Two black-clad officers warmed the ornate armchairs of a particular study, surrounded by a rare collection of artwork and boutique luxury of quarters belonging to someone of high esteem. One bore the insignia of the highest rank, the other slightly inferior; despite believing himself very much to the contrary.
"Dreadful to hear about the Colonel this morning. Absolutely dreadful. Truly a shame. And no word on a perpetrator?"
Grand Marshal Orion Hux had reflected plenty on this already (fretfully, with the clarity of sobriety) and silently, he found himself disagreeing. The fire provided distraction, hypnotically almost, and cast warm light onto the Royal Consort's pasty face; it accounted for the only shade of red as opposed to the flushing of alcohol the night before.
While his company loosely and leisurely clutched a crystalline tumbler of the finest whiskey, the Grand Marshal simply opted for caf; albeit a sumptuous brew that no caf shop on Coruscant or elsewhere could afford to stock. Even then, it held little more purpose than a prop; not when he had far more troubling things to occupy his mind than drinking it. In fact, it no longer warmed the hands where the poorest of circulation struggled to warm them anyway.
"The perpetrator is known, yes." Ignorance still plagued him of an identity and whereabouts, however. Lucilla would not give him that in her seething wrath.
"And…?" General Enric Pryde, an arrogant, sour-faced, and greatly disliked individual, prodded; like Orion had that morning to his still-lounging wife. "Have they been apprehended? Eliminated? Has a squadron been dispatched to track them?"
True to snobbish, aristocratic elitism, one of the maids blended flawlessly with the furnishings and invisibly tended to the fire; more coal, more logs, plenty of stoking, none of which she would enjoy the luxury of. But, loyal to her new employer, she did it before she retired for the evening.
He toyed with taking a sip of the cold caf; something to occupy his mind and his hands while he sucked on the thought needed to form the words. Damten deserved to die, that much was clear but testament to her fury and betrayal, he had not been included. All of Orion's antagonized preoccupation since he woke that morning led him to that conclusion; no matter how many different paths of deliberation he took. However, while he could trust the likes of Mitaka with such an opinion, Pryde proved much trickier to pin down. The man, after all, was a snake.
"I don't expect you to grasp this, General-" Carefully, almost hesitantly, a train of thought began to unfurl itself under the stoic, icy glare of General Enric Pryde. "-and while I know you will disagree; it is not an argument I am willing to have tonight… But it is no secret that you and I do not hold women in the same regard." An understatement, really, when Pryde had been one of those to preach to the (then) General that the value of a son far outweighed that of a daughter. "Furthermore, you are not married, and I suspect that even if you were, your… attitude… would prevent you from experiencing what I experience."
"You see, while you, and you are not alone in this, seem to view women as an alliance-brokering and child-bearing tool, I do not. Thankfully, experience in love and companionship has taught me otherwise. I do not fear my wife for what wickedness she can impose upon me or have imposed upon me; not slit my throat ear to ear, not smother me in my sleep nor lace my food and drink with poison. Or… Perhaps… Indeed… Rather… What she can do to me… Does do to me."
Pryde, with those piercing blue eyes, did all in his power not to roll them, knowing the direction this lamenting would take. Testily, he fingered the head of the lacquered ebonwood swaggerstick (a tradition of his native Alsakan's military) he often carried and bit back an impatient sigh. What, in the smouldering ruins of Jedha, did that have to do with his question? To do with his slaughtered comrade? This undermining attack on military hierarchy and possibly the military itself? Pryde thought he knew and guessed that he and his superior were not on the same datapage.
The assumption had proved true: Enric Pryde did not place much merit with women. That's not to say, of course, that General Pryde would not have tried his luck in pursuing the Empress (among many others, the likes of the eccentric libertine Evelyn Tesk included) if the Grand Marshal had not returned. After all, she represented a power unrivalled, and to father more of her children would only cement that power.
Did that appeal to him? Elevated to Grand Marshal, married to the Head of State (in a position to control her appropriately and bleed his influence where he chose) and the sire of a new Emperor? Absolutely. Deluded, perhaps, but Enric's inflated sense of self-importance did not include such a technicality. What he also chose to omit was that the Little Empress would rather commit herself to the wandering playboy Evelyn Tesk (and maybe somewhat enjoy the experience with the added benefit of very handsome children) than spend any great length of time even in the company of General Pryde, let alone be married to him.
Still, his (gallingly) younger superior sedately prattled on like a sentimental, enamoured fool; measured in his words to convey himself accurately and continuing to stare into the fire as if it told him what to say.
"I cannot describe it in a way for you to understand but… I would not trade the way my heart jumps into my mouth when she walks into a room for anything in this known galaxy. Or how she seeks me out, mid-slumber, just for closeness in the vast expanse of the largest bed I have ever seen; despite the abundance of blankets and pillows specifically for warmth and comfort. Watching her interact with our daughter, this vulnerable little thing that is half me, with the utmost gentility and adoration… Being eternally bound to a woman I have chosen out of love and compatibility as opposed to duty and convenience is so incredibly fulfilling that to have done anything else is unthinkable…" And he had come close, where the ire with Colonel Damten began.
