Private A Gentle Place

[Darth Metus]

V A U L T​

The Vault had changed.

In the beginning, the darkness had been an adversary. Isley did not understand what being "out of sync" entailed - and therefore he looked upon the primordial woman as a threat. He, like most of mankind, grasped the sword when exposed to things misunderstood. The Darkness responded in turn. He intruded upon this hallowed domain and it bared its fangs in response. The creatures lurking within assaulted him - and to battle they went. By the time Isley managed to step before the Glass Throne he was horrendously battered. Yet, Elyria showed mercy. She looked upon him with understanding, divine patience, and care. (Albeit a touch annoyed). From that day, she was no longer an intruder in his life.

And he was no longer an intruder inside the Vault.

It never ceased to amaze Isley how the response was so different. Upon striding into the expanse, the creatures did not assault him. The beasts which mirrored the automatons of his fallen regime parted to admit him. Those mirroring dragons or other beasts he could put a name to were...excited to see him? They requested his touch - a scratch upon their scales here, a pat upon the head there. He was like a father who had returned home from work - and this was a fact that brought the sable-skinned man amusement. He needed the smile, especially after the most recent turn of events. Everything around him had burned. Was this the warning that Elyria had tried to give? Was this the threat she saw upon the horizon?

Possibly. He knew time was thrown into a loop by her being here. And he did not blame her. He could blame no one but himself.

After traversing the more cavernous reaches of the Vault, Isley came to a halt before the shimmering throne. For the moment, its crystalline form was vacant. He knew what laid beyond - veiled by the shadow the monumental structure cast. Isley referred to it as a coffin - a term which would cause the woman to roll her eyes. The majority of the being he had come to know rested within its depths. He took not another step, but rather descended to the frigid "ground." The cold was...comforting in the wake of current events. Cool. Quiet. And most of all, away from the eyes of the world.

"Don't suppose you're awake?"

Darth Elyria​

​

 

[Darth Elyria]

Tag: Darth Metus​

The clinking of glass sliding together and falling into place filled the otherwise quiet realm. The sounds of shards moving on their own, crystals crying out when they collided, was normal. The beasts that she brought to life—Her personal, private army, roamed the dark as if they were one with it. She drew dark energy and ichor together in a formless blob that danced before her throne. Before her coffin. Lazily—She sat upon it with lengths of black hair spiraling down the dais.

Elyria created. Not life, in the strictest sense. But create she did.

This creature would have wings, horns, wicked claws, and fangs. It would soar through the blackest sky and spear the unwanted. It walked on two feet. Vaguely, humanoid. But with black skin and shining onyx armor made of the realm she commanded. A reverse harpy, of sorts. Handsome. If one liked screaming death from above. Elyria, did. They would flock to Isley when he entered the Vault. They could sense him. Smell her—In him. The smaller creatures skittered about his feet, playing, while her hair slid away on its own to make a path. To allow him entry, and not be stepped on.

She let her newest creation go and it gave a predatory screech. Elyria would make more, soon. More soldiers, more monsters, for she was their Mother. Their Queen, their God, and everything else in-between. The ageless beauty let her form fall back on the sarcophagus long-ways while her hair adjusted and her eyes closed. Rest. Too much of herself, went into her beasts. Too much was happening outside in real space. This was her distraction. Preparation.

Isley had not called her to fight since Ryloth. Perhaps, he had lost faith in her abilities.

She perused the stars in her minds eye, aware, that someone had entered her crypt. Her home. Elyria knew who it was. No one else, could enter this place. Rephrase: No one else could enter and live.

The voice of her companion echoed through the mists and for a moment she debated on playing dead. Forcing him to ascend and make his way to the coffin he thought of as an eyesore. It was a comfort to her. It was a well of power. Her darkness—True dark. Her head tilted to the side and she glanced down at his shadowed form. "Why don't you come find out?"

Her single sentence was both an invitation and a challenge. Her black gown held her form like a second skin and she reached up to begin drawing patterns in her stars, the glass, and Elyria began to create another glass-harpy. A female, this time. She never left any of them alone. There were always at least two of each. Sometimes, more. These were more difficult because they held some measure of autonomy and intelligence. So, there would be fewer.

"Watch where you step."

Her hair moved, again, parting so that it wouldn't be crushed and mottled by careless Mandalorian mammoth feet. At least, that was how she chided him. It was a dark affection. Sardonic and vaguely cruel…But she was the master of her own domain. He was a visitor.

It would serve him well not to track mud in.

 

[Darth Metus]

Wearing: Armor of Darth Metus​

VAULT OF GLASS

The primordial being created life.

Though their hearts not beat with crimson waters, the works of her hands were very much alive. Some were more intelligent than others. Some were far deadlier than others. Yet each were kind to the sable-skinned man as he approached the Glass Throne. Some descended the steps to play and nip at his boots. Others circled overhead. As Isley drew closer, he could hear the quiet symphony. It was the crescendo of glass being crafted into a new shape. Aided by the cries of living - a growl here, a shriek there.

As one who created, Isley was in awe. He knew she held the power to make just as he. But he hardly ever witnessed the artistry in the moment. Only the results.

Why don't you come find out?

The mother of glass spoke. Responding to his inquiry - she was clearly awake, but invited him to step beyond the glass throne. Closer to the coffin. Her hair and creatures moved in tantem with his footsteps, getting out of the way so that no damage could be done. Of course, Elyria herself also chided him - watch where you step - a fact that made him shake his head softly. His lips twitched, ever so slightly amused, but he did begin to move with a bit more caution. After all, it would not do to crush one of her creations underfoot accidentally. Or worse, step on her hair.

Her hair which seemed to like him more than she did most days.

After a few well-aimed paces, the Sith stepped beyond the glass throne and into its shadow. Into arm's reach of his companion. It had been quite some time since he called her into the world of the living. Some time since she sacrificed so much of herself in order to save Ryloth. In that time, his grand project had come to an end. It was not destroyed by the otherworldly Unmaker. They had weathered that storm. No. The worlds themselves decided to part. The people decided to go at it alone rather than rebuild. Foolish. But overall, demoralizing.

The failure was a stone resting firmly in his stomach. It flecked his mind with doubt. But if there was one who could see and understand, it was Elyria. Isley had come to understand that he did not have to be king around her, like he had to for so many others. He had to be a father to some. A teacher to others. But with Elyria, he could simply be. She was harsh at times. She would viciously say what needed to be said. Demand what needed to be demanded. She did not treat him lesser for not seeing as she. And when it came down to it, she would risk it all for him.

As he would for her.

So it was that he folded his arms across his chest. "I could watch you create all day." he said, offering a light smile.

"Can't say I'll join in, unless you're hiding a forge and hammer back there."

He chuckled at his jest for a moment, before admitting.

"I'm sure you've seen. Felt. You know what all has happened. Was this...what you were warning me about?"

Darth Elyria​

 

[Darth Elyria]

Tag: Darth Metus​

The sallow-skinned woman let her hand fall from its outstretched position toward the ceiling and it settled back over her head with an audible thunk. Tired. Her mind continued to leap through the stars while her visitor approached. They winked in and out. Whispering, things. Little secrets that she shouldn't have known while being locked away in her vault. "It's very noisy out there.", she announced, plainly, while unfocused black orbs lingered on the void above. "Everyone talking at the same time."

"Thinking. So, loudly. Too loudly."

She could hear what they did say. What they didn't say—And everything else in-between. Most minds were unshielded and projected their thoughts like a spotlight. Their emotions were left on display as if they were getting ready to be bought or sold. Her head turned toward him and her hair rose from the space it vacated around him to brush against his ankles, rising, to touch the edges of his fingers before falling away. "Not like you. You, have been quiet."

"As the dead."

At least, she had heard the dead were quiet. She had never experienced them to be as thus—But the humans had their superstitions, she supposed. Despite the fact that he was often silent while experiencing life as it was meant to be he would find that she was far from uninformed. Far from blind. He wore his burdens like a cloak made of metal that was one size too small. Strangling him. Pulling him down. He fought his demons, on his own, and in silence—But she watched that battle, all the same.

"It's a mad world. You've been drowning…", she murmured, though, personally appreciating the madness. It was the fact that he couldn't breathe that gave her reason to complain. His pet project had fallen apart faster than a heart could beat. Tick, tock. Hearts still beat. But the walls had all fallen. The structure, foundation, and all that he had built had crumbled beneath the weight of the universe. It had always been an eventuality. A certainty. Only, a matter of when. "Has anyone noticed?"

One of her creatures came to land on the edge of the sarcophagus and it made a soft noise while hopping up the edge. It padded along the fabric of her dress and proceeded to shove its head beneath her hand. Apparently, wishing for attention. Isley commented that he could watch her all day and a light laugh drew from century-old lungs. "…Come now, Isley. Even you must sleep."

She contemplated his words and a soft roll of her shoulder signaled that she was sitting up. Her hair seemed to do most of the work for her while her legs swung over the edge. Her right crossed over her left and her hand left the needy avian creature, much, to its dismay. They wanted to be close to her. Close to him. Back to their source—Back, home. It was where they belonged. The sound of glass slicing through the air came together in a series of chimes while it slammed down deafeningly on the edge of the large dais. It began to form a large rectangular shape that would soon make itself known as an altar of sorts. A workbench—Perhaps, with something that could act as a dim heat source.

