Fumbling Towards Eden

Chapter Three

“Don’t cry. One day we’ll be able to say ourselves. And our words will be even lovlier than our tears. Wholly fluent.”
-Luce Irigaray

Lord Vader was only half-listening to Admiral Oayen rambling eagerly through his latest intelligence findings. It had been some time since Alaria
had wandered away from him, and, looking around the room, he couldn’t find her. He turned and searched the crowd more thoroughly. Still nothing.

Reaching out through the Force, he sifted through the room’s occupants. She was gone.

“Admiral, you will excuse me,” he said smoothly. He walked away brusquely, leaving the man in bewildered silence.

Vader walked to the guards posted at the far door. “Where has the Lady Vader gone?” he asked.

The guard nodded to the door. “That way, my Lord.”

Shit.

Pushing the door open with one gloved hand, he strode swiftly down the corridor. He sensed a dark cloud of energy in the Force, growing
closer as he rounded the corner of the hallway and approached a door.

He flung it open and drew in his breath sharply at the scene. The Twi’lek reporter sat slumped in a chair in the center of the room. Her eyes
were rolled back into her head, which lolled grotesquely from side to side on her shoulders. The lekku to the left of her face had been cut – no, torn
– off. The stump was gushing blood in a steady, spurting stream of crimson.

The other half of the lekku was in his wife’s hand. She looked up at his entrance. Her eyes blazed with an internal fire and her mouth was
twisted into a sadistic smile. Her tongue snaked out of her mouth to lick away the splatters of blood and gore that painted her face.

She dropped the lekku and her hands flew to her mouth in mock surprise. Her eyes widened innocently.

“Oops,” she said.

Vader stepped further into the room, his footsteps calm and measured. He coolly surveyed the scene.

“Oops?” he asked evenly.

“I did warn you,” Alaria answered. She shrugged her shoulders simply, raising her palms in a submissive gesture.

“And I told you to restrain yourself,” he growled. “You call this,” he gestured to Agsi’illi, “…restraint?”

“I call it justice,” she responded. “She got what she deserved for wagging her lying tongue!” She kicked the severed pile of flesh at her feet, it slid
along the blood-slick floor with a sickly plop. Her gaze followed the path of the lekku stump, then returned to her own body. She stuck one foot out
before her and turned it from side to side, inspecting. The shoe, made of soft bantha leather, was covered in blood that had already begun to dry a
dirty, rusty brown. “I think the shoes are a lost cause,” she mused, “but I took care not to ruin the dress.”

The Sith Lord was thoroughly tired of this game. Most of Alaria’s antics he could tolerate, even find amusing. This time she had gone too far. If the
only thing his wife understood was pain, then he’d gladly speak her language. He crossed the room in three long, decisive strides. Before she could
react, he raised one gloved, metal hand and struck Alaria’s cheek with a resounding crack. The impact spun her body sideways. She lost her
balance and toppled backwards. Vader’s hand again shot out – this time to catch her fall – but she mistook his intention and leaned away from him
frantically, crashing against the solid desktop behind her.

“The baby!” she shrieked in desperation. One hand flew to her stomach, the other moved to her face where her pale skin was already blooming into
a deep, raw pink.

“I couldn’t possibly harm her any more than your recklessness already has!” he roared. “Have you any idea what you’ve done?”

Agsi’illi stirred, shaken back to consciousness by the commotion.

“Please…” the Twi’lek moaned.

Vader looked in her direction, startled. He let out an audible sigh that overrode his regulated breathing cycle. Extending an arm, he curled his
fingers into a fist.

Realizing his intent, Alaria let out an enraged howl. “No!” she screamed, frantically trying to push herself back to her feet.

“I will end this now,” Vader told her calmly, squeezing his fist tighter.

“Don’t you dare!” Finally pulling herself to her feet, Alaria lunged at her husband, relying on sheer bulk of form to propel her forward and knock him
off balance.

“It’s time you learn your place, ‘wife’,” he growled, reaching out through the Force to push her back into the desk again.

This time she stayed down, glaring at him with icy fury as Agsi’illi’s head slumped forward with a final, strangled cry.

