath the leafy tree canopy. Suddenly, there are people everywhere clad in shades of red and purple. They're women and children exclusively, he realizes.
"Where are the men? Are they off hunting? Or working in the fields?"
"The brothers have their place," he is told, "and we have ours."
Sheev nods like he understands, and of course he doesn't. But rather than ask more questions, he continues observing his environment.
Lots of pale, crimson clad children scurry in all directions. They shriek and dart after one another in a perpetual game of tag. He watches as one boy with peculiar red colored skin runs in front of a woman and causes her to spill the basket she's carrying. The woman glares, fumes, and shoots a bolt of green—green!—Force lightning at the little miscreant. The boy laughs and leaps to avoid the punishment, calling 'sorrrrry' in a singsong voice. The laughing scamp hurries away and the woman continues on her way.
Sheev can't help but gawk. He didn't know what to expect of the witches, but advanced Dark Side Force skills deployed casually wasn't on his list.
His hosts are as curious about him as he is about them. For as their trio passes by a knitting circle, every head lifts and turns. The witches have plenty of stone and wood dwelling places, but they seem to conduct their activities mostly outside. And that means all eyes are present to watch his slow progress through their village. The women gape and he gawks back. For newness, as always, invites attention and it works both ways today.
This is a robust, well-organized community, he perceives. Their trio passes a large group of women cooking, singing in unison while they work. To the left up ahead, other women tend to bread baking in brick ovens. To the right, an older woman—obviously a teacher—is lecturing to a group of young pupils seated on the mossy forest floor. There are archer women stringing bows and making arrows, teenaged girls sorting fruit into baskets, and a bunch of elderly women who look to be gossiping more than sewing.
The witches are clearly prosperous. Everyone appears reasonably healthy and well fed. Their clothes are neat and their bodies are clean. Their homes are in good repair and their village is meticulously tended. There are none of the visible hallmarks of poverty, crime, addiction, ignorance, and despair that he's used to seeing in the lesser developed worlds of the Outer Rim. The witches might be technologically behind the times, but they seem to have sidestepped the social problems that plague entire regions of the Republic. How is this possible? He'd very much like to know so as a Senator he can implement the solutions elsewhere.
It's a good first impression; Dathomir seems to be a place with shared labors, shared lives, and shared happiness. Chatter, song, and the happy shrieks of children fill the air. A strong vibe of contentment resonates around him in the Force.
But where are the men?
He is suspicious by nature, and he knows all is not what it seems. The witches might appear to be pastoral and quaint, homey and happy. But he recalls that random shot of Force lightning discipline he witnessed and reminds himself that these people are far from unsophisticated in ways that matter. He must be wary.
As if to underscore that point, a child's wail arises close by. One of the pack of running children has fallen and skinned her knee bloody and raw. "Mother!" the girl calls, and every adult woman's head turns in her direction. Several women, including one of his escorts, head to render aid. But they are unnecessary. That red skinned boy from before—the one who stands out for his vivid skin color amid his pale brethren—solves the problem. Sheev watches as the boy waves a hand over the girl's skinned knee. It miraculously heals. Then, the boy helps his playmate to her feet. Seconds later, the two children are off and running again, shouting 'Tag! You're it!' as if nothing had occurred.
"That's amazing," Sheev comments, mostly to see what the witches escorting him will say.
The archer woman next to him merely nods. "We all heal," she comments, as if the traditionally Light Side skill is no big deal. And that comment speaks volumes about how commonplace Force power is among these people. It's totally unlike the Republic where ten thousand Jedi Knights are both revered and feared for their otherness amid the billions of Force-blind laymen and where the paltry Sith persist in secret duos in the shadows. Sheev is used to being exceptional for his power, but evidently that won't be the case here.
What a strange and fascinating world he has come to. Can that woman who shot lightning heal as well? What side of the Force are these witches on? And why is their power green? He can't wait to find out.
Suddenly, Sheev's glad he came.
But where are the men? And who leads the witches?