In her outstretched hand, even more shards came together. It would be durable. Indestructible. A tool that even when in comparison to his precious beskar, would not, break. A hammer slowly took shape. It had a wickedly curved handle seemed to suggest that whatever evil it may have done—Its creator, was worse. Almost innocently, her head tilted, and she offered the hammer to him.

His question about the outside world garnered a delayed response. "It's possible. The future is not what it once was. A calamity may still yet come to pass—But I believe this to be one of them."

One, of them. This suggested this was merely one of many. Or—Perhaps it was only one of many possibilities. Her wording was never precise when it came to time. Sometimes, it left her disturbed to think on it too much. The timelines were frayed. Crashing down on each other.

Chaos could be the only result.

Her eyes focused on him, perhaps, for the first time since he had entered. He had fought. He had lost. It was an honorable way to have an empire crumble but there were things that weighed on her mind. Questions. "You did not call for me."

"If you had called...I would have come."

 

[Darth Metus]

Wearing: Armor of Darth Metus​

VAULT OF GLASS

She heard.

The scope of the primordial being's talents were awe-inspiring. When this all began, the Sith felt as though the totality of his knowledge was but an ember. A fleeting flicker in the face of her mighty abyss. In the mundane, Darth Metus prided himself on his strength. His skill. His abilities to create and destroy. Elyria tempered what would otherwise be a loose ego. She reminded him of the realities that caused his obsession with the darkness to begin with. Namely, there was always a bigger fish. So it was that, when he asked if she knew, the answer was essentially of course.

She described the waking world as noisy. A fact that was amusing in of itself.

Her hair moved, locks brushing against his ankles and traversing northward to briefly coil about his fingers. The touch was brief - and though she was no Echani, it conveyed quite a bit. He had been as quiet as the dead. His pride was as his 'pet project' - shattered, blighted, and cast upon the four winds. To this, Darth Metus said nothing. He held his head high, despite the fact that he felt miserably low. What shreds of his pride remained refused to allow any less.

Has anyone noticed?​

"The fireworks were hard to miss." His response was just as witty as usual, but it was devoid of its typical humor. The light edge that typically colored his words was absent.

He checked himself straightaway. A quip about watching her create all day was given - a smirk rendered. The status quo - at least for a moment. The Sith watched as one of her creations clambored for attention and followed as she rose from her seat. Curiosity colored his expression as she moved. The Vault resonated with her will. Shards of glass were beckoned before her and created what he identified as a workbench. It was almost a snapshot of the very same he had within the Well. As if it were pried from his memory and made manifest by her whim.

She created once more, weaving a hammer of glass out of nothing. The Sith looked beyond the mundane and saw the truth of its form. A trick passed down from master to student a lifetime ago. He could see that this was far from fragile. Far from weak. His dominant hand accepted the gift. It was light, but sturdy. Balanced. It could accept the work of his hands. His gaze then fell to the workbench as she thought over his question. He stepped forward, reaching out into the darkness. Absently. Blindly.

He held no dominion over this realm. And even his proximity to the primordial being was not enough - at least not now. The remnants of pride were chipped in that moment; a fissure. A crack. Ego existed as a dam, holding back a flood of emotion. Fury. Loss. Pain. Confusion. All rushed towards the break. Pushed. Demanded freedom. And though he was in the midst of the crystalline abyss, the Dark Side heeded this storm. Pain made manifest: crimson light erupted into being between his fingers.

"I see." he answered. His voice was gruff. He could not clearly see out of his left eye, for it stung with wrath. An angry trail spilled over, seething down his cheek. The light was seized and thrust upon the crystalline alter, where the gifted hammer thundered down upon it. Thunder roared.

"The future yet remains unkind. Such is its nature."

He worked in silence as she focused upon him. He shaped, commanded, and molded his rage into a better form. Beauty out of Chaos. The rhythm of his hammer only ceased when she spoke again.

"After Ryloth...I couldn't."

After she had given so much of herself - sacrified her divinity for his sake - it was too much to ask again. He could not, and would not, demand that she crucify her soul to save the works of his hands from falling. It he could not prop up his own creation? If it couldn't stand on its own? Then perhaps it was not worthy of existence to begin with.

"I couldn't hurt you again."

Darth Elyria​

 

[Darth Elyria]

Tag: Darth Metus
​

The ivory-skinned female did not comprehend how it was that the Sith Lord oft seemed surprised that she knew that which had gone unspoken. Elyria was not of the same stock as his white rabbit but she was not blind to the ebb and flow of interstellar causality. She could hear him, locked away in her crypt, as if he were whispering his woes in her ear. She didn't need to hear him say it out loud. His heartbeat. She felt the thud. Permanence. "Perhaps in your defeat, within the ashes, you will find something new. Something tangible. Not, emptiness."

Her words could have been taken as comforting. Or uncertain damnation.

Truly, it was hard to tell.

She watched him while he approached with a distinct sense of interest. The blow to his pride wounded even her, while he walked, head high, but spirits low. It was a dichotomy that she almost felt offended by. Did he think her so blind, that she would not see? That she had not the presence and foresight to see through such a desperate charade?

"The fire stars are not what I refer to."

She had enjoyed watching bursts of light bloom in the night on Naboo, even though, it hurt her eyes. The darkling pursed pale lips for a moment before realizing that he was trying his hand at humor. Eyes that were black as pitch rolled toward the starless void above and then back toward him. "I am trapped in a fractured time, but I accept now, that this is my home. It is where I must remain in a series of moments that repeat and repeat without deviation."

"Empires rise. Empires fall. That is the way of it, Isley."

Lithe fingers formed an obsidian hammer that he could use to join her in her machinations for the evening. He accepted her works and star-filled orbs watched with pale interest to see how he might use it. He saw; But he could not see. Such was the fate of a lover so young, so lost, in the mundane moments that would one day define his eternity. The was not her Isley.

Yet—He was. He was always, her Isley.

She floated down from her coffin while he moved upon the forge and Elyria could taste his wrath in the air like a red mist. The prehistoric creature brought the scent of jasmine and rain while she made her way toward him to observe. He noted that the future remained unkind and she shook her head slowly. Black hair tumbled like a silken waterfall and her gaze remained on that which he created. "…I spoke of this when you woke me from my slumber. You scoffed. My perspective was…"

"Too aged."

The words were punctuated with a mocking smile that exposed the edges of teeth that seemed a little too sharp. He pressed his hatred, anger, and despair into the forge she had granted. It would serve him well. "Fate does not present a chance. It does not offer mercy. This is what you learn, when you become king. You learn to destroy everything that's not utterly yours. All that matters, is victory. That is how your reign persists. You still think like a slave to the eternal construct. To morality. A true ruler is as moral as a hurricane. Empty, but for the force of his gale. But you…", she trailed off, repeating words, in a context that he had heard before. He knew her thoughts. He had always known. "But you allow yourself to be caught in the spiders web. There is…So much power, here. Yet you quibble at the price."

"If you want to win…If you want to overcome—Serve no master but your own ambition. Rise from the ashes and prove that you are not defeated. That you, still, wear the crown. You only admit defeat when you lay down in the muck and accept it."

"Do not accept it, Isley Verd."

Change was constant. And yet, all remained the same. He still placed his emotions before everything else, even, the existence of his beloved cultural experiment. His notion of sparing her caused her to wave her hand in the air dismissively. It was a human, thought. A kindness that she had not expected, though, she would not allow him to dwell upon it. "Sacrifice for a dream places it firmly within reality. It would leave your Confederacy fully within your grasp. The entity that swelled from beneath to devour is all but a peasant to my glory."

"I would have destroyed it, had you asked. It is not your place to determine what I can and cannot bequeath you. If it is my life? Then it belongs to me—And my sacrifice is mine to give to whom I will."

 

[Darth Metus]

Wearing: Armor of Darth Metus​

VAULT OF GLASS - FORGE

Perhaps in your defeat, you will find something new...

There were many things that the Sith Lord anticipated from the primordial woman. Literal words of comfort were not at the top of the list. Elyria had this way about her - everything carried multiple meanings. Vague was her native tongue. He did not doubt her sincerity, of course, but had not been...exposed to support in this manner from her before. The sentiment was brief, but it was there. Darth Metus set his jaw for a moment as he drew near, letting the remark about not referring to the fire stars go. They were on the same page. She knew. He knew that she knew. There was not anything more to say than that for the time being.

Empires rise. Empires fall. That is the way of it.

Once more, he found comfort in the abyss. Once more, as he approached the void beyond the Throne, he did not find vague words or cryptic meanings. He knew that, in that future that she called home - in that time that the Metus of tomorrow was her equal, there was obviously love there. Affection there. Care. Devotion. But, Elyria had shown herself to be devoted to him in the present. She described this era now, for the first time, as being her home. She accepted it. And because she accepted it, she was able to treat his moment of shattering differently. He had anticipated being chastised for weakness, blamed for the fall.

