#vxj

Oilrose doodle

The flat glow on the obsidian walls reminded him of Mustafar, as did the pervasive warmth. Phantom pains occasionally pressed hard against the joins of his legs and arm where they met the prosthetics when he let it weigh too heavily on his mind, but it was an added component of his perpetually sour mood. The timelessness of it all only made things worse; he had no idea how long he'd been here. Sometimes it felt as though the duration of his-- exile? imprisonment?-- stretched into infinity behind him, if time were linear, or in all directions and all depths if it were not.

He could not even remember how he'd gotten here.

There were other memories, yes, up to a certain point. Some high thrills, exhilarating moments. Heartbeats when he'd felt he might accomplish something. But to what end? Was this even an end? This place he'd landed in was so entirely unfamiliar to him...his memories were his only consolation, and they were particularly cold comfort. At least he had his holodisk from a happier time, short as it had been, and the apparently never-ending alcohol with which to drown it all out. He spent endless hours pacing, staring, training; when those failed him he designed ships, speeders, fighters, blasters, droids, even lightsabers-- anything that came to mind. He had some pretty fantastic sketches by now, and had almost reached the point of asking for approximate parts.

VI. 

"It's alright, I'm fine, it's really not that deep." Jemima waved off Vader before he could do much more than sheathe the lightsaber, her left hand clenched around her bleeding side. Whatever she said, however, blood continued to seep into her gown, soaking it a deep brackish red, darker than an average human's, both from her throat and the raking claw marks on her side and back. In an attempt to get up the woman only ended up falling back with a muffled curse, blood-slick hand flailing out to catch her fall on the cold marble.

"You sure about that?" The man asked wryly, pale blue eyes narrow as he knelt to take a look. When Jemima moved to swat the man away, Vader only growled and pinned her with a flat stare until she backed down with an ugly look, letting him inspect the claw- and teeth-marks that marred her skin and continued to pump thick, viscous blood out onto the ruined fabric of her gown.

"These look fairly nasty," Vader finally judged, expression flat and unreadable. "I have no idea how medical attention works here, so you probably need to summon--"

"No."

"What? But you--"

"No. If Lucifer finds out I'm injured, he'll come blazing in here and probably roast you before either of us gets a word in edgewise. Just let me..." Jemima swallowed and gritted her teeth, gathering her legs under her as she rolled to her knees.

"I don't think that's a--" 

"Shut up and help me up!" Jemima snapped, wide blue eyes crackling as she glared at her companion. "Seven circles but you complain like an old woman."

Surprisingly, Vader laughed. It wasn't a great laugh by any stretch of the imagination, more a low and gravelly chuckle than anything, but it was such an improvement over his general surly air and, moreover, a surprise that Jemima didn't even fight when his arm slid around her shoulders to heave her up, save for a broad wince as it yanked on her wounds. When he went to set her down on the bed she refused, teeth set into her lip.

"No use getting your sheets all bloody. Just set me down somewhere closer to the window."

Vader shot a sidelong look at the woman, skepticism written clearly across his craggy face. "You sure about that? There could be more of them." He jerked his head over his shoulder, indicating the pieces of the corpse that still lay on his floor, oozing a fetid greeny-black fluid onto the marble that smoked where it mixed with Jemima's blood. He didn't really want to think about what that meant for any other fluids it might produce or their possible effect on the woman he was now, despite his misgivings, carting to the sitting area by the window, where there were at least benches.

The woman groaned as Vader set her down, having never answered his question, and didn't open her eyes until some impatient fidgeting on Vader's part reminded her she'd asked to be brought to the window for a reason. Hands now clamped over the worst of her wounds, Jemima leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes again, lips moving silently. She spoke only once, and Vader could make out only what sounded like a nonsense word; he had no idea what 'vetis' meant or could mean, and given the other abilities she'd shown him tonight he didn't know what to expect.

He'd just turned to start pacing when something big landed on his balcony. Immediately the lightsaber appeared as Vader took a defensive stance, glaring down whatever-it-was until Jemima grimaced and kicked out at him.

"Stop that. This is my retainer, Vetis. He's here to help me."