"Mother is meditating," one of his archer escorts volunteers. "There. In the ritual house." She points up ahead to a clearing in the forest. It's something akin to a central plaza amid the witches' rambling village. Apparently, it is their destination.
Many civilizations put their holy temples on high, with flights of stairs and lofty columns that stretch towards the heavens. The architecture underscores the special nature of the proceedings held there. For those places are not for the work of everyday life, but for the work of divine revelation. The witches, however, defy these customs. To enter their center of civic authority, you descend down deeper into their forest world. Closer to the earth from which they draw their inspiration and sustenance. Thus, the steps go down, not up, at Dathomir.
Here, there is no tree canopy. Unfiltered sunlight blazes down from above. It's energy from the stars that nurtures the riotously blooming flowers that line the descending series of steep terraces Sheev passes through. At the bottom, a full ten stories beneath ground level, sits a grotto with a gurgling spring fountain and a stone cave entrance. Only now does Sheev realize that the spot is most likely a naturally occurring ravine, and not a manmade crevasse. The witches have modified and beautified the existing topography.
He follows his two escorts inside the cave. It's torchlit, like an old Sith temple. For a Dark Apprentice like himself, that makes it almost homey.
"Wait here," he is instructed. "She will appear." Then, the two archers withdraw to wait outside. He is left to loiter in the dim antechamber before an imposing set of closed wooden doors. Sheev busies himself readying his speech explaining who he is and why he's here.
He doesn't wait long. There is a creak and a groan as the doors swing outward. Revealed within, silhouetted against a backdrop haze of gleaming green magic suspended mid-air, stands a tall, elaborately dressed woman. She faces away, which he instantly recognizes for a power move.
This must be Mother.
Evidently, the witches are led by a she, not a he. For this woman is no consort; she has all the indicia of authority. Look at her standing amid the conjured Force in a silent, but very effective, display of power.
Sheev immediately feels the subtle pressure in his chest and against his mind that heralds the presence of an exceptionally strong Force user. This is how he feels when he arrives to his Master. Sensing it now makes him gulp.
Should he say something? No. In deference to the usual Senate protocol in these situations, Sheev waits to be acknowledged. He is the guest, after all, come to beg her hospitality.
It's her move, and she waits a full minute of anticipation to make it. When Mother finally turns, she does not disappoint. The woman is so stately in her composure, so utterly complete in her self-assurance, that Sheev is again momentarily unnerved. The head witch utters no threat and displays no weapon, and yet he feels instinctively threatened.
Wow, he thinks. Who is this spooky bitch? She's . . . well, she's fucking amazing . . . and creepily gorgeous, too.
The woman wears a long scarlet gown with a hood and something approximating wings attached to her shoulders.
Is she dressed as an angel?
Maybe as a devil?
Sheev can't decide. But it is a very persuasive costume to convey that she's in charge. Really, she has all the over-the-top theatrics perfected for her first impression.
His hostess has the same angular features and alabaster skin as the rest of the witches he has seen. But unlike the others, she has purple-grey shadowing about her eyes and mouth. It's not a mark of age, he thinks. Nor is it melancholy makeup. If he had to guess, the slightly zombie cast to her features is an indication of extreme power. Because the Sith are known to experience temporary physical decay as an aftereffect of certain rituals. Which just begs the question—what the Hell has this gal been up to in the Force that she looks like she binged on Darkness and is suffering a hangover for it? The Mother Witch fairly reeks of power, and that's the equivalent of a come-hither look to a Sith like himself.
Forget the kid. Killing the kid can wait. What secrets does this woman know? And how can he learn them? Plagueis will never teach him what he needs to know to kill him. But perhaps this Mother Witch can . . . Suddenly, Sheev thinks he should take his time on this mission.
He's staring. Staring and lusting for power that will help him graduate to Sith Master status. Wait—is he being rude? Recalling his good guy posturing, he defaults to his practiced politician poise. Sheev favors his hostess with a debonair bow from the waist. That never fails to impress the ladies. "Thank you for receiving me," he begins.