But she was quietly picking up the pieces. And though he said nothing to directly acknowledge this, his soul appreciated every word. "Empires rise, Empires fall. Just have to keep pushing through, yeah?" Each syllable was uttered dryly.

His words were an echo of his alabaster apprentice. She had said similar many times before - no matter what happened, they had to keep moving forward. Let the past die. He blinked away the wrath that had spilled forth from his left cheek, reclaiming his vision as he embraced her gift. The works of his fury thundered forth upon the forge as she poured out her thoughts upon him. She embraced him with the scents of jasmine and rain, and advised. She did not blame. She spoke true. Spoke of what tripped him up. Spoke of what he could do better. Told him to not accept lying in the muck.

The Sith's teeth grit as she spoke. His mind painted a tapestry that coincided with her suggestions. For one who ruled the Southern Systems, he did not. He allowed himself to be beholden to so many. Democracy as a concept were shackles upon his soul, upon his dominion. And the dissolution was yet a stark reflection of this reality. Nothing that he did was ever enough. There could be peace and yet blame. Peace and yet dissent. But why did he build it this way to begin with? Why did he drag his feet in the beginning? Would not the three worlds have followed him? He could have built an empire in his name. Could have abandoned democracy at the start. Why did he falter. Why was she so right?

His hammer continued to move, adding form to the crimson light. He then exerted his will over the hammer itself - and the void responded. Its form twisted and contorted into another tool, allowing him to better shape the molten emotion. And then back to the hammer. Thundering and Shaping. Shaping and Thundering. Finally, he stopped. With one final thunderous beat. What was left glowed with an angry aura, one that broke the darkness of the void.

"Then I can deny who I am no longer." he began. The hammer was set down upon the forge. Gingerly, as it were a newborn babe. His gaze then settled upon the primordial. Sulfur stared into the abyss. "My very existence is a challenge to the stars. I earned that right. Fought. Bled for it. And yet, I allowed the past - I allowed sentiment - to cloud my path. I hesitated. I took only a fragment when I should have taken all. You. Are. Right."

His hands briefly came to rest flat upon the forge. The admission was as taking the obsidian hammer to his Pride, but it had to be said. "I am what I am, I cannot deny it any longer. I am not merely a man, I am Sith. I am Darth Metus. And I will not forget this, ever again."

His dominant hand descended upon the work of his hands. Delicately, he cradled the crimson light and faced the primordial once more. It was extended to her, a gift. Its form resembled that of a rose - formed of the vault's own glass. Yet its form brimmed with crimson. Rage. Pain. All had been refined at the beat of his hammer until only Passion remained. She had earned this, time and time again. She revived him. Sacrified for him. Comforted him. She had been there.

"It is not my place to determine what you give, yes. I will not allow my urge to safeguard what is precious to me to stand in the way. If you are in peril, I will destroy the danger. It will - and must be - as simple as that."

He deposited the token into her grasp, fingers lingering upon her own.

"This, I give, only to you. My passion - my heart." His fingers gave hers a light squeeze before he continued.

"Consider this my call for you. I need you at my side, today. Tomorrow. Evermore. Close your eyes beside me. Rise with me. Rule at my side."

Darth Elyria​

 

[Darth Elyria]

Tag: Darth Metus
​

"We do not push. That is the duty of a mule or a slave. We are neither. We claim, we seize."

Elyria understood his turn of phrase; however, she dismissed the notion that maintaining their way of life revolved around a constant struggle. The Isley Verd that had come to love her in the future had figured out that in order to survive they had to be more. The status quo was no longer acceptable. Being the friendly, slap-stick, snack-eating Vicelord of a Democracy wasn't going to cut it. It hadn't in their timeline; in her shattered, lost future, and it wasn't going to cut it now.

"We require a Dynasty. Not, an Empire."

Not a collection of lost, wayward, pitiful souls. It drew in the weak. The broken, the soft. The easily turned and manipulated. How often had the Confederacy been betrayed by its own people because some other realm, some upstart, promised them a proverbial cookie? How often had they been betrayed out of simple greed? Jealousy—And a penchant for debating the rules into the ground? There was a reason that democracy, eventually, failed. It was a dream. Unrealistic. But, humanity was full of flaws. "A reign that cannot be shaken. Like, nothing else. A rule that cannot be broken by the voices of small men with even smaller minds."

Elyria knew all about surviving in the dark. She had been called "Selene" the dark-mother by her children and it was because the light burned the halls of her eyes. It was in the darkness, that she found strength. Power. Acceptance—And the will to bind that which made her human. Until she became new.

Untouchable. At least, she liked to think it.

The dark one approached the forge that had been created while he hammered on something consistently. The rhythmic tapping caused her creatures to scatter, the harpy, winged, and startled almost bearing fang at her behest. The smallest wave of her hand caused him to settle on his perch high overhead. Too far to see. Only, she could feel.

Isley was angry. She understood, though, perhaps it was a blessing. He was too clouded with wrath to see it yet. A dynasty did not require vast amounts of land. It required people. Loyal, people.

Black orbs watched while he bent the tool she created. Impressive, that he could do so. That he could manipulate so easily that which she drew from the ether. The subtle glow from the forge caught her attention but not as much as his words. For perhaps the first time, he claimed her right. The urge to ask him to repeat it was swallowed beneath the explanation. "…Do you truly, finally understand?"

"Do not mock me, Isley. I ask you for little…But I do ask for that.", she continued, surprisingly, blunt and lucid in her statements. Elyria had tried to tell him, show him, ever since he'd woken her ahead of cycle. Doing the "right" thing often came with a cost that none were willing to pay. He went on to declare his nature. She could see that it bothered him to admit folly, but so was the harshness of reality. The sooner he faced it, the better. He claimed himself a Sith. Darth.

He was right about that. Only, he was missing part of it. He had bled, died, and fought for his people with more fervor than any one man should. "…You remained a steward. A placeholder, for the next, younger, better version of yourself. That is something you can afford no longer. The option to unseat you invites weakness, errors, and usurpation that could be considered legal under the law. You are more than Sith. More than Darth. You are a King. Not by birth nor land but by sheer force of will, power, and, might. That is what you must not forget."

"You must do what Kings do…", Elyria postulated, quietly, though her gaze slipped back down to the forge. Her fingers slid along the edge of it, as if, she was impervious to the black flame. "You must rule."

When her eyes stole up from the surface, she realized that he was holding his creation out for her to take. It was surprisingly delicate. The primordial woman was silent for a long time. Uncertain. It bothered her, to feel uncertain. What had she done to deserve such a gift? Pale fingers reached in the glom to accept it. It burned with a particular heat that tugged at the edges of her mind. Memory. Her brow seemed to come together for a moment while she tried to follow it. Tried, to follow the memory. The thread it created.

His words pulled her from the quiet reverie and her lips pressed thin, flat, while she tried to find the truth the glass rose. His fingers brushing against her were foreign and familiar. Long dark tresses often wrapped around him…But Elyria? Barely, touched him. Skin-to-skin contact reminded her of what had not happened. What may never happen, may never be. She could care for this Isley as if he were her own…But that didn't mean he would care in kind. They were not the same.

Yet, they were. This was simply the before. The beginning. While she knew the end.

Elyria was silent for a long moment. It wasn't unusual. Often, she took time to process modern concepts. This was different. It wasn't a modern concept. It was a very, very old one. Careful fingers pulled back if only so that she could hold the black-red rose a little closer. Warm. His passion had taken form and if left unchecked it could light the darkness of her vault. Light, many things.

The flat of her palm pressed the rose against her chest. Sharp glass, smooth stem, elegantly crafted petals. It bit into seemingly delicate flesh and she merely kept going. Expression devoid, empty, and distant from any discomfort it might have caused. "If this is your heart…", she trailed off, quietly, while her skin began to shift and warp around the rose. It began to take it in and she slowly released it as her body accepted the foreign entity. His passion, was power, whether he meant it that way or not.

In the wrong hands—A bomb, like the galaxy had never seen. "I will keep it safe, then."

There was no place safer to store it than within her. When her skin sealed it left a mark. A small black rose at the top of her sternum. He called her now. The castle had fallen, now, he called for her. Because he wished…he wished not to lose her? Perhaps, he did care. As his future cared. To stay with him. To sleep and rise at his side. To rule with him. He did not know, yet, that her nature was not his. She was a conquerer. Not a ruler.

Elyria, rightfully, was cautious. She did not touch him again. Not even her hair, which, slithered around in uncertainty.

"Do you know what it is that you ask?"

 

[Darth Metus]

Wearing: Armor of Darth Metus​

VAULT OF GLASS

We do not push.

There was a literal coin flipping in the Sith Lord's life - a piece with faces that were similar, but incapable of facing the same direction. On one hand, his daughter stepped ever close to darkness. She was a shadow of the innocent and lost woman he encountered a lifetime ago. She was strong and understood what needed to be done. But early on into her apprenticeship, Srina had imparted words of wisdom upon Darth Metus: Let the past die, and if you cannot - kill it. Meanwhile, the other face was the primordial woman standing before him. She spoke with an understanding born of millennia within the abyss. She spoke of a way that caused the iron inside the man's heart to stir ever so slightly.