“You’re an arrogant bastard!” she spat.

“And you are a sadistic bitch,” Vader countered smoothly.

“I thought that was what you loved about me,” she answered with a smile.

He laughed and took several steps forward, reaching down to pull her to her feet. “Perhaps you should refrain from thinking in the future. It’s not
your strong suit.”

The smile dissolved. She said nothing.

“You seem to excel at acting like an untrained animal.”

“And what is it that you excel at, Anakin?” she replied. “Besides killing your pregnant wives, of course.”

Vader’s hand snaked out and struck her again. Hard.

“The lady shouldn’t speak of things she doesn’t understand,” he seethed.

“Is that what happened to your first wife? Did she…”

He hit her a second time. Then a third. Red oozed from Alaria’s nose and mingled with the stains of Twi’lek blood. Soon after another trail
appeared, this time made of tears.

“Oh, now you cry?” he mocked.

She glared at him. “Does that surprise you? Did you think me incapable?”

“You are incapable,” he answered. “You act how it suits you, when it suits you. You are a changeling of the worst kind, precious one.” He spoke the
nickname with contempt, spitting out the words like rotten meat.

“You’ve no right to judge me,” she said quietly. The right side of her face was now turning a dark purple. “You’re just as hollow as I am.”

“You think so?” He seemed amused by this. “I have no use for your opinions.”

“Nor I for yours, and yet still you offer them.”

His laughter grated against her ears. “I am your lord and husband by law. By right.”

“So I should just follow you without question and do everything you ask?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t,” she said simply.

“You will learn,” he stated. “The hard way, if necessary.” To strengthen his meaning he clenched his hands tightly and held up one fist before
her.

He turned on his heels and strode to the door. He paused and spoke over his shoulder. “Dispose of this mess and return to your party. Now.”

Then he was gone.

Alaria’s method of disposal was to call for two Imperial ‘troopers and delegate the job to them. When they had dutifully completed the gruesome task
she killed them, shoving the durasteel blade into their necks at the space where helmet met armor. She left their bodies propped grotesquely at the
entrance to the study, as if awaiting further orders. She’d obeyed Vader’s orders by cleaning up her first mess, but had left a second in its place.
Alaria’s cheek was radiating a dull, throbbing pain where he’d struck her.

She made her way back to the ballroom reluctantly – hair re-pinned, shoes replaced, make-up reapplied to cover the ugly purple bruise that had
formed below her right eye. Vader was waiting for her just inside the double doors; when she stepped through his hand clamped onto her elbow
firmly. He obviously had no intention of letting her leave his side for the remainder of the evening. Alaria felt a restrained fury sizzling just beneath
his cool demeanor.

Despite her efforts, the bruises on her pale skin were clearly visible. When she caught one woman gawking at her she leaned close to the coifed
curls of the lady’s hair and whispered, “Imagine what he’d do to you,” with a wicked smile.

The comment succeeded in making the woman avert her gaze, but it also earned her a sharp squeeze from Vader that made her wince.

-=That hurt,=- she sent angrily.

-=I know,=- he answered.

She stood with her husband, eyes cast downward and hands limp at her sides, while Vader engaged in small talk with a handful of Senators from the
Core planets. His grip on her arm made it clear she was expected to remain silent and demure. Any discussion aimed at her was acknowledged with
a simple nod and nothing more.

When the symphony concluded its’ waltz and did not begin another, the crowd grew silent. It took Alaria a moment to realize what all the fuss was
about.

Surrounded by flanks of red guards the Emperor’s hunched form appeared as if from thin air. Decrepit and frail, his brittle figure glided with dignity
across the floor. He stopped at one end of the long hall, his back to the door he’d entered from. After a pause, he raised his hands to the crowd in
supplication, keeping his head lowered and his palms upward, as if he were preaching. This served as both an acknowledgement and a greeting – it
was apparent he did not intend to speak.

The crowd was motionless for several long moments, unsure of protocol in such a situation, but a wave of the Emperor’s hand prompted the
orchestra to play once more, and the silence was again devoured by the chaos of the gathering.