One side of Mother's mouth upticks in an enigmatic half-smile, half smirk. Her grey eyes flash green for the briefest of seconds. She responds regally. "Welcome to Dathomir." She says the name of her world with long, drawn out syllables and singsong relish. Dath-o-meeer.
"Thank you."
"I knew you were coming," she informs him. "I have been expecting you." She crooks a spindly finger with a painted talon-length fingernail to beckon him forward. "Come, Jeddai," she purrs like an endearment.
Jeddai? Wait—does she mean Jedi? Is she calling him a Jedi? What the fuck? He's an undercover Sith Lord who long ago learned to cloak his Force imprint completely. There's no way he's giving Jedi vibes.
He stiffly informs her, "My name is Sheev Palpatine. I am a Senator of the Republic on a diplomatic mission to Dathomir."
But Mother has already turned away to walk further into the cave.
"My name is Sheev Palpatine," he calls after her a bit indignantly. He's the Deputy Vice Chancellor, after all. He's quite famous and very powerful in his political role, and that's not counting his Force prowess. He's not happy to be mistaken for some anonymous Light Side loser. And he's not used to people walking away from him in the middle of a conversation. It's disrespectful. He gave her the chance to deploy her pomp, and in turn, she should repay him the courtesy. That's how these ceremonial greetings work.
But his hostess keeps walking. After a few steps, she pauses to throw a glance back over her shoulder. "Sheeeeeeev." She sighs out his given name and it sounds like a breathy moan. "I like it." And now again, she flashes that smirking smile. "Are you coming?" she inquires.
"Coming?" he echoes in confusion.
"Don't be shy," she soothes. "I know you Jeddai can be shy . . ."
Enough with the Jedi comments. He marches forward to intercept her and to set things straight. "You misunderstand. I am not a Jedi Knight, my Lady. I am the Deputy Vice Chancellor of the Senate of the Galactic Republic-"
"Shhhh," she hushes him by raising a finger to her lips. "Shhhh, Shhhheeeeev," she reprimands him softly like an indulged child while looking him directly in the eye. She's tall, like the rest of her kinswomen. And that gives Mother a few inches above his unimpressive height. "You don't need to pretend here. I know a Dark Jeddai when I meet one."
"Dark Jedi," he echoes, his eyes narrowing.
"Are you upset that I say your secret out loud?" she teases. And there's that glint of green in her eyes again. "You can't fool me. I see the shadows in your soul. I know you are a Dark Jeddai. Dark, so Dark . . ." she extols with breathy appreciation. And wait—is she actually admiring his power? He's never had anyone do that. "Now, don't be cross with me," Mother cajoles, pushing her full bottom lip out in a playful pout, "for you and I both know that all Sith were Jeddai once upon a time before the smug Light ones cast your Dark kind out . . ."
Sheev is taken aback at being so easily unmasked. He starts to bristle, but she preempts him. Tucking her arm—so warm and so alive—through his, she tugs him close like an intimate friend. Then, she drags him along deeper into her cave.
Should he resist? Uncertain how to respond and feeling uncharacteristically flustered, he allows himself to be led. He'll see where this goes.
"My Lord . . . ?" Mother now looks to him expectantly. When he doesn't immediately respond, she prompts him again. "My Lord, tell me your Sith title so I may address you properly."
He can't answer that. Can he? Before he can stop himself, he blurts out, "Sidious."
She smiles her approval. Then, she pronounces his name and status with that same slow, long voweled speech cadence from before. It sounds like she's gargling her words. "My Lord Sid-eee-us, Sheeeev Palpatine, Deputy Vice Chanc-ah-looooor of the Galactic Republic, come inside. Let me welcome you properly to Dath-o-meeer."
"Thank you. And you are . . .?"
"I am Lilith Talzin, Mother Witch of the Coven. May I call you Sheeeeeev?" She makes his name into at least three syllables.
"Of course," he plays along.
"And you must call me Lilith," she decrees. "We are going to be very good friends."
"I hope so." He wants to learn the secrets of her strange green power.
"I know so," she corrects him happily, gushing, "I have foreseen it. Long have I waited for the Force to send me another Dark Jeddai friend."