“So I take it Daddy has you out here playing ambassador,” said Darth Merce acidly. The dark man didn’t get up from his chair to greet Lathril, instead sprawling in it with his legs apart, as if half in challenge and half in dismissal.
Yet, Lathril sensed vaguely that the gesture was neither. There was impatience there, yes, but also extreme discomfort and even a little bit of fear.
“I assume he spoke to you then?” said Lathril.
Darth Merce said nothing, his glare unwavering.
“This doesn’t have to be difficult,” said Lathril finally, when Darth Merce didn’t speak. “Don’t try to kill me, and don’t get in my way when we’re on the same assignment. Agree to that, and I’ll be off.”
“So you’re not going to lecture me on justice and virtue again?”
“I know a losing battle when I see one.”
Merce barked a laugh. “Don’t let Daddy hear you say that! He might think you’re insulting me and separate us.”
Lathril sighed, willing patience. “You would prefer to work together? The Commander offered me two options; the second was we never see each other again.”
“This is a war,” Darth Merce snapped abruptly. “Such division in the ranks would destroy us. An unacceptable solution.”
Lathril was surprised despite himself. “At least we are agreed there.”
Darth Merce snorted, but he broke eye contact. Lathril licked his lips nervously.
“I have a question, actually, while we’re still on speaking terms.”
Merce’s blue-eyed gaze snapped back to him. “Ask.”
“Your eyes… they are an unusual color for a Sith.”
Darth Merce glared at him for a long moment without speaking. “…was there a question or not?”
“I — well — how is it so?”
Darth Merce only stared, then got up and ignited one end of his double-bladed lightsaber. Lathril jumped in shock at the threat, but what was even more shocking was the bright white-blue of Merce’s blade: like the eyes, not a color one expected to see in the hands of a Sith.
Darth Merce began smirking and then laughing. He recalled the blade and sat down again.
“How did you get that?” Lathril gasped.
“The normal way. I slew its master,” said Darth Merce with a wicked twist to his lips.
“But you have not broken it in,” said Lathril, referring to lightsaber’s crystal’s spirit.
“I didn’t have to. It seems to like me better than some old rag of a Jedi.”
Lathril didn’t rise to the insult. “For that to be true, your soul must be attuned to the Light Side of the Force…”
Darth Merce sneered. “Or I simply possess a very confused blade.”
“Yes, I suppose that is also a possibility,” Lathril conceded; he didn’t want to provoke the Sith, and the revelation was troubling as it was. Darth Merce continued to smirk as if he could read Lathril’s mind.
“Well,” said Lathril at length, covering his embarasment, “this is a good start at not fighting each other.”
Darth Merce rolled his eyes. “For the record, what I said in the Enclave still stands.” He squinted at Lathril. “You are a coward who wouldn’t dare to fight me, even if you could.”
Lathril grit his teeth against a flush of anger. “I will not dishonor Kyolath’s hospitality. Your words have no power over me.”
“For now,” said Darth Merce knowingly, and then he looked up at the ceiling lazily. “And if you do not want to dishonor my hospitality, then you can leave. Now.”
Lathril didn’t like it, didn’t like the implied powerplay or the Sith’s condescension. Yet he had promised peace to the Commander; he turned and left.