Still glowering, Vader only slowly withdrew the lightsaber and eased back upright, eyeing the obvious demon with distinct distrust. To compound his irritation, this Vetis ignored him completely and went directly to Jemima, gently pulling her fingers away from her wounds with an aggrieved sigh.

"What did you do this time? Lucifer's going to destroy whole swathes of the kingdom when he finds out." Despite his chiding the demon as digging in a bag at his hip, bringing forth clean cloths and various flasks and vials, which he set down on the bench next to Jemima while inspecting the ugly wounds she'd garnered. The dress came away before Vader could properly protest, giving the other demon a proper view of just how much mischief Jemima had managed to get herself into, and a suffering sigh swept past his lips. He paused to look at Vader, looking distinctly irritated.

"Get me a bowl of clean water, lukewarm." Then it was back to poking and prodding the grumbling queen, gently turning her this way or that to get a better look in the moonlight, and after several moments (in which Vader stood there glowering, not entirely enjoying having been ordered about like a common slave) the demon snapped his tail and bared his teeth over his shoulder, hissing out a very snide 'please'.

Vader cursed and grumbled all the way to the bathing room, then continued to do so on the way back-- though he was careful not to splash or spill the water. Vetis wasted no time putting it to use once he'd made it back; no sooner had the bowl touched the marble than Vetis was dipping one of the cloths into it and gently cleaning Jemima's wounds, ignoring her winces and hissing as he dabbed the worst of the blood and saliva away. Watching him dab various ointments and strange-smelling creams on the wounds, Vader couldn't help remembering some of his own injuries-- times when he'd barely escaped death, or ended up with scars that had marred his frame until he'd been virtually reconstructed. A few of them remained, the thick twist of scar tissue across his eye one of them, and remembering that Vader found his eyes lingering on a similar scar on Jemima's face, a detail he hadn't noticed-- or, rather, had chosen to ignore.

Some distant part of him wondered, almost guiltily, how she'd come across a wound ugly enough to scar on such a vulnerable part of her body. She was no Jedi, no soldier in any war he was aware of, and for the most part she acted like a lady...although that didn't mean much. Padme had often played the lady, in fact enjoyed it, but he'd seen her just as easily take a blaster in hand as a Senate brief. 

He came back to the present as Vetis pressed a bandage over Jemima's neck, long white strips of cloth already wound around her rib cage to keep thick pads of fibrous fabric held in place, and Vader watched in silence as the demon packed his things away, leaving only three small vials behind. 

"Take this for the pain immediately along with this," Vetis instructed, indicating two of the vials with a claw, "to counter any lingering venom or whatever else that thing carried. Take the second one again in a few hours, and take this before you go to sleep." He held up the crystal containers, and Jemima took them with a fairly steady hand, finally sitting up. "I'll have food sent along once everything is cleaned up; make sure you've dressed by then, and don't get those bandages wet."

Jemima made a face. "You mean I can't bathe?"

"No. Not until Lucifer heals you properly." Jemima gave her retainer a flat look.

"Vetis, I've no intention of--" The demon held up a clawed hand, staring down his liege.

"There's no way you'll be able to hide this from him, my lady, and doing so will only anger him further. I suggest going to him soon as the sun comes up, or sooner if you can convince yourself. A few hours' rest will put some color back in you and dull the pain; once you've eaten and slept some I suggest you go back to him. He's already in a foul mood as it is."

Before Jemima could request details about her husband's mood, Vetis stood and strode to the window, leaping out into space without another word. Vader watched him fly away, then turned and folded his arms with a flat look at Jemima.

"Well?" His surly tone brooked no objections or arguments. Jemima sighed.

"He's sending a few small creatures along to clean up, things that take orders well enough but can't speak." She shrugged, then shot him a mulish look Vader wasn't entirely sure he deserved, considering she'd only continued to invade his space when he'd made it clear he didn't want her around. The woman threw up her hands.

"Don't give me that look! It wasn't as though I knew that thing was lurking outside your window-- I don't even know what it is. Besides, you get your wish now; I'm in no shape to keep pestering you and I'll be out of here as soon as I can make a convincing show. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to do as directed and get some sleep." That said, she shoved herself upright and swayed around Vader as his hands came up to grab her shoulders, stumbling just a little on her feet but otherwise remaining upright. She refused any and all attempts at aid as she walked back to where the tunic lay discarded and pulled it on; moments later Jemima had fallen face-first onto the bed and, by the looks of things, passed out immediately after downing all three of the vials at once.

