[ Everyone is coming and going, and most likely not in the way they had expected or preferred. Not in the way they used to. Everyone is curious about Anakin, too, having glimpsed him a few times when he's stopped by - no doubt to check up on Sarica, though, really, in this company it probably ought to be the other way around. A lamb for lions. Except, he reminds himself, as he watched Ulos stagger out into the gardens, fingers flexing into fists at his sides, this is a very battle-ready lamb and some very drunk lions. He has to trust that Anakin can fend for himself, he's had to watch him from afar before. It will be fine, because Anakin will make it so.
He has to believe that, and he has to stay central to this party. Relevant, he has to stay relevant. It's relevance or death, in these parts.
Having walked one more round amongst his guests that rank from slightly tipsy to completely pissed at this point, depending on their tolerance and moderation, Sarica has just halted by the divan next to the table of food, the one with the perfect view of the cleared floors where the Eastern Mountain dancers are performing in intricate patterns and to songs in a foreign tongue. Along the walls, his guests are standing in groups of two's and three's, speaking quietly among themselves. Sarica wonders briefly how many of them are planning his, if nothing else, political demise.
It should bother him more than it does. Then again, Sarica was never in it for the power. Now he just has a hard time recalling what he was in it for.
A frown, he seats himself languidly on the divan, legs folded at the ankles, these sandals still whole and unbroken, no fights yet. No fights yet. ]
[ As he stalks away from the gardens, Anakin follows the tell-tale signature of Sarica's presence blindly, caring little about where he's going. He's swallowed down the entire cup of wine brought by Ulos, trying to erase the taste of the other man's tongue in his mouth but the masking isn't good enough and every time he becomes conscious of it, his anger burns. He keeps thinking about this man in Sarica's vicinity, for years and years and years.
The snake tamer surrounds himself with serpents, sure, and they slither at this feet because he wills them to. Makes himself immune to the poisons they carry, out of habit, out of necessity.
Anakin will kill them if they touch him again.
He stalks into the gallery room and the temperature immediately drops to somewhere below freezing, the guests conversing by the walls shivering and looking around in confusion. Someone mentions a draft. On the floor in front of the table of food, a few of the dancers stumble. Anakin walks right past them, all the way to the divan where Sarica's inclining with his feet up and his gaze dark. Surveying the room, of course, keeping track.
Anakin hates them all.
He steps around the divan, placing his metal hand against the backrest. There, he simply stands, staring out across the floor of people, eyes hard and unyielding. Come closer, it means.
[ His guests may not understand what happens, but at this point, Sarica knows enough about the Force to recognise it, the source of it. Just an extension of myself, Anakin had told him. So, as Anakin stomps in from outside, looking livid, Sarica follows him with his eyes, frowning, feeling chilled to the bone - the kind of winter they never experience in Efith, and the Eastern Mountain people sure don't recognise it either, though they have colder nights there. Sarica knows, from many visits to his quarries.
But this is no quarry, and this is no mountain range and what is it Anakin is bringing with him from outside?
Wordlessly, Sarica lets the other man take his place behind him, feels the way he protectively places a hand against the backrest of the divan. Try, it says, though no one feasibly knows what it is they're not supposed to try. Besides, they'd all do it anyway, if they knew, they're that kind of people.
There's a draft, Sarica, someone yells now and Sarica waves one hand dismissively, yelling back, deal with it yourself, Caran.
Then, he twists in his seat, enough to turn around, back towards Anakin, looking up at his face, darkened and grim, entirely capable of killing a whole people in vengeance, like Sarica is entirely capable of killing a man for his own peace of mind. They mirror each other, like this, tired of the commotion and uninspired by the company.
Not each other's, but all the rest. ]
What's this?
[ He asks about the chill, the cold, the same way he'd asked about the grass cutter, he's no more disturbed by one thing than by the other. He can tell they're being watched, everyone wants a piece of the pie that is Anakin, that is Anakin and Sarica together. They'd be so very lucky. ]
[ He takes a moment to answer, looking down slowly to meet the other man's gaze. He senses how the attention in the room has shifted to him, to them, and it doesn't bother him. They can look if they want. It's all they'll ever get to do.
He forces his words out through gritted teeth, trying to keep his voice even. As a consequence, it shakes only very, very minimally but shake it does, that's inevitable because Anakin was never any good at this, at hiding his feelings or releasing them into the Force for clarity's sake. He just presses down on them and hopes that his strength won't run dry. ]
Ulos sought me out. He kissed me.
