Shadows
Dark Lady
Rating:
G for an embrace.
Warning: Palpatine
finds a talent for the Force, in an unexpected place.
Disclaimer: Lucas and Lucasfilm own the characters, and this is
for fun, not profit.
Feedback: dark-lady@blueyonder.co.uk
Initial posting: DMEB
Shadows
This is her first child, a healthy male, and he is lying in his basket, gurgling and pulling at the air. ‘What does he think about…’ she wonders, picking up the squirming dusky-red baby with the pale-gold eyes. The mother smiles, and kisses him, rubs his head where his horns will grow, as he puts his tiny arms around her neck and laughs his baby laugh.
He is but a few weeks old, this infant, and his pattern is starting to come through his skin, exotic shadows of black upon the dusky red. He will be coloured like his father, who is a warrior somewhere on a far-off planet.
She hugs her child, and kisses him again. Every time she passes his crib, his basket, she picks him up, holds him, sings him a gentle rhyme to amuse him. Everywhere she goes, he goes; when she smiles, he smiles; when she speaks to him, he laughs and reaches for her.
Soon she will see her mate, the Zabrak warrior who first took her to his bed some years ago. They could ill afford to bear a child until now, for they are not wealthy and even the maid who keeps her company while the child is new, even she can only be afforded for a few weeks more. Life is spartan and there is little luxury on this water-starved planet where his contracted salary must be heavily taxed to pay for the planetary infrastructure. No matter. Now he has been made Secondary Tactician in the forces of the ruler of the Deva system, there will be a little more, she may even be able to join him off-world, see for herself the wonders he has described to her. Her mate could not join her when this child was born, she does not know when she will see him, but soon she hopes, soon…
Carrying her child snug against her chest, she wanders to
their private room, kissing the top of the child’s head as she goes.
There is a black tunic in a chest, and she opens the chest, takes out the
tunic, buries her face in it and inhales deeply, opens her mouth a fraction to
discover all the nuances of the faint musky odour which lingers on it.
Her mate, Khameir, would laugh if he knew.
This is the tunic he last wore before he left for his posting. She has not washed it and his scent is upon it still.
She is his consort, his Tai Shan -
she loves him very much, she misses him.
She puts the tunic to the child’s nose. “Your father.” She whispers, smiling, and the child inhales, grasps the fabric of the tunic and eagerly tugs at it. This little thing she does – it is all she has of him for now, that and the child.
The baby is in a carrying basket set upon the floor as she sews. He lies upon his back, playing with a bright toy, waving it in the air with a vigour beyond his age. Suddenly he stops, looks into the distance and burbles baby words. Then he shrieks, kicks, and waves his arms frantically, laughs and cries together. She puts away the needle and the thread, picks him up to calm him as he struggles and reaches over her shoulder. There is no-one there to cause him such excitement, only the maid who is setting the low table for supper.
Suddenly, she wonders, instructs the maid to set another place.
“Oh Madame!” exclaims the maid, bustling to and fro with knife and napkin, “Do you think….”
“Perhaps…” whispers the mother, hoping, hugging her child.
It is later, time has passed and she has fed her child, now she too must eat. The sun has almost set and evening shadows darken the room, the last of the light suffusing the simple room with a dark rosy glow. She sighs as hope fades, sits on the cushions with the baby in her lap, and suddenly, he is there, framed in the doorway, looking at her. The maid is behind him, grinning like a mad-woman. She takes his small haversack, sweeps the cloak off his broad shoulders, and leaves, quietly closing the door behind her as he turns to thank her.
The warm night breezes waft through the open windows bringing with it the faint scent of a flower, and he strides quickly to her, sinks to his knees before her. He strokes her cheek once, the Zabrak way, then brings his lips to hers in a gentle kiss.
Ah, but she feels the fire beneath it, the heat which has been stoked by separation and denial.
The baby is between them, so he picks him up, strokes his face, kisses the top of his head while he looks at his woman.
“So this is our son. And he is truly perfect? No malformation, no taint?” he asks gently. New fatherhood puts an almost imperceptible edge of anxiety to his voice as he asks the ritual question, even though he knows the child is indeed perfect. Smiling, she shakes her head and he reaches for her, looks into her eyes and kisses her again, accepting this gift of a perfect son.