A second gesture summoned his apprentice.

“My Master,” Vader bowed, tugging Alaria down with him.

“I trust you are enjoying the party, Lady Vader?” the Emperor asked dubiously.

“Of course,” she replied gracefully, lips curving into a coy smile. The grip on her arm tightened once more in warning.

“Good, and now, a gift for your new husband, my loyal apprentice,” one shriveled hand disappeared beneath the folds of his robe and reemerged
grasping a small holovid projector. A flick of his thumb called into view the image of a planet, one that Alaria could not immediately identify.

“Lord Vader, Vjun is now your domain,” the Emperor told him with relish. “Complete control and reign over the planet are yours alone. I have already
ordered construction of a retreat for you there. I imagine it will be a suitable place for your wife and daughter to reside.”

Alaria raised one slim hand and feigned a sneeze to smother her scowl. So that was his game – deposit her on Vjun and keep her as isolated as
possible. Privilege of the Empire her ass. She admitted to herself, though, that being separated from her new husband was not an entirely
unwelcome thought. Things between the two had deteriorated considerably since they’d returned from Ord Mantell.

Vader was speaking now, expressing gratitude at the gift, but she only half-listened. This song and dance – the cadence of placations and platitudes
that passed between master and apprentice did not interest her. She had accepted that she would never understand Vader’s unfailing loyalty to
Palpatine; it was, in fact, something she resented more than she cared to admit.

She heard her husband thank the Emperor once more, and then request leave to retire, being bored with the political showcase. Alaria bowed her
head slightly as they retreated, carefully avoiding Palpatine’s eyes, but seeing, rather clearly, the grotesque twisting of a smile amongst the mass of
wrinkles that defined his face.

******

Once back in their apartments, Alaria expected Vader to retreat to his meditation chamber for the remainder of the night to brood, as he always
did of late. Instead, he activated the hyperbaric field in the bedroom and began stripping off his armor in silence. When his vocoder was removed,
and the mechanical regulation of his breathing ceased, the quiet hiss of the atmosphere controls were the only sound in the room. Alaria stood
against the far wall, leaning against the curved arm of the velvet divan, and waited. She sensed that his mood had changed to one of muted
contemplation, his fury dissolved by cold reason.

“My first wife,” Vader said, removing his gauntlets and setting them on the durasteel table, “was a Republic Senator. She was respected,
intelligent…” he paused, pulling off his heavy boots, “and a lying, cheating whore.”

Alaria said nothing.

“I trust you will not make the mistake of mentioning her to me again. If you do, I will cut out your tongue.”

There was still no comment from Alaria, who stood motionless, staring intently at the floor.

“Look at me,” he said evenly.

She raised her gaze slowly to his.

His eyes were blue, and clear, and cold, as they regarded her.

“Now you are my wife, whether you like it or no. You also have an opportunity to become the most powerful woman in the Empire. I suggest you
act more carefully in the future.”

“I’ve never cared about power,” she said.

“Haven’t you?” He laughed. “You made murder your profession.”

“Yes, and I kill for money.”

“Money is power. Taking life is power. You may claim differently, but I can see your obsession, perhaps better than you.”

Alaria’s expression was one of boredom but her eyes betrayed her interest.

“True power is best gained through patience,” Vader continued. “It provides opportunity.”

“For what?” she asked.

He didn’t answer right away, instead he picked up a stack of flimsies – intelligence reports from the Outer Rim – and sat down at his desk.

“Opportunity for what?” she prompted impatiently.

“For betrayal,” he said calmly. His tone was congenial. He raised an eyebrow nonchalantly. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, I think I do.”


Vader spent the next several hours perusing the reports on the flimsies. Alaria dozed for a time, waking just before the arrival of Lieutenant
Tarkhek for her examination, which was now a daily occurrence. The Sith Lord glanced up only long enough to see Tarkhek shake his head subtly,
answering the unasked question.

The baby still wasn’t growing.