Claim? Seize? These were the ways that were handed to him the moment he drew his first breath. The warlike ways that culminated with his becoming Sole Ruler of the most deadly warriors the Galaxy had ever known. Amidst the passion burning into the project in his hands, the Sith Lord quietly ruminated on this reality. Democracy had failed, as Elyria had clearly pointed out. And for history to never repeat itself, they would require something different. Something better. Unshakeable by ego, which was the folly of Sith and base Empires before. Unbreakable by the voices of the lesser.

We require a Dynasty, not an Empire.

"A Dynasty...you know how make the iron in me sing." She knew him long enough to knew what he was referring to. The ways he had forgotten after the wisdom of his apprentice had been followed; after his very culture had turned their backs upon him for the last time. But soon, his attention drifted back to the rhythm of the hammer. It was what he knew. It shaped what he desired. And with each blow, the crimson before his gaze shaped into something different. Something more. As the primordial woman drew closer, witnessing the fury of creation firsthand, he declared that he would embrace who he was. That he finally understood. That he, despite his pride, relented and admitted that she was right.

Do you truly, finally understand? Do not mock me, Isley.

For but a moment, the rhythm of the hammer paused and the sable-skin man turned. His gaze - the darkness of sulfur staining his eyes now more than ever - settled upon her features. "I would never mock you." he began. "I am who I am. All the forgotten pieces that I muted and shunned. The pieces that are required to forge something everlasting - I will recall and embrace. You. Are. Right." This would be the final admission that his pride could allow and he turned, settling his eyes back upon the project that was nearing its final shape. Whilst the rhythm resumed, the Sith Lord listened to the words of his mate all the more. She called him...King. And he had to do what Kings did. Rule.

"Sole Ruler." he said, confirming her words, agreeing, and announcing his preference all in one breath. "There is a word for it in the language of your people. I've heard it whispered in this very Vault...Dominus." His fingers tightened around the hammer as he thundered the finale of blows. After uttered this single, foreign word - his lips twitched. The beginnings of a smirk began to form - satisfaction that there was a way forward. Direction. The fury of the moment was giving way to purpose. But first...the token, his heart, was placed into her hands. It was a rare moment of contact - for usually her hair was the affectionate one in the relationship. He watched, waiting, as silence ruled her obsidian form for several moments.

Before the gift was pressed to her chest and her form protected it. There was no safer place than alongside her very own - and she was determined to keep it safe. But from thence, there was silence once more. Uncertainty as her flesh was marked with the symbol of a rose upon her sternum - a perpetual reminder that his heart beat alongside her own. She seemed cautious. Her hair moved, slithering with what appeared uncertainty. Do you know what it is that you ask? She inquired.

The Sith took a step forward.

"I ask for my name to be yours. My children to be yours. My rule to be ours. That we conquer together, live together, be together." he began. "I know what I ask. I ask the difficult and nay impossible. Choose me over me." His form straightened, arms folding across his chest briefly. She'd recognize this, a resting stance that was the norm for the man of tomorrow. Isley did not know it, but upon speaking those very words? Asking her to choose?

The man of tomorrow began today.

"Perhaps a ring would have better conveyed my desire..." he mused.

Darth Elyria​

 

[Darth Elyria]

Tag: Darth Metus
​

Her head cocked to the side.

"Sometimes, you mock me."

It was a statement of fact, though, her words were not unkind. If he didn't know any better, he might have thought she was fond of it. When she failed in the kitchen, or when modern technology confused her to the point of becoming rubbish when her temper turned it to ash. It was the innate joy any mortal man held while watching a proverbial goddess fall from a lofty perch of grace. It brought her down from the cosmos, down, through the atmosphere, to the ground, where she crashed at a mortal level. It was impossible, not to enjoy that moment. To realize nothing was infallible. "I endure it without complaint. I only require that you refrain... About this."

Still. The words that followed from his claim were meant to reassure her. She felt her confidence in his ability to release the past in order to make something new teeter this way and that. A sapling, young, and new and stuck in a maelstrom that threatened to tear it out. Root and stem. "Certain things are made to be forgotten. Other things, must be retained. Cherished. You must be certain to choose wisely in the present so the future does not pay the price for unmalleable nostalgia."

She was right.

Of course, she was right. Why had it taken him half a decade to accept that?

As much as she wanted to sulk, Elyria recognized the price of such an admission. That would have to be payment enough for his folly of not seeing the truth of her assessments sooner. His real sin was far simpler than he might have assumed. Politically, she wouldn't care about being right or wrong. The parties created and the warring tribes were a human concept that weighed less to her than sunlight.

The true sin, of Isley Verd?

His doubt.

In her.

"I know that I am. I need not be told. But…I thank you.", she breathed, exhaling slowly. "For saying it."

Her head snapped toward him like that of a hawk when he mentioned the language of her crypt. The secret-speak, dark words, that her works sang in when her tomb enclosed itself in the deep. The hidden. "That is not what you think it to be, though, it could be…adapted."

Could. In theory. If he could learn to be Master of his domain versus the Servant.

Against her better judgment, she acclimated his gift. His passion. It was a silent form of acceptance that he would innately understand as deeply personal. She could feel him, burning, beneath her breastbone and her fingers rose to trace the edges of the flowered brand. She hadn't looked down to see it was there. Elyria simply knew. It was true as the sun did rise, as gravity did exist, his mark would remain.

Unless he chose to try and reclaim it.

He stepped forward. She shifted a half-step back, as if, the act somehow caused their dynamic to fluctuate. He stated plainly the things that he desired. But, did he fully grasp what he asked of her? He was not a conqueror. Not to his detriment, but it was a fact. He was not the darkness as she was, though, his shadow lengthened day by day. "…You do not know what I am. The weight of my memories would break you.", she murmured, carefully, and midnight dark hair fanned about her form for a moment before it began to wrap around her shoulders.

A cloak of the void. Protection.

"I do not require trinkets to comprehend desire, Isley. I can feel that when you are near without the presence of a metallic circle. Now…I will feel it when you are distant. Away."

It gave her something that no one else had. That in itself caused her to flatten her hand over her chest. As if to claim, no, she would not return it. Elyria was highly aware that she had not answered his query in full. Nor had she denied him. Bits and pieces of time flickered through her mind's eye and she almost flinched with the power of a future she would not, could not, know. Could no longer find.

This Isley would never know that void. To know, what it was like to be eternally entwined. Content and complete in their oneness—And then never again.

"I do not belong in your world. Your people would fear me, if they knew my face. I cannot bear your children in the traditional sense and I must return to my Vault at the end of a lunar cycle. It would leave you, without, until I am replenished. It is a weakness, to be exploited."

It was against everything she had ever told him.

She would not be the reason his new world crumbled, of that, Elyria was certain.

 

[Darth Metus]

Wearing: Armor of Darth Metus​

VAULT OF GLASS

Sometimes, you mock me.

The primordial being spoke with matter-of-fact coloring every syllable. In this moment, the Sith realized, she was referring to the moments of light shared within their home. On the mortal plane, where technology was a frustrating adversary. It was true that Darth Metus often chuckled at her expense, for her duels against the turbo-oven were quite amusing. In truth, it was not something he ever considered her to have to "endure." It simply, in his eyes, was a fixture of their relationship. Just as she quipped about his relationship with the 'white rabbit', he quipped about the oven's clock. But...she asked that he refrained from mocking her about this. About talk regarding them in this moment. Darth Metus' hammer slowed to a crawl as he spoke once more.

"I would never mock you, about this." His words were as solemn as the abyss they stood within. From thence, she spoke about his path. About his claiming the totality of who he was. Where Darth Metus could feel iron growing hot within his soul, her words served to temper the flames. She spoke with wisdom and advised caution - not telling him which parts of himself needed to remain gone. But rather advising he chose carefully what remained and what was left go. For the pieces he carried with him forward would dictate the success of his rule. Of their rule. To this, the Sith simply nodded and resumed the pace of his hammer. Sparks continued to fly, then, as she thanked him for his admission.

Darth Elyria could have taken her own obsidian hammer to what remained of his pride, but instead expressed gratitude. A slow exhale fell from her lips, as if something - perhaps the matter - was being let go. But soon, Darth Metus heard her breath catch as he spoke about the language of the Vault. Of course, as this was not his native tongue - but it was hers - he did not grasp the original meaning. She advised that Dominus could be adapted to mean what he intended. To mean Sole Ruler. And to this he asked: "Is there a feminine version of this word? One that does not elude to inferiority, like Empress does to Emperor."

From thence, his gift was accepted - his presence marked upon her flesh evermore. Her hand gingerly settled upon the brand, upon his heart, as she asked him if he understood what he asked. The Sith explained his understanding, taking a step closer to her. And to this, she shifted back a step. This caused the man's eyebrows to raise, for he had never once seen Darth Elyria shy away from anything. He listened as she claimed her did not know what she was - and watched as her hair draped about her in an embrace. Did she...doubt that he would want her if he knew? If he saw? Defiantly, Darth Metus advanced another step. "Then I will grow strong, until I can hold the weight on my shoulders."