[ He spits it out like a particularly vile curse. ]
[ While Anakin explains, Sarica listens, eyes trekking the shadows from the various candles, criss-crossing across the floors. A pair of feet there, the hem of a tunic here, shadows don't care, they fall on anything, anyone. Shadow has fallen over Anakin's face and Sarica feels it spread to his own features, growing heavy and oppressive and dark. Cold. He should've followed Ulos, of course. Had he expected the man to be able to abide by a simple order? No, he never has been, though once he did at least try. Those days are over.
Ulos kissed him. Sorry, Anakin says. Not about the kiss, he gave the man what he deserved, maybe a little less, but about the impact the aftermath will have on Sarica, tonight, tomorrow, it will have far-reaching consequences. Maybe they will, in the end, stop the war in Reece now. Who knows?
Who cares.
Sarica gets to his feet slowly, rising to his full height, shoulders squared, face impassive in the worst of ways. Then, he turns towards Anakin and looks up at him across the divan, at his troubledness. He can take that away from him, at least, he owes him that much, when he weren't there to protect him against people he calls friends and yet, who overstep their boundaries so utterly, so completely.
Ulos is lucky he only got dipped in the pool, truly. Sarica would have killed him. And it wouldn't be by poison this time. Nothing so kind. ]
Don't be. You showed great restraint. [ Pause. He turns back around towards the room in general, clapping his hands twice, loudly, interrupting the music, the dancing, the chatter. People still wonder about the temperature, a very cold night, someone says. Over his shoulder, Sarica says, only directed at Anakin: ] I would have choked him.
[ Then, back to the room, raising his voice, demanding, ordering. ]
[ The contrast between his life back at Coruscant and now becomes blatant as Sarica gets to his feet and tells him not to be sorry, his gaze dark and hard from anger. He should have controlled himself - told Ulos off firmly but without unnecessary violence. He's tall. He's broad. He could've walked away using only his physical strength.
A Jedi doesn't act like this.
But Sarica looks at him and praises his restraint because Sarica knows what it's like when all you want is to set the world right, to be fast and completely uncompromising. He understands, too, how it feels when it makes you hate yourself and your actions. When others hate them, in turn. So Anakin watches, eyes narrowed to slits, as Sarica reins his serpents in and tells them to leave. The resultant commotion is tedious and Anakin's on the verge of just escorting them all out - after all, they've been told to leave.
And they should show respect.
This time, however, he stays behind Sarica's divan. He doesn't move, doesn't attempt to get himself involved because Sarica knows how to make the crowd appear, how to make them vanish, and everything between the two. He recognises this feeling, too, the need to leave the world to someone stronger than him, even knowing that fundamentally, no one truly is. It's an illusion, perhaps, one that used to be almost unfathomably dangerous - in the hands of Palpatine, it very nearly made him blind.
But here, he thinks, his shoulders still tight and his stance rigid, he can still see.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
action.
He has to believe that, and he has to stay central to this party. Relevant, he has to stay relevant. It's relevance or death, in these parts.
Having walked one more round amongst his guests that rank from slightly tipsy to completely pissed at this point, depending on their tolerance and moderation, Sarica has just halted by the divan next to the table of food, the one with the perfect view of the cleared floors where the Eastern Mountain dancers are performing in intricate patterns and to songs in a foreign tongue. Along the walls, his guests are standing in groups of two's and three's, speaking quietly among themselves. Sarica wonders briefly how many of them are planning his, if nothing else, political demise.
It should bother him more than it does. Then again, Sarica was never in it for the power. Now he just has a hard time recalling what he was in it for.
A frown, he seats himself languidly on the divan, legs folded at the ankles, these sandals still whole and unbroken, no fights yet. No fights yet. ]
no subject
The snake tamer surrounds himself with serpents, sure, and they slither at this feet because he wills them to. Makes himself immune to the poisons they carry, out of habit, out of necessity.
Anakin will kill them if they touch him again.
He stalks into the gallery room and the temperature immediately drops to somewhere below freezing, the guests conversing by the walls shivering and looking around in confusion. Someone mentions a draft. On the floor in front of the table of food, a few of the dancers stumble. Anakin walks right past them, all the way to the divan where Sarica's inclining with his feet up and his gaze dark. Surveying the room, of course, keeping track.