Vader had instructed the doctor not to tell Alaria anything about her condition. Tarkhek disagreed with this, but knew well enough to keep such
sentiments to himself. His most famous patient was not as unreasonable a man, as he was often portrayed, but he was entirely unmovable with
regards to anything surrounding his wife. He was at times, in the opinion of Lieutenant Tarkhek, downright irrational.

Tarkhek had further concluded that Vader’s insistence on withholding information from Alaria was not so much about protecting her, as it was
about collecting ammunition to use against her.

Halfway through the fourth or fifth intelligence report Vader abruptly slammed a fist down on the desk, causing the doctor to start violently, and
nearly knocking over his assistant droid.

“My Lord?” he asked timidly, a trace of annoyance creeping into his tone.

Vader didn’t hear him. He was staring at the flimsy with narrowed eyes, reading and rereading the same two sentences.

“Lieutenant,” he said distractedly, “contact Captain Zarsyn and have him ready my flagship. We depart in the morning.”

“Will the lady be accompanying you, my Lord?”

“No,” he said evenly. “The lady stays.”

Statements such as these had, in the past, been met by sharp exclamations of dissent from Alaria. Lieutenant Tarkhek held his breath and
waited for the outburst, prepared to dive out of harm’s way should the verbal tirade be accompanied by hurtling objects.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t even move. She just sat in the bed, hands folded atop her belly, her eyes dull and expressionless. The
Lieutenant feared Vader had finally broken her, after all.

“And myself, my Lord?” He had always been part of Vader’s entourage, but now that he was in exclusive charge of Alaria’s pregnancy, his place
was uncertain.

“You stay. I expect this mission will be rather short,” Vader smirked, “…and very rewarding.”

Tarkhek nodded and disappeared into the hallway, retrieving his commlink to follow orders. Once he was out of earshot, Alaria spoke softly.

“Do you intend to miss the birth of your daughter?”

“Of course not,” he snapped, standing up quickly.. “Get some rest, Alaria. I have things to prepare.”

******

When she woke the following morning, Vader was already gone. He’d taken the flimsies with him, but had left his spare datapad in his desk.
Alaria set to work slicing into it, trying to retrieve the information on his mission.

Imperial intelligence agents had located a Jedi named Gira; hiding on the outer rim, and training young Force-sensitives in an attempt to
rekindle the Jedi Order. The intelligence was solid. This was not a wild bantha chase, as their trip to Ord Mantell had been. The Sith Lord had gone
to confront him, and to kill him.

Vader knew well enough to realize that Alaria could – and would – invade his privacy in any manner available to her. He’d left the datapad within her
reach deliberately. In spite of himself, unflinching notions of loyalty now bound him to his wife, just as they had once bound him to Padme and to Obi-
Wan. And so, through hidden gestures, he did things for his wife to make her happy.

One such gesture had been the invitation of Agsi’illi, the twi’lek reporter, to their wedding reception.

News correspondents were rarely permitted access to Imperial functions, and for a tabloid nuisance such as Agsi’illi, admittance was normally
unthinkable. In fact, when she’d received a personal invitation, penned in the smooth script of Lord Vader himself, she’d dismissed it as a cruel prank
and thrown it in the trash. Fortunately, Vader had also arranged for official transport to arrive at her door just prior to the start of the gala.

He’d seen, all too well, the look of satisfaction on his wife’s face as she’d crossed the room, closing in on her prey. Agsi’illi had been his
wedding gift to her. Alaria had surprised him though, by going for the kill immediately. He’d expected her to wait, as she’d been instructed, until after
the party to exact her revenge. He’d promised it to her, hadn’t he? Did she trust him so little?

When she’d dared to mention Padme, he’d thoroughly lost his temper. His guilt over that loss of control now manifested itself in the strategic
placement of his spare datapad.

Alaria was somewhat appeased. She had no desire to be carted off to the Outer Rim while her husband sought to avenge old vendettas.

Her first order of business, after carefully replacing the datapad in Vader’s desk, was to test the limits of her new status. She activated her
commlink and summoned Lieutenant Tarkhek.

He arrived within moments – flushed and out of breath, his uniform only half-buttoned.

“Late night, Lieutenant?” Alaria asked, arching one sculpted eyebrow.