One might think that this was simply a flowery response or a paltry attempt at romantic prose. But Darth Elyria knew the man before him - past, present, and future. When it came to strength, there were no heights he would not climb if there was an objective. A goal. She then rejected his thought about a ring - Darth Elyria fully comprehended his desires. And now that his heart resided within her? She would know how he felt, when he felt it, even if they were ten thousand miles apart. A new bond had been forged - one vastly different in nature than the one shared between the Sith and his white rabbit. This was freely given and born of desire. And as he looked upon her, gaze unwavering, she'd feel the passion just beneath the surface of her skin.

The Sith did not take another step, but instead spoke.

"You do not belong in my world, and yet you have become a vital part of it. Our people will adore you, this I will see to. If it is children of ours you desire, then we will make our own way. Besides, I have a small army of offspring already - they would be yours too." He began, chuckling at acknowledging just how many of his seed were running about the Galaxy nowadays. "We will plan for this reality. And if it comes to it, I will go with you, and monitor the waking world in other means."

He then extended his dominant hand, an offer.

"Come now, my last name would look wonderful next to yours."

Darth Elyria​

 

[Darth Elyria]

Tag: Darth Metus

"I would never mock you, about this."​

She accepted that, graciously. The tone of voice with which the words were uttered was solemn and sincere enough that she could not find a reason to fault it. The Darkling watched in with a knowing stillness while Isley seemed to find himself amongst the ashes that had been left from his fallen nation. As a star phoenix would rise, so would he. It was inevitable. When Mandalore burned, he stood. Survived. He had withstood all manner of maelstrom throughout his lifetime.

This was nothing. It would not break him. She would not allow it.

He asked if there was another version of Dominus and for a moment she was confused by the request. Did he wish to use a changed tense? The corners of her lips pulled down a little while she thought on it and her eyebrow rounded a little. "Domina.", she murmured, though, there were dark little echoes that followed the admission. Her creatures recognized it and skittered to attention.

Master. Mother—God, if such things existed.

To them? She was everything.

Darth Metus drew closer to her when she pulled away. A step for a step. The tide waxing and waning with the moon while it slid through the sky overhead in celestial grace. Where she went—He followed.

"That is not a burden I would wish, for you. The memories cause things to break."

Her expression seemed to soften, then. Elyria wasn't refusing him.

It was one of the reasons she seemed to distorted from time to time. He had caught her plenty of times staring off into space, literally, looking through him. She was watching a slipstream of time in her mind's eye. Past, all that had been, present, all that was, and future, all that would be. That was a weight that no one should ever need to bear. To feel what had not been done. To see the folly of man in its entirety from a bird's eye view, to watch, while this galaxy destroyed itself out of sheer pettiness.

"I do not wish for the adoration of creatures that could just as easy line my dinner table. They are your people. Not mine. I needn't be loved, nor adored, merely, obeyed.", the plain words were issued without an once of hubris or spite. It wasn't an angry explanation. It was simply the way it was. The notion of the many children he had already fathered left her with a mixed response. On one hand…She enjoyed, the idea. On the other, she glowered with jealousy. "I was remade of shadow and bone. I was reborn in the dark…"

"It is my home. But you?"

She paused, squinting for a moment, while looking him over. He flourished in the shade but he was never meant to be in the glom. He thrived when placed center stage with immeasurable power in his grasp. People would always look to him in this age, as long as he lived, because he had become an icon. It was the same reason former Sith Emperors could not shed the limelight. They were legend.

"You live, inexplicably, in the light. With a heart of morality and code tainted by the endless."

With his hand extended, her head tilted, again, measuring the implication. Was her name not acceptable as it was? The claim it stood for was one she had not allowed in as long as she could remember. Not for anyone, save, for the him he had yet to become. Perhaps, he could get there. Perhaps, he would still turn into the man she remembered. Perhaps…

Somewhere out in the ether, in time, his future self would forgive her for never returning home.

Her hand remained on the rose-shaped brand on her chest, though, she hadn't pulled further away. Thoughts played across her features easily enough as she had no reason to hide them. She wasn't embarrassed by her concerns, nor, did she expect him to fully grasp them. What harm was there in letting him see her contemplation? "If you shackle yourself to my world, you do so, of your own volition. Of your own free will. You do so with clear mind, clear heart, and you must swear it to me here and now that you understand…"

"There is no turning back."

 

[Darth Metus]

Wearing: Armor of Darth Metus​

VAULT OF GLASS

Domina.

When the two syllables reached the Sith Lord's ears, he understood nothing at first. Knew only that the Abyss whispered similar words; and that he was learning to listen over their time together. Yet, his ignorance was immediately placated when the creatures hearkened to their mother. The beings of glass skittered and slithered, assembling like good soldiers before their commanding officer. Even the freshly-crafted being knew the meaning of the word and stood ready to hear Darth Elyria's command. From out of the corner of his eye, Darth Metus gleaned a true understanding of the word. Power. Master. Ruler. All bundled into one.

"The Dynasty will know a Dominus and a Domina. You and I."

With the reason behind his question uttered, the conversation shifted towards matters of the heart - quite literally. Darth Metus' heart - his passion, his fury, his hopes - had been burned together in the form of a crimson gift. A gift that was now safeguarded just beneath the surface of her skin. She'd feel the reality as he stepped closer. Though she stepped away from him, he would only continue moving forward. He was certain of himself, certain of this. For if he was not? She would not be the new home for his heart. She would not house his passion so readily within herself. She spoke dire warnings, whilst her obsidian locks cradled her form.

A warning that the weight of her memories would break him. The Alchemist in him pushed back. If he was not strong enough now, he would be. Upon hearing this, her expression softened. The abyss that were her eyes regarded him differently. This wasn't a rejection, but something from the heart. He knew that what she saw was not only the waking world. He lived in the present, witnessing only the now and thinking of the past. But when she looked upon the world, she saw the ebb and flow of time itself. Future, Present, and Past all mingled into a miasma that only she could navigate. It would be more than enough to crush the mind of a mere mortal - imagine what it could do to him?

"We will find a way. We always do."

Such was the confidence he had - not only in just himself, but in her. Yet, her concerns were once more laid bare. The primordial woman refuted the desire to see his people as theirs. They were mere ants, since when did she care about their adoration? That much was fair, as evidenced by the slight nod the Sith conceded. This was not said out of spite, it simply was fact. No different than an eagle looking upon an insect. Thus, he did not press the matter of the people further. Nor did he mention his offspring, as she said nothing about them. Instead, he listened, with hand outstretched, as she spoke about him. Assigned to him words that he never assigned to himself.

But in comparison to the abyss, they rang true. When comparing his reality to the endless Vault, everything about his world was bathed in light. Yet, even when she spoke of the differences of their worlds, of how different they were compared to each other...her hand never left her sternum. Never departed from the gift. It was clear what the primordial woman before him wanted. It was always clear - from the day she shattered her alignment to save him above Kuat. Reinforced from the day she sacrificed her divinity to aide him on Ryloth. Clear from the moment he intruded within the Vault and she let him live. Now, it came time for Darth Metus to be clear about what he wanted.

He watched as the contemplation unfolded upon her face. When he offered her his name. When he offered her the present instead of the future. But she had to be sure. And he was.

"When I first stepped within this midnight world that you call home..." he said, his voice barely above whisper. "I did so out of confusion. Audacity. Ego. And I attempted to snatch a piece of the abyss in defiance of what I did not understand." He took yet another step forward, and another. "I did not understand then, but I do now. I do not know every secret of this place. I do not know everything about you, or this world. But I say this without audacity, without ego. I swear it to you."

"This time is different. I stand before you, and the abyss, knowing who you are. Though I am many lifetimes away from understanding even a fraction of the Abyss, what I certainly understand is that I cannot turn back. I accept that. I embrace that." His hand swayed ever so slightly. "Just as you embraced me. Just as you wanted me enough to pluck me up on Kuat and to risk it all on Ryloth, I want you. Enough that I'd make this choice a thousand times."

The Sith Lord smiled ever so slightly.

"Choose me, for I have Chosen You."

Darth Elyria​

 

[Darth Elyria]

Tag: Darth Metus

"Three syllables."

The absent-minded correction of something unspoken fell from her lips without thought, though, it would likely remind hat she walked his mind as easily as she walked within the Vault. Both were vast and intricate spaces for which doors were never locked. Isley seemed to grasp the meaning of it without further explanation and that, for the moment, was sufficient.

His assessment of their future? That, was another story.

Still—Thin fingers traced the floral brand that marred otherwise perfect skin. Elyria was without flaw and her grace, even diminished, was boundless. That she would allow something to mark her would speak the volumes that she never could. A Dominus and a Domina did not typically exist together. Having both in the same sphere of influence inherently invalidated one or the other.