The child feels the electricity between the father and the mother, feels the tension between them build, feels excluded, feels alone and cries with envy. The black clad warrior cradles his baby son in his left arm, laughs a little and looks at his woman as he kisses the baby’s head again. ‘He is aware, he is blessed with the Force.’ He thinks, and murmurs “Hush, boy.” As he uses his own talent, places his hand on the baby’s head until he is asleep.
The child is in his basket, oblivious to what occurs around him, his fists are clenching and relaxing in turn, as he breathes lightly, eyes firmly closed. He does not see his father’s yellow eyes gleam with desire as he pulls his woman down on the cushions, murmurs into her ear of how he has waited, how he loves her, and how he wants her. Just once, the woman says “…the child, he will wake…”
“No, he will sleep.” Says the warrior dreamily, his mind lost in the wonder of his Beloved’s lithe and eager body, his hands buried in her tunic, his lips on her neck.
The man rises from their bed and studies the view from the
window, the day will be good, the mountains have decided to dispense a gentle
breeze which cools the air. His red
and black skin shivers at the unaccustomed chill, then the baby suddenly cries
for food, so the mother stretches, reaches for him, and brings him to her.
Before she unwraps him, she washes her teeth and mouth, then chews a
little fruit which she placed by the bed the night before. When
it is soft and minced fine, she kisses the baby’s mouth and uses her tongue to
open his lips, when she pushes some of the food into his mouth.
To encourage him to swallow, she gently licks the throat with her tongue,
applying a light pressure. In this
way she feeds him fruit and a delicate cooked meat as her mate watches in
approval, until he comes and lies by her, to watch more closely, hold her, and
disturb the child’s feeding by playing with his toes.
At first she ignores his attentions while the baby laughs and wriggles,
until she must laugh also and tell him to have done or the child will starve.
So he studies the minute fingers, marvels at the diminutive
transparent claws, and when she has finished, uncovers the child and studies his
tiny perfect body with amazement, and pride in their achievement.
While she cleans the child and prepares him for the coming day, Khameir showers – a meagre shower, for water is costly and he is mindful of waste, but he enjoys it nonetheless. He tells himself that later they will bathe in the lake, and that they will luxuriate in the feel of it’s cool clear waters against their skins. Perhaps he will show his son the water, float him upon it, let him start to find the freedom a swimmer knows. Thus he dreams as the warm shower flows over his patterned skin, until his woman slyly joins him, pulls him to her, shows him yet again how she has missed his loving.
Reaching into the chest, looking for a clean tunic, he
finds what she has carefully hidden away, and pulls it up in puzzlement,
thinking perhaps she has placed it here by mistake.
With one hand holding the lid of the chest, the other holding the tunic,
he turns to see her standing looking at him.
He sees she is abashed, thinking he will judge her foolish and sentimental.
Indeed he judges her!
He judges her loving, and that she misses him fiercely when he is absent
from her, so he will take her with him next time, for he also finds the
separation hard to bear. But he
will think about that tomorrow, for there is the day to enjoy, and the day after
that, and the day after that. There
is a wild abundance of lazy days in which to enjoy his Tai Shan, his new son,
the lake, and the harsh and severe beauty of their home.
So he smiles at her, replaces the tunic without a word, fetches another, tells her what he wants to do for the day…
On this day, they will walk by the lake, and picnic on its shores, enjoy the feel of home, and their place within the pattern of it. The snow-clad far mountains are a majestic backdrop, their cold austere beauty a fine counterpoint to the friendly warmth and sun-kissed earth of the valley beneath their feet. The warrior carries his gurgling son on his left arm, cradling him carefully, and holds her hand in his right, while she carries a small pack which holds fishing line, fresh bread, fruit, and a small portable stove.
While her mate baits the hook, and casts the line from the edge of the water, she holds the babe, clapping his hands when the bait is taken, and shrieking with delight when a fish is landed. “Hush!” says the father sternly. “We must have silence or the fish will flee and we will go hungry today.” So she pulls a little face at him, and when he has gathered enough, pushes him into the cold water as she gathers up the fish, then she guts and spits them, and starts to cook them under the low branches of a twisted tree.