Why Orion spilled his guts to this notoriously untrustworthy creature, he could not be sure but now that his helpless spew flowed freely, he could not stop. Interestingly, Pryde did not stop him. It may have been painful and incredibly agitating, but he had never been one to leave his arsenal short and he was not about to start: This could be useful. But, as if he sensed it, the Grand Marshal ceased his babble to this ill-chosen source of comfort; it had become clear to him, what he needed to do.
"In short, General-" As ignored as she had been when she entered and tended her duty, the maid stood and readied to depart. But not quite yet. "I love my wife. I love her more than life itself. To ensure I keep her, I have plenty of amends to make and I intend to start making them very, very soon." A frequently bandied-about sentiment where the Royal Consort was concerned? Perhaps.
With renewed conviction, the redhead unwittingly mirrored the maid and rose then paused. Re-establishing his gaze with his colleague (who lazily and near-disinterestedly returned it), Grand Marshal Orion Hux found the certainty and determination in his clarity-inducing ramble to do what needed to be done.
"And the lengths I am willing to go to will be… detrimental… to some."
"Your Grace?"
The Little Empress, devoid of adult company, twisted in her position but the anchor of her infant daughter in her lap kept her seated. Tilting so her back met that of the sofa and bringing her precious child with her, she spied her loyal Annah poking around the door of the Imperial living quarters in seeking her employer, ruler, and friend.
"Are you alright, Annah?"
That genuine and sincere interest came from few of the other palace inhabitants of power; their status mattering nought if they believed themselves even slightly above that status. However, the one that mattered most (and her cousin) always addressed and treated those "below" her with the utmost appreciation and respect.
"Just fine, Your Grace." Annah replied with her customary bubbly, "mother hen" bustle, releasing the door fully and hastening over the threshold at the unspoken invitation; it never failed to amuse the dark-haired darling. However, hesitantly upon her heels, followed a girl Lucilla had only ever seen snatches of but never spoken to. Someone new, she assumed, or posted to a different part of the palace, maybe both. This girl lingered by the door, petrified to lift her eyes out of ingrained submission, and waited; despite her Empress' direct curiosity. "If we may have a moment of your time?"
"Of course. Something I can do?"
"Your Grace, this is Sheea." Annah, her forty-something-year-old personal maid, pivoted on the ball of her foot to indicate to the young woman but Lucilla had already found her feet. Lilia balanced expertly on her hip and secured with a silk-clad arm, she opted to close the distance with the usual good-natured greeting but Sheea had already sunk into a timid curtsey and stayed there rather than look straight at her Empress. Even under Annah's pointedness and direct implication, this girl fearfully kept her eyes down; second-guessing if her job (or even her life) were worth this breach of her station.
"She told me something a few moments ago… and I think you should hear it."
Bedtime: Its ritual unchanged despite the turmoil.
Dressing for bed with the last helping of tea perched beside her at her vanity table, Lucilla checked her reflection. Well… Not her reflection, but that of her daughter in the bed behind her. I wish I could fall asleep that easily. Must be wonderful, to be so blissfully oblivious and carefree.
The hairbrush of exceptional quality and bristles of almost silk painlessly picked apart each knot, separating the strands for the customary shine and bounce of ebony curls; wasted, perhaps, when they would be sandwiched to her pillow for the next eight hours. Paying more attention to her task than was probably necessary, Lucilla purposely focused on the strokes in a selfish bid to keep her mind from wandering into the minefield of her own stupidity from the night previous. Thankfully, she was rescued from it by an unknowing and (sort of) innocent party.
The knock, she assumed, was Annah; asking if she needed anything else and if not, could she be dismissed. Of course, she would oblige, but just in case…
"Come in." Still utterly engrossed in her pre-bedtime brushing, the blue-eyed beauty barely acknowledged the door and the mechanism clicked accordingly but instead of Annah's trademark chirp, she heard something different entirely; something meeker.
"Good evening." The mirror no longer sufficed. The voice she knew so well, be it sweet adorations in bed or booming from the helm of a superweapon, there was no mistaking it; so much so, the little dove swivelled on her (chaffed) bottom to find her husband stalling in the doorway.
"Good evening…" Mutually wary and shy, they marked each other from their respective posts; Orion by the door, Lucilla at her vanity table at the far side of the room where Varden's skull looked on. The pregnant, expectant silence that followed accommodated the Empress and the Grand Marshal to take each other in; seemingly lost in a shared, longing gaze (though equally twinged with forgiveness and regret), this visit appeared to be another testing of the water. This time, thankfully, she received him better.
The redhead, in his sleep pants, night robe and slippers, cagily shuffled his feet, redistributing his weight apprehensively as he tried to decide how to proceed now that he had made it this far. Take the next chance and see where it goes? May as well. Breaking his fixation on his beloved wife (ever so briefly) and redirecting it to the bed where his darling daughter slumbered in the deepest peace, it gave him the strength to try.