On his side of the bed.

Vader shook his head, gave it up as a lost cause, and went to get a datapad from his desk, figuring he could at least enjoy the promised meal and, in the meantime, come up with a better defense system for his room. He didn't want any more damn sand-dragons or whatever the kriff that thing was busting in to attack when he was least prepared to deal with it.

V.

Frustration bloomed. Vader growled, eyes raking the room, but Jemima was nowhere to be found-- until moments later, anyway, when the distant splash of water told him she'd gone to the bathing room and ostensibly closed the curtain. The black silk dress she'd first worn this evening lay discarded in a corner, barely visible in the dim light against the black marble, and for a brief moment Vader saw in his mind's eye the figure of another woman in a similar garment.

He pushed it away and stalked back to bed, fed up with his guest and longing desperately for sleep. It was slow coming, drifting with teasing fingers over him and sneaking in between bursts of furious thought, claiming him between one breath and the next. As always it tempted him with dreamlessness; his body relaxed, his breathing evened out, and for perhaps an hour he slept easily.

Then the dreams came-- the nightmares. His past mistakes, looming again stark and terrible in his mind, relived again and again. Fear, rage, hate. Death and agony and pleading and broken love, romantic and fraternal. Anguish. He saw Padme's face, begging him--

He woke in a sweat, suddenly and absolutely. The lights were out again, black velvet curtains drawn across the windows to afford him absolute darkness. There was no sound, nothing; absolute void had crept into the room and for a moment, it scared him. Was he to be denied even a physical reality? But no, he could feel the soft fabric of his sheets, his skin pebbled with goosebumps, the scruff on his chin and cheeks. Moments later a slice of pale, whitish light cut the room in stark sections, lancing into the unrelieved black like a breath of cold winter air.

Vader realized it was, in fact, cold, far colder than he'd have expected with lava just outside. He looked up and blinked, teeth grinding tight and close together. A woman stood at the window in a long and loose gown, the cut and drape somehow familiar in a distant sort of way. In silhouette she looked almost like...but it couldn't be. She was dead, and wouldn't be here in any case. Vader's throat locked, his eyes wide; he felt like his body wanted to tremble, and only his iron will blocked its doing so. She looked so much like...even to the cascading fall of her hair, though as she turned her head he saw it was straight instead of curling, tucked up in a pair of loops like drooping butterfly's wings...

Jemima turned her head and looked at him, the pale white light gleaming strangely in her brilliant blue eyes. Vader felt his traitor heart sink and he wanted to cry out, to scream at her for tricking him like that, but yet she didn't seem conscious of it and he was tired, so tired. This whole night...he was tired, and so finished with it. Let the woman do as she pleased, he didn't care.

The man lay back down and turned on his side, eyes sliding closed; he hoped Jemima would just leave. She didn't, however; by the faint light beyond his eyelids it seemed she remained gazing into the night, if night it could even be called. There was, of course, no sun or moon here, no stars or celestial light. It was claustrophobic, pure agony to a man who literally lived among the stars, but then again, it was Hell; that capital 'H' meant a lot. 

The color of the light vaguely intrigued him in a tired, 'I-don't-care-to-get-up-to-investigate-but-it's-curious' sort of way. Typically the light ought have been red, red for the blazing lava and pure heat of Hell, but who knew? Maybe more of those strange witch-lights burned outside. Maybe some of the lava had cooled. Maybe Lucifer had decided to throw a damn garden party and had redecorated. Maybe--

"Is it like this every night?"

Vader blinked and frowned, sat up and turned to look at Jemima. She had fastened the curtain aside, letting the light in; now she leaned against the arch of the window, arms crossed, frowning at him as though he were a strange puzzle. It was uncomfortable and distinctly different from any of their previous exchanges tonight, leaving Vader uneasy and off-kilter. With the strange white light pooling at Jemima's feet, the encounter felt surreal, almost dreamlike.