He takes this opportunity to play in the water, delighting in the cool freedom of it, until it is her turn, and then he must sit by the stove, cooking and cooing to his child. And when the fish is cooked, she walks to the tree and dries in the hot sun, waits for her food to cool. He offers her the fish, and starts to eat his own portion. This surprises her, it being customary for fish to be the food of females, being a light and delicate flesh.
“..some old man’s tale, about it being good for
developing brains.” He murmurs. “Feed
some to the boy.” The taste of
the hot flesh is truly wonderful, and the pieces fall apart in her hand, so as
he commands, she eats of it herself and feeds the child between mouthfuls.
Khameir watches his woman feed the boy, and recalls his own father catching fish from the lake and feeding it to him, during his childhood years. A family haunt, this lake; a family tradition this eating of fish; a family trait this ‘awareness’. Quite deliberately he does not recall the ancient legends of a warrior goddess and her Jedi suitor, the old stories of nuclear war and devastation, or the almost-forgotten name of the lake – Nimith’s Lake.
Before he returns to Deva taking her with him, he insists that she learns to shoot, to defend herself, which she does to please him. He tells her that Deva can be wild, and in some places, lawless, that sometimes he is posted to lonely and deserted places. To her own surprise, she learns quickly, enjoys the task, finds a deep satisfaction sending blaster bolts unerringly to their targets. When she out-shoots him, he judges her ready, and they depart for Deva, to find that the ruler has undertaken a great pilgrimage of his realm.
They must be presented to the Archan, the benevolent tyrant who rules this system named Deva. The Archan is a most meticulous man, and he is a great patriarch of his people. He rules with a firm and authoritative hand and a thought for justice, and does not dispense death lightly. He has decreed that his senior officers, from captains to generals, must be presented to him, as he makes his annual progress from fortress to barracks to army outpost. And Khameir Sarin is a Secondary Tactician in his great army, he trains certain of his warriors, designs their stratagems, hones their battle plans to a soldierly perfection.
The occasion is simple, a dignified meeting of master and servant, in an unpretentious council room - no awe inspiring ceremony, no courtiers, no ostentation. The council room is small and intimate, it is late afternoon, and the sun streams through the windows, endowing the room with a bright cheerfulness. The ruler is attended by a visitor, a Councillor Palpatine of Naboo, and a single guard of honour stands at the door.
Khameir enters the chamber carrying his young son on his left arm, holding Kha’reines hand in the Zabrak way, bringing her with him in the time-honoured manner of his people. Lord Sarin makes a small bow as demanded by protocol, as the officiating priest announces his name and rank, and gently commands the child to do likewise. The boy turns to the Archan, and fearlessly studies him, and as he turns his head, he meets the eyes of Palpatine, the Councillor from Naboo.
The child’s eyes light up.
They stare at Councillor Palpatine.
Palpatine returns this stare, perhaps finding a shadow of darkness in the
child’s soul which responds to his own.
The Archan is of a curious nature, he notes the exotic pattern of the man, sees it repeated upon the child, approves the simple but finely woven tunic and stole of the female. ‘Truly he is the father.’ He thinks, and beckons the warrior closer. “I would know more of your kind.” He demands. “Bring your female and child closer, that we may discuss matters.” The Archan pauses, considers the customs of his intimate household, asks - “Why is your female not veiled?”
Khameir bows. “It
is not our custom, Lord, for our women are equal with our men, as our men are
equal with our women.” As he
answers, he wonders why his child is so still, breathing so gently.
Following the boy’s unflinching gaze, he finds Palpatine’s eyes, and
for a moment, sees a great and chilling darkness, such roiling black depth and
horror his mind spins with the enormity of it, and he feels he is falling into a
maelstrom hungry for his soul. The
room dims and suddenly terror finds him, shrivels his soul to a charred nothing,
and a terrible foreboding seizes him, as he fears for his son.
…then equally suddenly, the sunlight is streaming once again into the
bright room, and he realises his ruler is speaking…
“But is she for sport or the bearing of young?” the
Archan is asking, gravely, Such
equality is a novel concept to the Devans, and the Archan is attended by several females
of his own kind. There is a female
who will engage him in delightful conversation and indulge his penchant for
philosophy; there is another for sport; another to bear his children; and
another and another. The female who
satisfies his desires is veiled, lest her exquisite beauty cause lust to
rise in the hearts of other men.