"I was hoping… to sleep here tonight." Once more, Lucilla consumed his vision and she returned it; this exasperated little boy in the body of an exceptionally powerful man. "If you'll permit me."
"Of course." After a beat of relieved speechlessness and a flashing recollection of Sheea's recounting (once she was comfortable and assured her employer was simply interested in what she had to say), the little dove applied it to Orion's uncertain appearance. He still wants me… For now…
"I…" With a half gesture to the mirror over her shoulder, the Empress, usually regal and sure, faltered mid-sentence; still semi-besotted and caught off guard by the good fortune of Orion just… arriving. By the unexpected but very welcome development. "I'm almost ready if you want… want to get comfortable…"
There was no verbal answer, per say; solely the nod of a flaming head before awkwardly taking to the bed that he normally would have without a second thought after a long day. Once comfortable, as his wife invited, beside his daughter, he was not waiting long until he was joined.
Candles (mostly, with a few exceptions) extinguished, curtains drawn and settled (with the help of the little steps on her side of the bed), a whole new level of self-consciousness began to unfold. Lilia parked between them, sprawled and unaware, the toddler served as something of a literal embodiment of barriers manifested in her parent's own minds but ever the decisive one, it was Orion who took the bull rancor by the tusks.
Edging ever so carefully with a doleful glance at his wife, the Grand Marshal shimmied closer, scooped an unconscious Lily to his chest then closed the craved distance right to his little dove's side.
"I owe you an apology." Came the devotion-laden utterance beside her ear in the almost complete darkness of heavy bed curtains. Lucilla, nuzzling into the affection with little more than a breath between them, felt the full envelopment of consolation and tranquillity; Orion seemed to share it. "I also, more importantly, owe you retribution."
The Empress, in the depths of her comfort and with the warm security of having her husband flush to her side once more (where he belonged), heightened those magnificent eyes of ethereal blue to meet their darker, colder counterparts.
"Orion, darling…"
"No." Galvanised and firm, as only a military man could be, but with the gentility being a father and husband had taught him, Orion reshuffled himself in a bid to reinforce his stance without disturbing Lily in the process. Holding his wife's gaze (in the low light and peaceful silence of a typical bedtime), he needed her to understand. He needed to cement forgiveness. He needed to ensure he had not lost her for good and solidify that he would do whatever it took to prevent it. Maker, if only he knew.
Wetting his lips in a desperate attempt to find the words and bring them satisfactorily from his brain to his mouth, his eyes never left his slave, turned lover, turned wife.
"Little dove… My angel… Had I been able to see past my drunken fog last night, I would have known that not only was my behaviour unacceptable, and the dreadful things I said but the very fact that I orchestrated such a gathering at all with such a cast of loathed individuals. Individuals whom, if I placed the value on you that you deserved, would be long dead by now." Lucilla's sweet grimace was automatic; the grimace prompted by Orion's free hand clutching hers, bringing it to his arid lips before linking their fingers in a gesture of spousal affection and plea for forgiveness. "To that end, my love, I wish for you to compile a list, if you can, if memory will permit you, of everyone who was there on that terrible night. Can you do that for me?" There were other avenues, of course, but there remained something so righteous about the revenge if it came directed from Lucilla herself.
However, when did such a ploy ever run smoothly?
"Orion, I don't… I don't really know any of the names. They didn't exactly introduce themselves. I knew your father and Colonel Damten but only because of the stink he caused when you refused to marry his daughter. I had no context for the others-"
"Did you see any of them in the dining room last night?"
"One or two, aside from Damten. A Commander, blonde fellow, I think…"
Dismayed but by no means deterred, the redhead smothered a disappointed sigh and pressed yet another kiss to his wife; her head this time, an indication for sleep and a lulling technique for them both.
"Very well, little dove, I have other means. Rest now, I shall see to it."
Before she did, however, the Grand Marshal watched the twist of his blue-eyed beauty's lips into something that resembled tired amusement that seemed to focus on his lower jaw; the gentlest brush of her fingertips and stroke of her thumb (once liberated from his grasp) confirmed it as her source of fascination.
"Where did this come from?"
For a moment, Orion found himself at a loss; despite enjoying the intimacy of strokes to his lower jaw and chin.
"Where did what come from, Your Grace?" Then he twigged it: The bristles.
"The beard, Orion. Or… the beginnings of one."
"A neglection of grooming on my part, I'm afraid. Other things on my mind. Mainly my wife." The snagging of her delicate skin on the wiry, ginger bristles did not appear to trouble her; endeared her, in fact, if the exhausted smile was anything to go by. "Why? Do you like it?"
"Mmm… Very manly. Very sexy."
"Oh well then…" Cocky, enamoured and renewed in conviction (so much so, he dipped his fiery head to steal a kiss), Orion would now omit shaving from his morning routine; in favour of preening, perhaps. "I suppose I shall have to keep it then, won't I?"