"What--"

"The nightmares. You were thrashing, talking in your sleep. Sweating. Is it like that every night?" Her voice was low but, for perhaps the first time tonight, not taunting or sultry or sarcastic. She sounded genuinely...curious. Perhaps even concerned? Still, Vader felt old defense mechanisms kick in and he simply shrugged, having no wish to admit to the fact he couldn't sleep a night through.

Jemima took that as confirmation; her eyes glittered as she considered the infuriating human who had vexed her so much recently. To be perfectly honest Jemima had no idea what to make of Vader; he continued to defy expectations, thwarting and throwing aside every contingency plan the demon-woman had come up with for the evening. She had not in any way wanted sex with this man, but she was ruthlessly loyal to Lucifer and refused to allow anything to hamper him, even surface at inopportune times, and viewed the ill-taken bet as little more than an inconvenience for her best dealt with quickly. That Vader would then refuse her advances had not entered into her plans, and in turn she refused to be relieved at the reprieve.

Now, however, the driving emotions from the previous night were rising again. Earlier Jemima had been at the tip of savagely telling Vader that he had not, in fact, been visited either in dreams or reality by the kindly spirit of his deceased wife but, in fact, by the very woman he refused now to even hold a civil conversation with. What small, withered remnant of compassion remained had driven her to walk away before that happened-- perhaps because she didn't think she could stand to see the crushed look in Vader's eyes Jemima had no doubt would appear should he realize whatever small hope at redemption he'd gained was nothing more than an illusion.

Watching him toss and mumble in his sleep, sweat-slick and agonized, had tipped the scales in favor of sympathy. Nightmares Jemima understood; she'd had her fair share, after all, and lost people she loved both to her own machinations and to the ambitions of others. There were separations looming in her future that she feared and which haunted her sleep many a night (not that she would tell Lucifer as much), and so in some small way the once-human could empathize with the former Jedi. He wouldn't appreciate it, Jemima knew, but that was beside the point.

"There is a fallen angel who acts as a healer here, surprising as that may be; she lives not far from here. I could ask her to brew a sleeping draught for you, if you wish." At Jemima's quiet offer Vader looked up, gaze shuttered, but he only shook his head. A tiny thread of frustration once more took root; Jemima closed her eyes and breathed out for a few moments before seeking the man's gaze again. "Otherwise, I could convince Lucifer to drive the nightmares away for you, or you could perhaps gamble with him for it." A challenge lit Jemima's eyes, a reminder of why she had locked herself in Vader's chambers for the night, but the man only shook his head again in silent refusal. At that, a displeased sigh burst from Jemima's lips.

"Why? Is it simply that you'll take nothing from me? For morning's sake, not everything I offer you is laced with poison! I am genuinely trying to be gracious. Must you throw everything back in my face?" Jemima now glowered at Vader, arms folded tight across her front, but she sounded more cross than truly angry-- almost petulant. It brought a tired smile to Vader's mouth.

"No. Why does it bother you?"

Jemima opened her mouth, then narrowed her eyes. She stalked forward several paces, stopping once she'd reached the edge of the bed, and the white light fell strangely on her black hair and the soft folds of her gown, backlighting her where she stood leaning on one hip.

"Don't try to change the subject. You--" Suddenly her head whipped back toward the window, arms unfolding to curl into fists at her sides as though she clasped blades. Everything in her had turned tense, and instinctively Vader himself tensed to run or fight, following Jemima's gaze to the empty, open window arch. Nothing. After a few moments the woman relaxed somewhat, although she looked uneasy. Slowly she turned back to Vader, but he could see from the taut musculature in her neck and shoulders that Jemima was still prepared to whip around and fight at a moment's notice.

"I don't want to talk about it," Vader stated bluntly before Jemima could press the issue. He stared the woman down as she glared at him, but finally she just threw up her hands.

"Fine, fine. Only I'm bored out of my mind watching you sleep and there really is nowhere else comfortable to curl up, or I'd simply plunk down there and give it a rest." Now Jemima really was pouting; it was almost cute, and might have been if Vader had genuinely been in a mood to laugh. At the moment he was too emotionally exhausted to do more than sigh tiredly.

"You can't just sleep on the couch?"