Anakin hates them all.
He steps around the divan, placing his metal hand against the backrest. There, he simply stands, staring out across the floor of people, eyes hard and unyielding. Come closer, it means.
Try. ]
no subject
But this is no quarry, and this is no mountain range and what is it Anakin is bringing with him from outside?
Wordlessly, Sarica lets the other man take his place behind him, feels the way he protectively places a hand against the backrest of the divan. Try, it says, though no one feasibly knows what it is they're not supposed to try. Besides, they'd all do it anyway, if they knew, they're that kind of people.
There's a draft, Sarica, someone yells now and Sarica waves one hand dismissively, yelling back, deal with it yourself, Caran.
Then, he twists in his seat, enough to turn around, back towards Anakin, looking up at his face, darkened and grim, entirely capable of killing a whole people in vengeance, like Sarica is entirely capable of killing a man for his own peace of mind. They mirror each other, like this, tired of the commotion and uninspired by the company.
Not each other's, but all the rest. ]
What's this?
[ He asks about the chill, the cold, the same way he'd asked about the grass cutter, he's no more disturbed by one thing than by the other. He can tell they're being watched, everyone wants a piece of the pie that is Anakin, that is Anakin and Sarica together. They'd be so very lucky. ]
no subject
He forces his words out through gritted teeth, trying to keep his voice even. As a consequence, it shakes only very, very minimally but shake it does, that's inevitable because Anakin was never any good at this, at hiding his feelings or releasing them into the Force for clarity's sake. He just presses down on them and hopes that his strength won't run dry. ]
Ulos sought me out. He kissed me.
[ He spits it out like a particularly vile curse. ]
Then, I dumped him in the pool.
[ He swallows hard against his own temper. Sighs, his gaze skipping sideways. It's not that he feels bad about anything that might happen to Ulos from here-on out but as with Padmé and her social dinners, as with the Jedi Council respecting Palpatine's demands even when they shouldn't, sometimes there's a game to be played, a game Anakin has always been horrendously bad at. He's well aware he might have effectively ruined Sarica's party and, more importantly, the purpose of it. ]
Sorry.
no subject
Ulos kissed him. Sorry, Anakin says. Not about the kiss, he gave the man what he deserved, maybe a little less, but about the impact the aftermath will have on Sarica, tonight, tomorrow, it will have far-reaching consequences. Maybe they will, in the end, stop the war in Reece now. Who knows?
Who cares.
Sarica gets to his feet slowly, rising to his full height, shoulders squared, face impassive in the worst of ways. Then, he turns towards Anakin and looks up at him across the divan, at his troubledness. He can take that away from him, at least, he owes him that much, when he weren't there to protect him against people he calls friends and yet, who overstep their boundaries so utterly, so completely.
Ulos is lucky he only got dipped in the pool, truly. Sarica would have killed him. And it wouldn't be by poison this time. Nothing so kind. ]
Don't be. You showed great restraint. [ Pause. He turns back around towards the room in general, clapping his hands twice, loudly, interrupting the music, the dancing, the chatter. People still wonder about the temperature, a very cold night, someone says. Over his shoulder, Sarica says, only directed at Anakin: ] I would have choked him.
[ Then, back to the room, raising his voice, demanding, ordering. ]
You'll leave now, the party's over.
no subject
A Jedi doesn't act like this.
But Sarica looks at him and praises his restraint because Sarica knows what it's like when all you want is to set the world right, to be fast and completely uncompromising. He understands, too, how it feels when it makes you hate yourself and your actions. When others hate them, in turn. So Anakin watches, eyes narrowed to slits, as Sarica reins his serpents in and tells them to leave. The resultant commotion is tedious and Anakin's on the verge of just escorting them all out - after all, they've been told to leave.
And they should show respect.
This time, however, he stays behind Sarica's divan. He doesn't move, doesn't attempt to get himself involved because Sarica knows how to make the crowd appear, how to make them vanish, and everything between the two. He recognises this feeling, too, the need to leave the world to someone stronger than him, even knowing that fundamentally, no one truly is. It's an illusion, perhaps, one that used to be almost unfathomably dangerous - in the hands of Palpatine, it very nearly made him blind.
But here, he thinks, his shoulders still tight and his stance rigid, he can still see.
He insists upon it, after all. ]