Regardless the technicality Elyria did grasp his intent, going forward. Two halves of the same coin. His gift beat safe and sound from beneath her breastbone and the sound was a little lull that made her head tilt so she could hear it better. How could she not, keep him safe? How could she not ward his greatest strength, his greatest weakness, within herself? To leave it open to the world and to the elements was a foolhardy decision. None deserved to look upon it as she did.

Feel it, as she did.

So, Elyria decided, they would not.

Lengths of obsidian hair moved of its own accord and lashed down around her arms, briefly, seeming quite curious about what Elyria had done. It lessened with time but she paid it very little mind. There were times when her luxurious locks did exactly what it wanted to do with very little input from her. She enjoyed letting it have its freedom, truly, when she spent so much time in a skyless, nightmarish cage.

The Darkling knew he didn't like the implication that he wasn't strong enough. Rather, that he couldn't become strong enough. Her words were not a slight. He was one of the most capable Sith she had ever met. She would never refer to him as weak even on his darkest days. Isley simply was, as he was. A human did not suddenly look at the grand vastness of space and will themselves into becoming a star. They couldn't become a black hole, or a supernova, in an instant. He was bound by the limitations of the flesh.

Onyx orbs slid over him before falling to an unspecified point in the gloom.

"Perhaps, we may…But it will not be today. Your mind must remain as I prefer it.", the words were casually spoken, though, not without gravity. "Whole."

Darth Metus liked to tinker with things that could prove dangerous. Dark individuals, with moral, code-driven hearts. Democracy, was another excellent example. Her. The inherent power of the Vault was another. She had noticed that he spent more time within her halls. That it had grown easier for him to bear the weight and the psychic backlash of thousands of years of echoes and captivity. He was strong. She, was stronger. Going forward she would need to monitor his progress lest he take on more than he could handle in an attempt to prove himself. His pride was just as fierce as her own.

Elyria would do this, mostly, because if their roles were reversed—She might try the same thing. A typically big fish never enjoying realizing that they were smaller than they thought they were in a much larger pond. It was her prerogative to see that he was kept off the hook.

His hand still waited.

"I could not let you die."

The words were simple. She neither confirmed nor denied his thoughts, the reason behind it, but she did state the truth. Elyria had felt the timeline shatter from the depths of her crypt. It woke her from her endless hibernation centuries ahead of schedule. "…Being with me, as you are, very well may be the same thing. I am more than you can ever hold. More than you can ever know…"

And yet, he was correct. It was his choice.

Elyria had loved him before he knew her name. Before, he knew what she looked like. Before jasmine and rain had ever swept through his senses in a dizzying perfume that was all her own. To love him in the future was to love him in the present, to love him, even in the past. Because regardless when or where he was still Isley Verd. He was changed from what she knew, but beneath the ever-shifting circumstances of parallel universes, he still belonged to her.

This was true for every timeline. Every frame. The only difference was that she also definitively belonged to Isley Verd. Simply, not this one. He hadn't chosen to claim her yet. Not until now.

The hand that he had extended toward her wavered and she breathed in deeply before releasing a long-suffering sigh. Her path was conflicted. Blurred. For a moment her face seemed to contort with shadows before it cleared, briefly, displaying the internal conflict that caused the mask of a devastatingly beautiful woman to slip. It was gone almost immediately as it had happened. "I speak, with purpose, so that you will never know this. To look upon something that should be yours, but cannot be. Not out of a lack of care or affection but out of respect and loyalty to you."

In such lengthy words, he would realize one simple thing: It hurt. The distance she maintained. The lack of him disturbed her. It was not a world she knew. In pressing forward with his wants she was also doing the unthinkable. It was all too human to endure.

Smooth footsteps brought her toward the former-mandalorian and her gown pulled behind her. Rather than take his hand, she pressed into his space, and reached up to place her palm against his cheek. Eyes of the purest onyx would pull him in while her touch drew him nearer. Just that. Just one, simple touch. Her hair moved and flowed with her but it didn't reach for him as it usually did.

This time, it let her do it.

"There is no turning back Isley Verd…From the moment you decide there is no other way. No other path.", the cryptic statement could not express the sheer depth of meaning, but her hand to his cheek would tell him wonderous things. The way it was barely there. "…We can be as you desire…"

"And perhaps…the Isley that I am leaving, will forgive me. I do not know if he still exists. I cannot see him as I once did..."

Now, she only saw the past. The present. This one. This, Isley.​

 

[Darth Metus]

Wearing: Armor of Darth Metus​

VAULT OF GLASS

Three syllables.

For as much as the primordial woman balked at the Sith's relationship with his daughter, she enjoyed just as much freedom. To the outside world, Darth Metus' mind was a bastion. In the line of his occupations, he presented a warm, charismatic presence to the stars. Yet very few truly knew what he thought. Fewer still could wander freely betwixt his notions. While Srina could catch the river of thoughts as they flowed, Elyria could dance within them. She could poke and prod, witness and critique, as if she were watching a man writing in a journal. Her simple correction caused him to chuckle slightly. "Three syllables." he agreed.

Nevertheless, his meaning was certainly understood. It was anathema to their kind, Sith, to consider equals in rule. Those who attempted to do so were so often doomed to fail. So it was that the Dark Lord of the Sith was also Emperor over a nation. But in this, Darth Metus felt secure. Though their names, Darth, were literal challenges to all creation, they were not challenges to one another. In this new Dynasty, they would be two halves of the same coin; but they would do the impossible. The two halves would face the same direction.

With this quiet understanding shared, his primordial mate looked past him. He spoke with confidence before, saying that they would find a way so that he could bear the weight of her memories. Though the alchemist in him balked at the notion of not being strong enough to do anything, he accepted the limitations of his mortality with a single nod. She preferred that his mind remained whole and he quite enjoyed not succumbing to madness. "I am certainly more dashing when sane, can confirm." Such was the dangers of tampering with the abyss. One misstep and all that quick witted nature would be tossed out the nearest window.

But the time for wit soon passed. The time for a choice lingered between them. The primordial demanded that he fully understood a single reality: that there was no going back. Darth Metus did his best to explain his understanding, sharing that things were different than when he first stepped within the Vault. That he understood and chose her regardless. When he spoke of Kuat, she said simply: I could not let you die. It was as matter-of-fact as the sky being blue. As if it was the most natural, scientific reality. Darth Metus understood this quite well. After all, the scenario had begun with his own sacrifice to save his 'white rabbit.' Without thinking, without prompting, the drive to save what was precious compelled them.

It simply was.

"And yet, I still choose you." he said. Darth Elyria may have been beyond his mortal comprehension. May very well require respite within the Vault. Could very well devour all the King's horses and all the King's men. But that did not change the fact of the moment. It was his choice, and he made it freely and gladly. He watched the contemplated. Waited on baited breath whilst his dominant hand awaited her own decision. There was nothing at first, then a long-suffering sigh. The sound of which caused electricity to race up and down the man's spine. His heart within her would all but skip a beat as he witnessed an instant of turmoil upon her face. The shadows betrayed the struggle, if only for a moment.

When she spoke, it was hard not to feel the ache. The longing. And now, Darth Metus understood plainly why their relationship had been as it had since Kuat. He knew that the morrow was a factor, but he had looked upon things with the eyes of a mortal man. With the eyes of now and hardly considered what she once had. What she was eagerly attempting to return to. It was agony, then, to choose between what was rightfully hers. How impossible of a choice it was, and yet she was faced with it everyday. The Sith's canine's gingerly pressed the inside of his cheek, steeling himself. He said nothing, for there were no words he could string together that could adequately address her pain. He accepted her feelings and the reality as they were, rendering a soft nod before the silence befell her once more.

Then he watched, on baited breath, as she moved. His fingers twitched anxiously as her feet glided across the Vault's floor. She did not take his hand - the offer was not rebuffed, however. She made a gesture of his own. Her own palm pressed upon his cheek. Her obsidian gaze drank in his own as he was drawn closer. That extended arm - his offer of evermore - then wrapped about her waist instinctively.

We can be as you desire...​

He did his absolute best to prevent his lips from curving into a smile. But his heart within him would betray how he felt. The Sith felt how he felt - but there was certainly respect and remorse for the pain that she had been feeling. For the pain that lingered. She was, in this moment, giving up what she had known and claimed for him. And though it was for the same man, she could still identify it as a betrayal and a loss. His arm gave her form a light squeeze. "There is no other way. You are my path."

He leaned forward, simply touching his brow to hers.

"Three words."

Darth Elyria​

 

[Darth Elyria]

Tag: Darth Metus

A singular eyebrow raised at his words about being "dashing" when "sane" though she didn't elaborate. Elyria had seen him in the depths of insanity. Writhing, in depravity while his mind peeled itself from reality like the skin of an onion. It made for an interesting evening, certainly, but she was unstable enough for the both of them. "You jest. But, it is exceedingly…Accurate."

He still chose her. He still chose death.

"No one said you were clever in all this. Pity, the lamb. The one who should flee from the lion. Instead, it chooses to sleep beside it. Rest, at its feet. That is a trusting, foolish, creature."