Jemima wrinkled her nose, hands going to her hips. "Unless you've got some other blankets lying around, then no. It tends to get cold when Lucifer is angry and he is very, very, very angry right now-- the weather is beginning to show it, if you can call what we get here weather. Plus I wouldn't exactly call a stone block comfortable, although I've slept on worse."

Vader rolled his eyes and pulled a grimace. "You really aren't going to give it up, are you? I told you if you wanted a quick fu--"

"I'VE NO WISH TO HAVE INTERCOURSE WITH YOU, DAMMIT!" Real anger had crept into Jemima's voice by this point, and her eyes had narrowed to brilliant sapphire slits. "In case you've missed the broad plank I've been bludgeoning you with this entire evening, I never wanted that. I just want to sleep, and you've charmingly decorated this place with nowhere but the bed to comfortably sleep on. I'm asking that at least one of us get at least a partial night's sleep."

Vader stared at her, fuming and confused, not quite sure how to respond. Jemima glared right back, hands at her hips and her lips pulled tight. Finally-- eventually-- the man growled and started piling pillows down the middle of the bed beneath the blanket, leaving only a couple for them to lay their heads on when he was done. Jemima rolled her eyes and muttered something about childishness under her breath but offered no other comment before she stalked off, acidly biting out a thanks, to presumably change into sleep attire. When she walked back in, Vader took one look and climbed out of bed.

"No." Before Jemima could protest, Vader was digging through his wardrobe until he came up with a worn tunic; this he tossed to the woman, growling, "You're at least going to be properly dressed."

Jemima caught the garment one-handed, looking exasperated. "Really? Pillows and bulky clothes? What next, should I put a swo--" 

Whatever she had been planning to say was cut off as something the size of a good-sized dog came hissing through the window, landing upon the woman's shoulder and pinning one arm to her side. Two and a half foot wings lashed her face and buffeted her head while a stinging tail whipped around, darting in here and there as though seeking a vulnerable spot to strike. Jemima stumbled and cried out, dropping the tunic given her in favor of grabbing the tail as it swung dangerously close to her neck, but in doing so she left herself with no other defense as the creature sank its teeth into her throat. Her pinned arm scrabbled wildly at the thing's haunches to no avail; it had hooked its claws in her back and sides, clutching tight as it struggled to get its tail free from her grip.

Vader wasted no time. The thing was at this point officially on his turf and he had no compunction carving it to bite-sized pieces with his lightsabers in defense of himself or anyone else; it was, after all, in his kriffing bedroom. The red 'saber sailed into his hand with ease, appearing with a satisfying hum; one leap and an easy swing had the tail's stinging end loose in Jemima's hand. The thing, whatever it was, gave a screech through its locked grip on the woman's throat; Jemima, no longer having to fend off the tail's strikes, locked a now clawed hand on the creature's throat and brutally ripped it loose-- claws, teeth, and all-- from her body. She flung the dazed, screaming thing at Vader; it landed in pieces on the floor and that was that. The entire episode had taken maybe two minutes.

IV. 

Vader woke some time later to utter stillness. As per usual he was unable to sleep through the night, and with a grunt he passed a hand roughly over his face as he sat up. Sleep, for now, had been banished, but in the half-woken grogginess he did not immediately register that something was amiss. It took a few breaths-- dispelling the nightmares, as it were-- for him to remember that he was supposed to have a guest.

He couldn't feel her-- not in this room, at least. In his bedroom all was quiet, dark, and still: a perfectly restful place, for all that it was in the heart of Hell. In fact, now that Vader thought about it, Jemima had been oddly...quiet...ever since she'd been left facing Vader's back. In fact the once-Jedi Knight had somewhat expected the Queen Consort to make a nuisance of herself: sit on him, for instance, or poke him, or try to force the issue at hand. But she did none of these things; after a few moments the weight on the bed had lifted, and receding footsteps had indicated her departure from the bedroom.

Unfortunately, with a woman who had willingly married the Devil that really didn't bode well for Vader, so he closed his eyes and concentrated to see if he could feel her nearby. Sensing 'people' in hell was rather different to sensing people as he was used to in his home universe, as they were tied somehow differently to the world, but some individuals, such as Lucifer and Jemima, gave off such strong signatures they couldn't help but be recognized to the practiced 'eye'. It was, fortunately for them, an ability here unique to Vader, so far as he knew.