“Well, I was researching and…” he trailed off as he surveyed her. “My Lady, you’re not in labor.”

“Should I be?” This time a half-smile was added to the bemused expression she wore.

“Well, in point of fact, no. But you called for me and I’d simply assumed…” he paused again. “My Lady, why ‘did’ you call for me?”

“I’m bored,” she said, rolling her eyes with dramatic flair.

“And I’m confused,” he replied, eyeing her warily.

“I’m going shopping, Lieutenant, and you,” she pointed a slender finger at him with relish, “are coming with me.”

“I… did Lord Vader approve this?”

“He didn’t forbid it,” she chirped, reaching into her wardrobe and retrieving her cloak. Hooking it around her shoulders, she smiled at him.
“Shall we?”

“My Lady, this isn’t a good idea.”

“Of course it is. It’s a fine idea. Let’s go.”

“We need to make certain preparations. Guards must be summoned-“

Alaria smirked. “Lieutenant, I can handle myself. I would, however, like some company. Since you’re the only person I know on this gods-
forsaken rock, you get the job.” She laughed sharply, “you’re my only friend. How sad is that?”

“It’s… he only wishes to protect you, my Lady. The Empire is dangerous,” Tarkhek stammered. His eyes darted from side to side, clearly
uncomfortable with being put on the spot.

“Hmph,” pulling on a pair of soft leather gloves she walked to the door. “Let’s go, Lieutenant.”

“No, not without guards,” he said firmly. He wouldn’t budge on this. Lord Vader would have his head.

“No guards.”

“Just ten of them.”

She snorted. “Two.”

“Four.”

She sighed. “Deal. Four guards. Now can we go?”

******

Imperial Center had changed very little since the downfall of the Republic. Most local vendors had been permitted to remain in business; only
those unwise enough to voice any thoughts of a negative nature had been forcibly removed. Many non-human vendors left of their own accord,
amidst growing rumors of an anti-stance being adopted by the Empire.

The merchant quarter hunkered in the shadow of the crumbling ziggurat of the Jedi Temple. The Temple stood silent sentinel, watching over a
planet of infinite change and stagnation, existing as a contrast, a parallel, a warning. Alaria felt a strange comfort to again be in the streets of the
massive city, overwhelmed to the point of nausea by the assaulting smells of urbanization; exhaust from the airspeeders and transports whizzing
above their heads, sweat, spice from the herbalist on the corner, the unmistakable stench of life.

It was strange, being there again after so many months of isolation within the cold sterility of Vader’s apartments. He was going to be furious
with her when he returned, but it was worth it.

Her feet fell into a steady rhythm as she retraced her steps from two years before. Alaria listened to the slapping cadence of her leather boots
against the permacrete causeway. The sound had an unsettling lack of familiarity after seven months spent in the shadow of Vader. When the
clomp of boots behind her threatened to drown out the sound, she stopped and barked sharply at the trooper guards to make less noise. Tarkhek
looked puzzled, but nodded at the guards to do as she’d asked.

The little shop was unchanged. It was a boutique frequented by high society Curoscanti women, carrying perfumes, bath oils, and couture
gowns fit for any evening function. Each dress was handcrafted, and no two were alike. Alaria suspected that more than one of last night’s gala
guests had commissioned their gowns from this shop.

Two years ago, Alaria had been contracted to kidnap a wealthy Corellian tradesman who had insulted an equally wealthy rival. To successfully
capture her target unharmed, she’d forged an invitation to the Midsummer Festival ball and for that, she’d needed a dress. What had made her visit
to the boutique memorable hadn’t been the dress, but the seamstress-shopkeeper, who’d claimed to know the future.

The woman was standing just inside the door, and she too was unchanged. Alaria recognized her instantly.

“Outside,” she told Tarkhek impatiently. He nodded to the ‘troopers and stepped back out into the street. The men followed.

“My Lady,” the shopkeeper addressed her with a curtsey. “Come to fill your wardrobe?”

“You know why I’m here.” Alaria pulled off her gloves and set them perfunctorily on the table.