Khameir finds his tongue, speaks softly, and gently but
unobtrusively turns his child away from the Councillor.
“It is our custom to take but one consort Sire, and we are all things
to the other.”
“Then she must be veiled, for that is our custom also.”
Reproves the Archan gently, as Kha’reine’s eyes flash with anger and hurt.
Inclining his head in submission. Khameir turns to his woman, “Forgive me, Beloved.” He says quietly, handing her the boy as he takes the fine stole from her shoulders and draws it over the back of her head, leaving her face uncovered. As he reaches to her head, the child stretches around his father, he continues to look towards Palpatine of Naboo, and his father subtly moves again, to keep his gaze from this Palpatine.
The Archan then enquires lengthily upon their lodging, and whether the climate is to their liking, and commands him to attend him this evening to discuss his armies. And all the while, the warrior attends his woman and child, places himself between his son and the dark. But in the late and setting sun of the balmy afternoon, the shadow of Palpatine stretches inexorably towards the child, touches the shadow of the father and darkens it, making him shiver and his skin crawl, filling his mind with dread for his son.
The audience over, the warrior and his woman leave, and the child twists and turns in his fathers arms, looking towards Councillor Palpatine, of Naboo. The shadows lengthen further, and prophesy that the reach of a Sith is long and terrible, but Palpatine chooses not to reach, for now.
In the few short years which follow, until the boy has eleven summers, the father teaches the son. He imbues honour, and a warrior’s code; he embeds in him a respect for duty and responsibility; he gives him love, unconditional, and it is returned in abundance. The boy, being male, must perforce have military training from an early age – a caste duty – but he likes the school, enjoys the spartan but fair regime, enjoys meeting the aliens who come to get the best military schooling available for many parsecs. At his father’s suggestion, he adopts the stave as his weapon of choice – is fanatical, indeed obsessive, about practice and training.
When school is finished. there are holidays, and rarely, festivals, and quiet happy childhood. He walks by the lake with his beloved father, discovers for himself the pleasures of catching the fish and swimming in ice-cold water fresh off the mountain, he finds the names of the stars and learns them all, yearns to see the deeps of space as his father does.
Just as his father meticulously follows custom and tradition, he does also, following his example and wanting his approval. He trains for adulthood, his beloved father teaching him the breathing and meditation he will need to control his mind and body when he meets his Tai Shan.
But most of all, there is the Force. It pervades his mind and spirit underlying all that he does, although he is unaware of the power he could call upon, if he but knew. His father teaches what he can of this, passing to him what he learned from his father, who learned from his.
After some time, when he is almost grownup – being of eleven summers almost - there is a baby sister, again, much loved, although he sees her but little.
Because of her love for him, his mother sometimes stays with his father off-world. After one such holiday, when he has returned to the school, his father pilots the small shuttle to the space-port. Kha’reine is by his side, their daughter secured into a baby-harness snug against her chest.
But over the mountains, as the sun sets in the late afternoon, the ion-drive fails as the explosive device is detonated by the assassin waiting in the shadows in the valley…
As systems fail and control of the shuttle is snatched from him, he realises that they are lost, and that death is but a few breaths away.
He unbuckles her harness and straps her in with him, then pulls their child between them and gathers his Beloved in his arms.
Looking into his Tai Shan’s eyes he shuts out the sudden vision of Palpatine.
He kisses her with such a passion she forgets all else, and as the shuttle loses height and falls down the mountainside, he holds her tight, snatches her mind away, and they do not know the pain of breaking bones and shattered bodies.
Sidious had hoped to taste this warrior’s fear and feed upon it, with the pain of the woman as dessert, and the terror of their daughter as a small aperitif, a dainty snack. But there is nothing, only a void in the Force, where once there was a thread of power, gifted brightly with honour, courage, and constancy.
He snarls quietly in displeasure, hits the arm of the chair and curls his lip in disappointment, instructs the pilot to transport him to the nearest city where this sad event might be reported to authority.
A new age dawns in this late afternoon. The dark hand of the Sith has reached the warrior who stood for but a brief moment in Palpatine’s shadow, and kept it, briefly, from his son.
© Dark Lady - 15 October 2000