Bit by bit, piece by piece, he seemed to shuffle the most elusive parts of the riddle that her being had become. He did not entirely understand all that he saw, but he kept his eyes open wide. He learned. Most species were incapable of attaining intellect or understanding past a certain point without some level of inorganic augmentation. His aptitude was the reason she didn't blatantly restrict him from the Vault when she realized he was taken with it. Careful exposure could provide enhancements.

It could let him bear some of what she was. Some.

His arm wrapped around her slender waist as if it was made to be there. As if it had happened a dozen times. In his lifetime, the intimacy would be new. Her hand slid from his cheek in a motion that was so liquid it was like watching water flow. As if, her skin barely contained some sort of elemental energy that had nothing to do with the flesh and bone body he was holding. A brightness flared in the void of onyx orbs and Isley would notice that the deep, impenetrable darkness of the Vault, seemed to fade. Crash. Break. He would experience that which she informed, would break him.

A memory. Filtered and diluted to fit within in cranium, but a memory nonetheless.

Their forms were different. Position. Clothing, everything. They were lying in a bed he would have never seen before. It was a massive, dark room, surrounded by dozens of wax candles that caused the shadows to move with every small breath of air. Every movement. They remained in that trembling golden darkness, and Isley, with his head in the lap of a pale, dark-haired woman. He gazed up at her face. Carved of alabaster, with lips red, and perfect hair like the darkness of night made into furred silk, falling around them in a simple protective veil. Her eyes were pale brown, then. Like dark honey.

Her lips moved, he responded, with an impish smile. They wouldn't be able to hear the words the two spoke but they could see it from their counterparts' eyes. It was quiet. Soundless. But the emotion between them spoke louder than any scream, any bell, or thunderstrike.

The soft-touched Elyria leaned down and kissed him soundly, upside down.

The memory rippled. Faded, gone in a flash. The darkness of the Vault rushed back in and the warmth of the vision would be swept away with the sight, sound, and smell of sweet-scented wax and flickering candlelight. "I walk through these memories as if I am moving through cobwebs made of my most treasured things. They brush against my skin, cling to me, but if you wish it…I can remove it."

She could remove him. The Isley, that he had not yet become. It seemed like such a simple thing to say but with his honesty came her own. Elyria could remove that which kept her most distant from him. It was sacrifice. To kill, her love. To allow him to hold her as he pleased. To ensure that he never thought she looked at his face and envisioned another. She had feelings, true, and old. Perhaps they wouldn't have existed so strongly without the future she knew but that was only one shade of the spectrum. She had new memories to build from. A new foundation, if needed.

Her chest unexpectedly tightened at the notion of it. Of removing…Him. But if it was what her Dominus wished—How could she deny? The hand that had lifted from his cheek pulled through the air in a half-circle and shards of floating glass collected at her whim. Her fingers spun, round and round, until the glass began to grind together until it formed a miniature vortex. Her hand moved through it and it faded. That same hand moved over his left.

What it left in its wake was a ring of onyx. It was etched, beautifully, but with facets that could not be seen unless the light caught it correctly.

He leaned forward and she remained where she was, allowing, their foreheads to touch. The closeness that she allowed no other unless they were about to become her next meal. Her hands reached out to rest on his chest and a velvet, nigh wicked laugh escaped her when he murmured something small about three words. Elyria leaned forward, almost, as if to kiss him—But stopped short. The newly created ring on his finger would warm, inexplicably. It was done.

Yet still, he wanted three words?

She smirked.

"Enjoy. Your. Trinket."​

 

[Darth Metus]

Wearing: Armor of Darth Metus​

VAULT OF GLASS

You jest. But, it is exceedingly...Accurate.

The tone of the primordial woman carried that same factual air - but there was something about her choice of words which caused the Sith's eyebrow to momentarily raise. He knew that her sight blurred the line of past, present, and future...which was the sole reason his hackles did not raise completely as she spoke. It almost seemed as though she was speaking from experience. As far as Darth Metus could recall, he had been been writing on the floor, suffering from madness. But perhaps a different version of himself had succumbed to that ill fate.

That all being said, his choice remained the same.

The ancient woman had warned him as best she could. The very nature of the Vault should have been deterrent enough. Lesser - perhaps more san - men would have turned tail and fled by now. Yet, the Sith was firm in his conviction. Firm in his understanding. Firm in his decision. It was freely made. It was made with the very best awareness that he could muster. "It must be the Mandalorian in me." he said, chuckling ever so slightly at her words. His offhand raised, knuckles gingerly wrapping against the top of his head as if to denote an "empty head." "We've always been known for having very little underneath the helmet."

All jests aside, his choice lingered - and it encouraged her touch to find his cheek. Darth Metus could not help but lean into her touch, ensnaring her waist with his arm as she moved. Though this was their first embrace, it felt so natural. As if his partner were picking up where she left off. But then, there was more. So much more. His eyes witnessed what words could hardly fathom. Energy. Might. Light. The last being the most stark contradiction to the midnight of the Vault. Reality itself seemed to shattered around him. His senses were overloaded: filled to the brim with what could only be described as a vision. Darth Metus...saw himself. Saw Elyria.

But he was a spectator in his own reality. Witnessing as the scene played out. Darth Elyria seemed different. Her eyes were untouched by the abyss, for one. As for himself? Well. He had not sported facial hair in quite some time, but it fit admirably. The differences were stark enough that Darth Metus put the pieces together in but an instant. This was no mere vision. This was the alignment that had been lost. This was the tomorrow she held onto so tightly that the present was bereft of her touch. This was the choice that she had to make. Darth Metus strained his ears as he watched, attempting to discern what was said between them. But he could tell that there was a river which ran between them. It was not born of the Force. No. But it could rattle reality all the same. Genuine love.

And in an instant, darkness pooled at the edges of the Sith's vision. The black washed over him, crashing down as reality yanked him back into the Vault. The honied warmth giving way to the familiar cold. His lungs filled with a sudden breath of air. His sulfuric eyes blinked several times, before fixating on the primordial woman. She explained how she walked through these memories. That they were as real and as tangible as cobwebs. And for one of her nature, he did not doubt it. And then...she offered to do something he never fathomed. She offered to let her past die. And if he so wished it, she would kill it.

Silence ruled the Sith for a few moments. The sole noise which could be heard from him were the rise and fall of his breaths. His thoughts were a conflict. On one hand, perhaps if she did remove him, they could build that memory themselves. But on the other...He spared a thought to his own past. There was indeed love in the past, and loss. Memories that, in the midst of the cold, gave warmth and comfort. Memories which defined who Darth Metus was. This train of thought won the war, leading the man to slowly shake his head. "Yours, not mine." he began. "That decision rests solely in your hands. We are defined by our memories. By our loves. Our hates. Our joys. Our sorrows. And though you are affected beyond mortal experience, they are still apart of who you are. They still shape the woman I choose."

"But if you insist upon hearing my wish, then I say retain them. Cherish them. Remember the me that changed that day on Kuat." He paused, lips curving into a light smile. "I know for a fact that's what I'd want, anyway."

With thus said, her own hand lifted from his cheek and moved in a half-circle. She commanded the Vault effortlessly, mustering shards of floating glass. Movement. Dominance. The glass danced into a vortex and blended together. A symphony of clinking glass reached his ear. When the din faded, there was a circle of onyx left in its wake. A ring. Etched and beautifully crafted. When their brows touched, the ring found its forever home. It was not cold, as he would have anticipated the glass to be. No, it brimmed with warmth. She then leaned forward - so close that their lips were only a breath away. The Sith swallowed and parted his own...but she paused.

Enjoy. Your. Trinket.

He scoffed ever so slightly, but smirked nonetheless.

"I love you, too."

Then, the Sith took what was his. A simple lean. A simple kiss. His choice made.

Darth Elyria​

 

[Darth Elyria]

Tag: Darth Metus

“There is a drug called Odium in the future. You were inoculated accidentally preparing for a mission to other space. It made you feel perfectly insane and violently angelic for hours on end. You said when it was all over…”, a pause, brief, though punctuated with a furrowing of a pristine brow. She was trying to recall the exact circumstances and the particular wording he had given. “…I am never drinking again.”

The explanation came after she felt his confusion lingering around an unspoken inquiry. Often, Elyria would answer questions he had not asked. Things that had only barely managed to percolate in the back of his mind that could be a question, even though, he hadn’t decided whether or not he wanted the answer. It cut to the chase. Elyria knew that she could be less than forthcoming regularly.

This was her attempt at clarity.

It was a pity that no part of her saw it as an invasion of privacy, merely effective communication.

At the mention of the Mandalorian in him, she merely shook her head. It had very little to do with that, though, she accepted his statement for the humor he meant to convey. She had no love for his heritage simply because it was a construct of human desperation. A mark of how far their warring civilization had fallen; the innate need to wear a helmet to show their worthiness. “…Perhaps, that is why they hide.”

It was then that she let him see.

Just a glimmer, a moment, between the flickering of a candle. He leaned into her touch and she was struck with the notion that he should not. As the master of his domain, he should not fall before her touch so trustingly. Yet—He did. Elyria let her precious Vault shatter as it was meant to in order to temporarily lift the veil. She could feel it overwhelm all that he was; but carefully dialed back the intensity so he wouldn’t lose himself. It would be easy.