Perhaps that was why Lucifer kept him close, rather than flinging him out into the reaches of the Pits.

Vader's mind returned to the present with positive register he noticed, indicating Jemima was indeed nearby-- in the next room, in fact. As he concentrated he realized he could hear soft sounds, though odd in the context of the black of night: quick footsteps in strange patterns, heavy breathing, and a metallic swishing that came as barely a whisper, so faint he could hear it only due to years of training and partially-restored ear mechanics.

A soft grunt, a hiss.

Was she...fighting?

Eyes narrowed, Vader quietly slid from his bed and reached for his lightsaber, but common sense said to leave it sheathed for now; opening it would not only blind him but announce his presence. In near silence the man crept to the door to the next chamber, counting his breaths, trying to determine who the attacker was, or at least how many. It was difficult, because he couldn't sense it--them-- although that didn't necessarily mean anything; he couldn't sense many of Hell's denizens, which made things especially frustrating, particularly in this instance when even his mundane senses were failing him. Too many footsteps oddly echoing in the marble room, and was that a weird white glint, almost like firelight?

As Vader edged around the open arch framing the portal between the rooms, he paused. Balls of smokeless white fire hung disembodied in the air about the room, giving it an eerie glow despite the fact their light only extended a few feet around them; the polished black marble drank in and reflected back the light in strange and uncomfortably distorted ways. Among them flitted a dark shape, although as it neared one of the witch-lights he saw the gleam of pale, sweat-streaked human skin. Though he strained to catch any indications of attackers Vader saw only the one person-- one woman-- dancing on light feet about the chamber.

She'd obviously shed the heels, he noted dazedly (although she'd apparently neglected to put anything else on), eyes trying to track her movements, although it was proving hard. One moment she'd be in one place, then with a brief red flash she'd be in another, always moving, never still. She sliced around and through the witch-lights, using them as targets, remaining by and large out of the immediate spheres of pale light they emitted. Flashes of metal revealed the twin blades Jemima wielded with skill born of years using them, or blades like them.

Suddenly the show ended; Jemima landed between two lights close together and swung her arms out to either slide, slicing them neatly in twain and plunging the already dimly-lit room into utter blackness. She'd apparently closed the velvet curtains, so very little light filtered in, and Vader was momentarily disoriented. He groped blindly for his lightsaber, but before he could activate it a stronger will-o-wisp blew itself into existence, this one a pale blue in color. It hung close to Jemima's face, and Vader found it a mask of grim ferocity-- and all of it now focused on him. The woman's voice came out a snarl.

"What do you want?" Accusation and bitterness sang harshly in her tone and some part of Vader-- ruthlessly quashed-- wanted to cringe. Sprung upon him, Vader had no time to assiduously avoid the vision of her feminine form, but it wasn't what he'd expected. Staring blatantly, not awestruck but simply surprised into it, he found her whippet-muscled, supple and lean and curvaceous all at once. All the same she bore the hallmarks of an old illness-- sharp bones evident at her hips and wrists and collar, probably in her shoulder blades, in the lines of her face and the ever so faint stretching scars on her belly and hips.

Sweat gleamed on her pale skin, dripping and sliding along and over scars upon scars all down her hips and belly and legs, scars that curved behind her and slid up toward her breasts. Two particularly livid ones stood out, one across a shoulder and the other biting her side; they had the look of wounds recently healed, although she didn't favor them. Vader realized, for perhaps the first time, that Jemima was a fighter, not just of necessity here but for years and years of her life, presumably as a mortal, and the sudden understanding brought along the uncomfortable thought that he, Vader, didn't actually know very much about Jemima beyond the fact she was Lucifer's wife.

The cold touch of unease drifted featherlight along his spine, but he couldn't immediately answer her. He wasn't afraid, but the harsh bellicosity in Jemima's voice had both surprised and unsettled Vader; he wasn't sure what he'd done to deserve it, except state his intentions to leave her be-- as was her wish. Silence stretched between them, tension ratcheting higher with each passing heartbeat; the only noise in the chamber was Jemima's exhausted exhalations and the occasional drip of sweat upon the gleaming marble floor. Finally Jemima's lips peeled back in an unfriendly grimace as she straightened, blades falling slowly to her sides-- although Vader could see, faintly, that her knuckles were turning pale and bone-white, such was the force of her grip on their hilts.