“This is a dress shop, and I am a dressmaker, so you must be here for a dress, my Lady.”

“You’re a Force-sensitive,” Lady Vader responded smoothly.

The woman hissed, casting a glance at the door. “I’m nothing of the sort, and don’t you dare say it.”

Alaria smirked. “You think my husband doesn’t know what you are?”

“You think I’d still be here if he did?”

“And why are you still here? It’s only a matter of time until they find you, if they haven’t already.” It was a statement, not a threat.

The woman shrugged.

“You knew I’d come here.”

“Yes.” She tilted her head to one side inquisitively, and eyed Alaria’s stomach. “You can feel it now,” she remarked.

“Yes. And he hates me for it.”

“Do you think he hates you?”

Alaria looked down, studying the way the gowns hung from their hangers, fabric ending just above the floor in even, measured perfection. “Of
course.”

“He doesn’t hate you, my Lady. Far from it,” her eyes gleamed like a child preparing to share a secret. “You are far more important to him than
you realize.”

Alaria settled one hand atop her belly. “Not me, our daughter.”

“No, my Lady. You. It’s you he has plans for. It’s you,” she pointed sharply, “that will bring him what he wants.”

The old woman offered no further insight into her musings on Vader's wife, or the Sith Lord's designs for Alaria. Threats and intimidations were
useless on the crone's battle-hardened attitude; she was, contrary to all appearances, a survivor. In the end Alaria had bought two gowns – one
she'd had altered to fit her pregnant form, the other she'd requested in the size she hoped to return to in six months time.

When Admiral Oayen appeared at her door several days later, she was wearing her new gown. It was a soft translucent pink affair that fell in pleated
folds to her shins. When the door-chime sounded, she casually waved the lock free with the Force and bid her guest to enter, not bothering to turn
around.

"You're early, Dustil," she muttered distractedly, peering at her datapad. "Have you seen the news broadcast? They're saying he's back."

"Who, my Lady?"

Alaria dropped the datapad and whirled on her heels with a start. "So it's true," she said smoothly, raising one eyebrow.

"Not exactly. Lord Vader remains on the Exactor, just beyond orbit. He has requested that you join him."

"Has he?" she smirked, amused. She doubted very seriously that Vader had requested her presence, so much as ordered it.

"He has, my Lady. I'll have your droid pack your belongings and join us shortly. The shuttle is waiting."

She didn't move. "Have you sent for Lieutenant Tarkhek, my physician? I'm not going without him."

Oayen nodded curtly. "Lord Vader commanded it. He will meet you on board."

"Good." Pulling on her velvet cape, she motioned Oayen through the door. "Let's go, then."

******

Lord Vader was waiting in the hangar when the shuttle pulled into the belly of the massive flagship, setting down atop the closed durasteel doors with
a metallic "clink". His pose was casual, with his thumbs hooked into his belt, and his cape flowing back over his broad shoulders.

"My Lady," he said in greeting, offering an arm to his wife as she descended the shuttle ramp. -=New dress?=- he asked silently with amusement.

She smiled demurely and let him lead her through the labyrinthine corridors of gray and white. Stormtroopers – Vader's personal guard – followed
them several paces behind. Alaria vaguely remembered the layout of the ship from their time above Ord Mantell, and was surprised when the Sith
Lord paused before a door several long paces ahead of where she knew his quarters to be. She cast him a sidelong glance through slanted eyes.

"Your quarters," Vader said, waiving the door open and gesturing for her to enter.

She stepped inside the suite and turned back to face him, just in time to watch the door shut inches from her face. With a burst of fury she jabbed
one slender finger against the control panel. When the door didn't open she slapped it with her open palm, then pounded on it with the butt of her fist.

"Vader!" she screamed. He didn't answer. She continued to scream until her voice was hoarse and her throat raw.

The suite was sparsely furnished, though decorated with a feminine touch – a stark contrast to Vader's apartments on Imperial Center. The front
room was a sitting chamber with a small desk, a holoprojector, and a cluster of plush, stuffed chairs, covered in fabrics of red and gold.