To feel that sense of completion. Oneness. Happiness. What mortal creature wouldn’t want to lose themselves to that?

Elyria watched as he came back down from the innate high of crashing back into the Vault and let the pads of soft surprisingly soft fingers run along his cheek for a moment. He blinked, bemused, and she explained how these moments existed for her. Always, at the same time. Congruent with the present. She could not remove herself completely from the Isley she had known without destroying the shards of what was left. He claimed that the decision was hers to make and elegant features smoothed into something endlessly contemplative… “…Is it?”

“Can you survive in bindings in which a shadow of love exists?”

A new thought percolated. Perhaps, it was all right to love them both. She could only be with one—This one. He seemed to think that she should keep the memories, hold them, and cherish them. He had made her who she was. Who she had been born to be, but would she still not be herself? Did she belong enough to herself that she could still exist? Or—Was she so dependent?

They were questions that caused her to look inward too much. Worrying about the paradoxical theories from within a time stream was exhausting on the best of days. Perhaps, one day, these memories would reconcile when it realized that this was her fixed time. This was her home, now. Time just simply had thousands of years to filter through and nothing worth doing ever happened overnight. The ring that she placed on his finger was binding. It held some of her grace; just as he had blessed her with his rose.

Equivalent, exchange.

The words and kiss that followed sealed the contract as if it had been consigned in blood. This was his choice. Self-Damnation, that she ought to have refused, but his decision nonetheless. A kiss was simple. An expression of emotion. Careless, for a mortal. It was not the same for her. It was the invitation of weakness, beyond that, submission. Surrender—To which she violently fought against. She surrendered to no one. “Careful, Isley…”, her words were little more than a soft growl while her hand slid to the side of his neck as she pulled away. Black eyes lowered, as if, she couldn’t control what was in them. She was the master of blank, careful expression. The fact that what Elyria felt was too strong to adequately hide said more than anything else.

Always, her power would have felt cool. Cold, even. Chilly enough that it burned. But with the application of her ring on his finger, it would have changed. It would feel warm. As it swelled from the depths of her being, the louder it became, the more heat it exuded. Until she was almost too hot to hold onto…But he would. He would hold her, close, until he burned. “You have only ever known half of me.”

“…I have been and will be tempered, for your sake.”

Often, individuals spoke as if different emotions were not part of them. As if anger or sadness was something separate from their true being. Not their natural state. Few would ever understand the truth of it. The way she barred herself from this man. Locked herself away, without complaint, because it was what must be done. Constantly battered by desires, hungers, so strong and overwhelming that they were like separate entities trapped inside her head. Her body, her blood. She had held centuries to come to terms with what she was capable of. What, she was not.

He had no idea.

She wasn’t even trying for neutral, now. Nor was she hiding. He would innately respond to her wants, drawn, like a moth to a flame. He wouldn’t be able to help wanting to touch her.

Even if he knew it would burn.

Hence, the warning.

“Careful.”​

 

[Darth Metus]

Wearing: Armor of Darth Metus​

VAULT OF GLASS

The average soul might have found the "intrusion" disturbing. To merely think and to have another answer was what the average soul called an invasion of privacy. Yet, for over a decade, Darth Metus had been accustomed to freely sharing his essence. His thoughts, wants, and feelings flowed like a river to his white rabbit. And, when Elyria descended on Kuat to save him from utter demise, she moved into his psyche as if she lived there. For mortals, her words would be an intrusion. For Darth Metus, it was a Tuesday. He listened as she recounted the circumstances of his other going raving mad for a while, and chuckled all the same.

"That is definitely something I'd say."

When he spoke of his heritage, she did - as per the usual - make her distaste known. It seemed as though the two women who had the most powerful influence upon his daily life both had a severe distaste for the culture that had reared him. And given how he had been treated by the Mandalorians over the years, he could not exactly blame them. Thus, he said nothing in the defense of Manda'yaim when she spoke. This was not truly the meat and potatoes of their conversation, in truth. For the ecstacy of the future was what dominated the man's thoughts for several moments.

As reality returned to normal, Darth Elyria steadied him. It was...rare for her to be this close - and after feeling unbridled joy, he almost craved it. Though her fingertips caressed his cheeks, he desired more. Needed more. But, he drew in a steadying breath instead. He focused upon the question of her memories. The question of the moment that she had just shared. The answer? It was her decision to make. Her subsequent question was almost lost upon her mate, for the experience was still heavy upon his psyche. He nodded simply, saying: "I believe I can. But, you know me..."

He did just choose her, despite all warnings. Self preservation, it seemed, was not his strong suit. Regardless, he cemented his desires and wants with a kiss. And for the average soul, the exchange might have been a moment of simple sweetness. But for them, it carried unspoken weight. As the Sith pulled back, he found Elyria's hand to the side of his neck. She looked down, which...never happened. And her voice was husky, just above a growl. It was as if a key had been placed into a lock and turned. The door had not been opened just yet, but even the simple motion had released something. The ring upon his finger was radiating with warmth when he anticipated cold. That warmth was not just temperature, but passion.

You have only ever known half of me.

"I'm not surprised..." he said, idly flexing his fingers as the ring grew in intensity. "...I'll grow strong enough to know all of you."

It always returned to strength. He was not the being of the morrow, despite his choice. Thus, he had a road ahead. It was not a matter of worth, but a matter of survival. For even this glimpse into who she was? It was intense. Yet the Sith could not help himself. Could not stop his arms from drawing her closer. Could not stop his lips from seeking hers. For he was a moth drawn to an inferno - and she knew this all too well.

Careful was never his strong suit, even when warned.

 

[Darth Elyria]

Tag: Darth Metus

Onyx eyes seemed to fall distant and quiet for a long moment. There were instances, the empty space between a heartbeat when she could see them both. The image of a sable-skinned king super-imposed atop the visage of a furious, wronged, and phoenix-destined warrior. The fabric of time seemed to shred itself into nothingness before her eyes. Breaking. She pulled back, easing, from the intensity of her extra senses—Though not from him. She blinked. Once.

Reality settled back into place.

Her head tilted at his comment. "It was.", she confirmed plainly, as if, he needed assurances that the words had indeed fallen from his future-self. Elyria knew that her presence could come with pockets of confusion. That her sight was unsettling. She tried to keep the creeping maelstrom to a minimum but there were times when the blessed dark slipped through the cracks. The grace, the power, that she held so tightly—Did not wish for confinement. It did not wish to be restrained.

For Isley, for his wants, she caged it.

"You truly believe that you can hold all that I am…", she murmured disapprovingly, breathily, but not without a small mote of what could have been mistaken for fondness. Isley, the Dread Lord. Isley, the Thick of Skull was more like it. When his lips fell to her own it was akin to the waves and ocean breaking the shore. He would feel it. The pressure, the balancing act, like the steady beat of a bass drum in his chest. Only too late, would he realize, that it was his own heartbeat. "…You are a damned fool."

"But…You are my, fool."

Her eyes had yet to pull back toward his face. Elyria, refused. The endless pools of black that would become the fathomless depths of sightless things were overwhelming. Deep, drowning pools that were filled with endless black water. There was no escape. Her hand rest against the side of his neck without thought. She touched, what belonged to her. Caressed it. Held it—Because it was precious in her monstrous hands and all too fragile. She could feel him.

Testing the red haze of her gift. Tasting it. "Do not fight it…", the words were firm, though, it wouldn't seem like a command. It was instruction. The same dulcet tones that were laced with something otherworldly seemed to carry a grim laugh, though, the darkling did not smile. "Do not fight me."

Never, fight me.

It would only cause him pain.

Her energy began to lash from the ring she nigh grafted to his flesh and a network of red lines, thorned vines, began to lash up his arm. They settled upon his skin in a black tattoo that matched the rose on her chest. From that, he would feel strength, mind-bending, blood-curdling power. It was a drop in the ocean. A breeze—A whisper, behind the darkest part of the moon. "You will learn, because you must. To entwine, to be, we must. If you do not come to terms with what must be I will destroy you."

He drew her nearer and her power threaded into him deeper. It was an infection, that grew, thrived with his surrender. Elyria uttered her warnings once more. Gravel and ghost voices would rise from the depths of the Vault when his lips returned to her own and her a dark ichor passed between the two. A jolt of something that would make his heart race, head pound, while it threatened to explode. Sharp nails dug into the side of his neck for a moment before she forcibly pulled away, both, a warning and an invitation. "Patience."

Though the hissed word was commanding, final, it was also touched with the same warmth that emanated from his ring. She did not only speak to him. She warned herself.

Too much, would kill him.

"Patience…My beloved.", she breathed against his lips, slowly, softly kissing him again. Almost kindly. Thoughtful. Desire was there. Passion was there. But she kept it under lock and key while waves of her being rose and fell in the glom of the vault to seal an unbreakable bond.

Unbreakable. Forever, was what he chose.

Eternity was what he would have—Whether he wanted it or not.​

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