"Well?" The cold fury evident in her tone brought Vader to bristling; she had no right to be angry. Jemima had been the one to barge in here, inviting herself and throwing her body at him and pushing for something he simply wasn't willing to give. The biting sarcasm Jemima had displayed from the first returned to Vader's mind and his own lip curled, his arms folding before him as he glowered menacingly.

"What are you still doing here?" The man countered, voice gruff and black and, as always, rude. Jemima twitched, blazing eyes narrowing, and a sharp burst of air through her nose suggested the woman wanted to snort but hadn't quite that level of disdain...yet. It didn't keep the dripping sarcasm from her tone, though.

"Did I wake you up from your little nap? I'm so sorry, you wouldn't even let me tuck you in. Unfortunately I'm not going to go crawling back to my husband for a quick fuck tonight, and there is not exactly anywhere else to sleep in this chamber save the cold stone floor. It seems your hospitality is as dead as your cock."

Vader gaped; Jemima, point scored, snorted derisively and turned, displaying the simple crowned plait she'd redone her hair into, and took a half-step toward the bathing chamber. Blinding fury took hold of Vader then. He found his lightsaber in his hand; in a heartbeat it was blazing in the still air, arcing toward this infuriating woman. A flurry of motion-- the saber was knocked aside, though he managed to keep it in his grasp, and Vader found himself facing down the length of one of Jemima's blades, the other carefully balanced against his wrist in a warning to keep the lightsaber down. The man glared at his assailant, the rage still pulsing white-hot in his veins.

"You forget," Jemima breathed into the tense silence, "who I am. Who I am married to. Or perhaps you never really understood. Did you think me a glorified whore, to be bandied about as a favor, as a toy?" Her eyes narrowed. "Would your wife have stood for such treatment?"

Vader ground his teeth. "Don't. You. Dare. Speak. Of. Her." This woman, this demon knew nothing of Padme, yet she dared profane that sacred memory? A growl slid past his teeth, but the cold prick of metal--he knew not what kind--at his throat meant he dared not advance if he valued his life.

And, coward he was, he did--even if it was a poor half-life spent forever waiting, never acting, never needed. They stared in deadlock at each other for several long moments until Vader cautiously backed off, reining in his anger with immense effort. Slowly, slowly, he drew away from the (still) naked woman facing him, face smoothing slowly into an unreadable mask, and eventually he turned away. The lights came on, whether by his will or Jemima's he didn't know or care, and by their dim glow he made his way to the sideboard and leaned against it, tension cast in his shoulders. Rage still pulsed beneath the surface, hot as the lava that cracked the rock and ice outside, but Vader pushed it ruthlessly away.

"It happened once," he growled finally, eyes fixed into the middle distance of memory. "She was spying on someone...an old acquaintance. Posing as available and...willing...though we were wed, even if the union was not...publicly known." The man grimaced and would have turned to glare at Jemima had she not still been naked, so far as he could tell; instead his grip tightened on the table's edge. "You should be glad I have treated you so civilly; by the end of that episode Padme had been poisoned and I barely got away with both her and the antidote in hand."

He had no way to read Jemima's emotions now, not that he cared to, with his back turned. The woman had proven infuriating even at the best of times, when she wasn't wholly forgettable, and dragging Padme into this had only fueled his anger. Vader didn't particularly give a damn if--that--Jemima had been offended by what was little more than a jest.

The silence stretched again. Vader had been prepared for a scoff, a snort of disdain, any sign of derision, but there was nothing. Save for the prominent register of strange power the Force designated as Jemima, Vader would almost think she had gone. He refused to break the standoff by looking at her, by betraying any unease at the boring stare he could feel digging into the back of his head.

When she spoke, Jemima's voice was soft, hardly a breezy whisper in the otherwise dead silence of the dim room. "Did you know," she breathed, and from the sound of it she'd finally turned her face away, "that for centuries I've been gifted with the ability to change my appearance? To clothe myself in the face and body of another, illusory as it is?"

No. He hadn't. 

Why had she bothered to say it?

Unless...