A narrow corridor led from the sitting room to the bedroom, with the refresher midway between the two. The bedroom was large, its only furnishing an
expansive, spartan bed. One paneled wall slid back to reveal a closet, which was, Alaria noted wryly, completely empty.

Lady Vader spent the next several hours cycling between pacing restlessly around her quarters and napping in one of the large sitting room chairs.
Dinner came and went. In her pacing, she discovered another hidden panel in the wall. This one slid away to reveal a panoramic transparisteel
window looking out over the expanse of stars and blackness beyond the ship's hull. They'd pulled away from Imperial Center, but she couldn't
determine their location.

She was pacing the room in lengthy, deliberate strides when Vader returned. She glared at him with feral, red-tinged eyes.

"How are your quarters, wife?" he asked casually.

"You mean my prison?" she snarled.

"You are free to move about the ship wherever you like, Alaria, so long as I am with you," he told her.

"I have to be chaperoned?"

"There are 45,000 Imperial officers and solders aboard this vessel. 45,000 men, most of whom have not seen a woman in months; so yes, you have
to be chaperoned." He sighed and held up his hands in surrender. "I did not summon you here to argue."

He was tired, she realized. She sensed an exhaustion in him she'd never seen before, and it sobered her.

"Was your mission successful, my Lord?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Not for Gira," he said wryly.

"Tell me," she encouraged gently, gesturing to the chair beside her own. "I should like to hear it."

He considered for a moment before crossing the short distance and settling himself unceremoniously into the offered chair. Alaria glanced around
the room in an attempt to locate the controls for the hyperbaric field so that he could remove his armor.

"The ship is not as conveniently equipped as my apartments on Imperial Center," Vader told her. "I have a meditation pod in which I can remove my
mask, but that's all."

"How do you sleep?"

"Uncomfortably, and very little," he admitted.

"This Gira… was he a friend?" she asked, watching carefully for his reaction.

"No. Not exactly. I suppose we have a common past."

"Did you kill him?"

He chuckled. "I didn't have to. He killed himself."

"Why?" Alaria couldn't recall another instance of Jedi suicide. The idea intrigued her.

"He thought he could hide from the Empire, stealing children and filling their heads with lies and half-truths, as the Jedi Order used to do. I… released
the children from his lies."

"Released them?" She felt a growing horror at the meaning of his statement. She had never, despite her wickedness, harmed a child.

"I killed them. All of them," he barked, the synthesized rumble of his voice rising slightly.

"Was there no other way?" she asked desperately.

"I promised to spare them if he joined the Empire."

"And he refused? He let them die?" she pressed, startled.

"No. He agreed."

"Then why?"

"Betrayal," he told her calmly, "is the way of the Sith."

"But they were just children! You killed them!"

"I saved them!" he roared, slamming his fist down upon the arm of the chair with such force that Alaria heard it crack from within. "He stole them from
their families, consoled their mothers with promises he could never keep and never intended to. He ruined any potential they may have had. I saved
them," he repeated, quieter this time.

Alaria pushed herself out of the chair awkwardly. When she was standing, she turned to face Vader. "I certainly have no right to judge you or your
actions given my own, but know this, my Lord," she told him icily, "if you ever harm our child, I'll kill you."

She turned and stalked to the bedroom. The door whooshed firmly closed behind her.

"I know, precious one," he spoke to the empty room. "It's why I chose you."

“Dustil, what’s wrong?” Alaria asked quietly. She’d taking to presenting the question daily, and Lieutenant Tarkhek found it increasingly difficult
to lie to her.

“Nothing, my Lady,” he muttered guiltily, avoiding her inquisitive gaze. He’d come to realize, only recently, how beautiful she was. After seven
months at Lord Vader’s side she’d become more commanding and aggressive than before, but her eyes… her eyes were softer, deeper, sadder.
The Lieutenant felt a strange ache in his chest when he looked at her – it was becoming progressively more difficult to tell himself that all he felt was
a physician’s concern.

