Rid of Me
The Preservation Gardens, Throneworld
In the past month, Cassilde had visited six times. It was five times more than she should have, and a great many times less than she wanted to.
The gardens, like the entire monstrosity of a station, were a monument to conquest. She had learned now that this was formerly a seed bank, funded by mega-corporations who had been systematically extracting from across the galaxy to stock it. Vast collections of looted flora presenting itself as aesthetic preservation, as if to say the collection of monstrous tyrants, depressed cyborgs and otherwise damaged societal outcasts considered ecological conservation to be a priority. No, she saw it for what it was: a great trophy garden of planetary scalps, held prisoner in a vast forest liberally accompanied by Tapani marble.
She liked it for the light. It was the only place Cassilde had found so far that wasn't plunged into mood lightning for the miserable. Every day here was a fight for Hapan eyes, too dark, too opulent, too... everything. The plants and trees were exceptions to the rule. It was not kind; it was practical. They could not compromise on their need for lumens, so they got it, on a routine schedule of day and night timed down to the second. The first time she was caught in the cycle, she had the chastening experience of fumbling herself out in the dark.
Everything was chastening here.
In an ideal world, she would have spent all of her free time here. She certainly didn't lack it, with Mercy's tendency to go gallivanting across the galaxy in the name of committing atrocities in a manner so pig-headed it beggared belief. Cassilde was ornamental; the cupbearer was not practical to pop into the luggage for the next bloodshed, although she didn't put it past the tyrant to consider it. However, the reason she did not spend all her time here was that it demonstrated want, something she liked and therefore something that could have been taken away. An old court habit, really and Cassilde presumed, that in spite of Throneworld's vastness and her insignificance, there was always somebody watching,
She lived every moment now under that presumption; even alone in her quarters she did not loosen the mask. No matter how sick she was of smiling.
Millaflower lay in a bed the length of a court, a field of fragrant red growing in their ranks because that is all they were asked to do here. They were beautiful and did to her what she did to other people, only better, as flowers did not have to think about it. Cassilde stood over them, eyes downturned in observation that looked a lot like peace. She was barefoot, half-boots off and set aside, the warm, wet marble underfoot in a rare moment of slack in spite of the rest of her.
The dress she had packed herself. In the halls it was black, but here in the light, it showed its true colours. A dark, low green, like deep water under cloud. Silk, cut on the bias, an expensive fact that would have been wasted on most of the company she found here. The square neckline exposed her throat; the scandal of the low cut reserved for the back; the perfect posture of her spine drinking in the garden mist; and her bare arms folded across her midsection, an errant thumb tracing soft circles on the flesh of her arm. It was weightless and silent, with the only small indignity coming from the humidity, which caused the garment to cling in places.
If she had known that Mercy would hold her captive in a sprawling metropolis complete with a trophy garden, she might have packed something more appropriate. As it happened, she didn't, and she hadn't, and there was little point in ruminating.
Her mind drifted a moment, away from millaflower and towards the fact that there was nothing of Callamar here. A pity, really. Her home planet was famed for its gardens planted in white and silver; pale roses and moon-flowers. The city of Aviene was a monument to their blooms; terraced flower-valleys and perfume-houses were the industry at large, amongst other, quieter crafts. Cassilde supposed that there was no reason for it. One does not carry off trophies from a world that opened its hands. There was no glory in it. Every other planet found represented in these beds had either been worth preserving or put up enough of a fight to be worth robbing.
There was only her, and perhaps bleakly, the Hapan considered the reason she felt at ease here was that she was just another trophy.
Quinn Varanin
In the past month, Cassilde had visited six times. It was five times more than she should have, and a great many times less than she wanted to.
The gardens, like the entire monstrosity of a station, were a monument to conquest. She had learned now that this was formerly a seed bank, funded by mega-corporations who had been systematically extracting from across the galaxy to stock it. Vast collections of looted flora presenting itself as aesthetic preservation, as if to say the collection of monstrous tyrants, depressed cyborgs and otherwise damaged societal outcasts considered ecological conservation to be a priority. No, she saw it for what it was: a great trophy garden of planetary scalps, held prisoner in a vast forest liberally accompanied by Tapani marble.
She liked it for the light. It was the only place Cassilde had found so far that wasn't plunged into mood lightning for the miserable. Every day here was a fight for Hapan eyes, too dark, too opulent, too... everything. The plants and trees were exceptions to the rule. It was not kind; it was practical. They could not compromise on their need for lumens, so they got it, on a routine schedule of day and night timed down to the second. The first time she was caught in the cycle, she had the chastening experience of fumbling herself out in the dark.
Everything was chastening here.
In an ideal world, she would have spent all of her free time here. She certainly didn't lack it, with Mercy's tendency to go gallivanting across the galaxy in the name of committing atrocities in a manner so pig-headed it beggared belief. Cassilde was ornamental; the cupbearer was not practical to pop into the luggage for the next bloodshed, although she didn't put it past the tyrant to consider it. However, the reason she did not spend all her time here was that it demonstrated want, something she liked and therefore something that could have been taken away. An old court habit, really and Cassilde presumed, that in spite of Throneworld's vastness and her insignificance, there was always somebody watching,
She lived every moment now under that presumption; even alone in her quarters she did not loosen the mask. No matter how sick she was of smiling.
Millaflower lay in a bed the length of a court, a field of fragrant red growing in their ranks because that is all they were asked to do here. They were beautiful and did to her what she did to other people, only better, as flowers did not have to think about it. Cassilde stood over them, eyes downturned in observation that looked a lot like peace. She was barefoot, half-boots off and set aside, the warm, wet marble underfoot in a rare moment of slack in spite of the rest of her.
The dress she had packed herself. In the halls it was black, but here in the light, it showed its true colours. A dark, low green, like deep water under cloud. Silk, cut on the bias, an expensive fact that would have been wasted on most of the company she found here. The square neckline exposed her throat; the scandal of the low cut reserved for the back; the perfect posture of her spine drinking in the garden mist; and her bare arms folded across her midsection, an errant thumb tracing soft circles on the flesh of her arm. It was weightless and silent, with the only small indignity coming from the humidity, which caused the garment to cling in places.
If she had known that Mercy would hold her captive in a sprawling metropolis complete with a trophy garden, she might have packed something more appropriate. As it happened, she didn't, and she hadn't, and there was little point in ruminating.
Her mind drifted a moment, away from millaflower and towards the fact that there was nothing of Callamar here. A pity, really. Her home planet was famed for its gardens planted in white and silver; pale roses and moon-flowers. The city of Aviene was a monument to their blooms; terraced flower-valleys and perfume-houses were the industry at large, amongst other, quieter crafts. Cassilde supposed that there was no reason for it. One does not carry off trophies from a world that opened its hands. There was no glory in it. Every other planet found represented in these beds had either been worth preserving or put up enough of a fight to be worth robbing.
There was only her, and perhaps bleakly, the Hapan considered the reason she felt at ease here was that she was just another trophy.
Quinn Varanin