Medical Lieutenant Dustil Tarkhek had been a Corellian child prodigy who, at fourteen years of age, became the youngest applicant admitted to
the Curoscanti Medical Academy. He had completed his studies in two years rather than the standard five. Upon receipt of his degree, he’d sought
audience with the Jedi Council and had expressed an interest in serving the Order as part of their exclusive medical staff.

It was Master Yoda who voiced the loudest objection. “Great sadness I sense in you,” he’d said, pointing with his gimmer stick. “Dark, your
future is. Need your help the Jedi do not.”

When Yoda spoke out with such vehemence the other Council members hastened to stand behind him. Tarkhek had been sent away.

He’d returned to his homeworld and worked as a physician there, building a reputable practice for himself until the Clone Wars had intensified.
With reports of deaths in the thousands, Tarkhek had once again traveled to Curoscant, hoping the Republic army would accept his offer of service;
hoping that perhaps the Jedi would reconsider their rejection in light of the grave tragedy they now faced. He’d requested audience with the Council
half a dozen times. Each denial grew increasingly terse, until they stopped responding altogether.

Two months before the battle above Curoscant, Tarkhek was summoned by the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic for a personal audience.

“I’ve heard,” Palpatine had commented loftily in greeting, “that you are the most talented physician to pass through our Academy.”

“What good is skill if it’s left unused?” the doctor had commented bitterly, oblivious to the affectionate sparkle in the older man’s eyes at his
resentful words.

“I’d say no good at all, son.” The Chancellor had looked at him inquisitively. “Why haven’t you offered your services to our army?”

“I have, sir!” Again, he could not keep the bitter edge from his tone. “The Jedi have declined my offer more times than I can count.”

Palpatine had nodded knowingly. “It seems that the Jedi are, perhaps, intimidated by your potential. Fortunately for you, my young friend, I
control the Republic Army now, and I am not willing to waste your talents as they are.

“But, Chancellor, the Jedi said-“

The older man held up his hand patiently. “The Jedi are guardians of peace. Sadly, our galaxy is not now at peace. We face a threat of the
gravest nature, and war is necessary to protect everything the Republic stands for. I fear the Jedi do not understand what must be done.” He had
gestured for Tarkhek to approach him and had led him to the large, floor-length transparisteel windows, showing the vast urbanity of Curoscant in all
its’ modernization.

“I will pack for the Outer Rim at once, Chancellor.”

Palpatine had placed a hand congenially on the doctor’s shoulder. “You will be needed here very soon, son. Be patient.”

It was only later that Tarkhek had realized this statement’s foresight had come, not from intelligence, but from planning.

When the battle erupted, the young doctor had set to work immediately, relinquishing sleep and nourishment for days as he treated civilians and
soldiers. He was part of the entourage that waited nervously for the Invisible Hand to skid haphazardly to a stop on the battered runway. He’d
examined the Chancellor thoroughly before turning to a restless Anakin Skywalker.

“Are you injured, Master Jedi?” Tarkhek had asked gingerly.

“I’m fine,” Anakin had barked, “and I’m not a Master.”

“Patience, Anakin,” Palpatine had murmured, leading the young Jedi away with a nod of thanks to the doctor. Their heads had been bent
together familiarly in conversation.

The next time Tarkhek had encountered the Jedi he’d been near death, body smoldering pitifully upon a durasteel gurney inside the Emperor’s
shuttle above Mustafar. He’d been unrecognizable, unconscious, barely alive.

“Your Highness,” Tarkhek had stuttered, stumbling over the formality of Palpatine’s new title, “I don’t know that I can save him.”

“You can!” the Emperor had barked. “I brought you into my confidence for this purpose. He will live, or you both will die.”

Tarkhek’s fate had become intertwined with Vader’s that day – intricately and indefinitely.

When Vader first learned of Padme’s death, Tarkhek had been there, watching with mute fascination from the shadows. He’d shed the tears that
Vader’s broken body could not.

When the Emperor had ordered Vader to make a public appearance before the citizens of the newly named Imperial Center, and Vader had
been still too weak to perform the task, Tarkhek had donned the black armor and appeared in his place.

And now Tarkhek did another thing it seemed Vader could not. He loved Alaria.