Private Crowned By The Sun

[Isobel Serraris]

CROWNED BY THE SUN​

LOCATION — Zardossa Stix
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

The warmth upon her face was a sensation long lost, akin to a flower planted in the shade, , , never quite managing to blossom without. And the mere feel of flowing silks and satins upon her skin, not being limited to the confines of her armour no more--and yes it made her vulnerable. . . Though must one live in fear of the blade for all of eternity? Or could one prosper and rediscover the beauties she had thought lost by the corruption of men. Bel's decision had long been made among the icy ruins of Ilum, whether it was by will or no. . . The memory of his offer--a place where she might don a gown rather than armour--echoed sweetly and melodiously within her thoughts as she paced through the cobbled streets of the warmly coloured city.

The invitation had been written with ink and fountain pen, countless times, for her crowded lodgings had become littered with countless inked vela; papers whose execution. . . failed to encapture the message she longed to convey. Dear, sweet, even his name seemed too formal or entirely wrong! For what if he presumed it to be the work of a shapeshifter, or some other foe merely copying her name? Even after reading the letters tens of times, she doubted whether he would find where she was... or trust that she was truly here- Mayhaps he would not come. . . Oh, , , she had been here for days already, and what good came of endlessly fussing over wrong and right and how she may shatter the frail bond they had begun to mend so carefully.

Though her heart knew he would find the meaning. . . Even more when Isobel had attached a single light pink rose to the note, its petals were many and the picture of elegance. Great Maiden's Blush, a moniker she was not entirely fond of, but its meaning was all that resonated with her. If you love me you will find out. The realisation that this veiled message may not register within his mind never manifested itself, though mayhaps the sheer beauty and grandeur of the rose was enough to leave a mark. She wished.

Lys,
Part of me had long sought yearned for the warmth you promised on Ilum, and now that I've felt found it I find myself reluctant to part from it. If you would want to spare me a mere sliver of your time, I would not be opposed to see you again. Meet me here. . .
Yours,
Bel

The young Nabooan moved akin to a mirage through the narrow paths of the city, her flowing gown held the shades of a Barelia flower with a handful of roses, orchids and the like stitched onto its bodice. The brown curls of her hair were not leashed into a tight braid, they were loose and plentiful, the picture of this little cradle of peace and serenity--even while the galaxy may tear one another to shreds.

The slanted paths gradually guided her to the coordinates in the note, toward the serene gardens hidden in the bustle of the city centre. With the hum of insects and the whisper of the wind slippingthrough the green leaves of the trees, it... reminded her of a home she could not revisit. Of gardens far too organised to ever truly depict life and its wild and untamed nature. There were paths running through the gardens, indicated by the few stones thrown on the ground. But most of its reins had been given away--be it through neglect or truly the admiration for flora. And though one might not anticipate it, Isobel had not, even amid the warm and dry climate of the planet this place seemed to flourish. . . And it brought her more delight than even the light of Ashla had ever granted her~

​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris​

Long ago, footsteps left that massive frozen monolith behind, an unseen script guiding each stride.. walking within a stanza once dismissed as nothing more than myth. And so he'd come to understand, that Bel embodies destiny itself; encountering her on Ilum was like rediscovering a lost verse, no stray note in the cosmos. Suddenly the legend of fire once fragmented became coherent. How could any doubt have remain when melodies buried in ancient words suddenly sang so true?

The Covenant's pull upon the emissary was indeed relentless, tugging him toward those distant horizons. A dragon's wings that beat within the chest. Byss's orbit never fully let go. This world consumed him most of all. From there, journeys led to Brentaal IV, where schemes unfurled upon the galaxy's most important trade routes. Alderaan's ever slow transformation whispered dread. Lysander, truthful to all, lied only to himself, saying that this was his path, his burden.. the need to be everywhere and witness everything. This left the feeling of belonging nowhere, stuck in the familiar void between stars, between Light and Dark.

A letter's arrival shattered the expected. Delicate and fragile amid a life forged deeper into Darkness, where death and conquest reigned. Paper that murmured softness. Nostalgia bloomed at the sight of handwriting. He turned the missive over in his palms; the memory of a youth once intoxicated by the belief that words could change destinies. How far he had drifted from that hopeful boy. Foolish, perhaps.. yet utterly irresistible.. the emblem of a rose, folded gently into petals of confession, sent by the Rose of Naboo herself. Surely a truth that required no further speech. As days pulled him toward Zardossa Stix, the letter turned restlessly in his hands.

The Tapani sector was but a tombstone etched across light years; whole houses vanished, names reduced to cinders. Darkness's icy fingers reached often for the heart. Paradoxically, distance from the Core became freedom.. and the cruel grasp began to loosen. Heat at Zardossa Stix was akin to a flame when compared to Ilum's unforgiving chill. Draped in black tunic and leggings, the hue transcended fashion, becoming a vow of allegiance. This was a Golden Age Sith, ascending steadfastly. Why question the need for shadow's cloak now? Desert winds kissed a scarf at the throat, an echo of prophets and wanderers alike. More than a Sith emissary, he appeared a man adrift, guided not by true north but by the radiant compass of her Light.

What lay in the Sith's hands was no simple tomb; nay, 'twas fragments of his past, a witness even, to all his struggles and affirmations, the only thing capable of prying open old truth entombed within. A relic inked during those sleepless nights on Korriban.

Insect hums blend with whispering winds as distant city murmurs fade. Sweet blossoms mingle with warm earth, fragrances riding upon the breeze.

Sunlight caught the dress before it found her, petals of warm hues blooming in welcome as though the garden itself had chosen this woman to stand as an emissary of its own, a living emblem. Curls soft as though no longer fighting the wind; there was no reason for a woman to apologize for being alive. And the absence of armor, those of plates of war, only made her true. The end of exile. Here was the verse fulfilled. And at long last, Isobel waiting for him.

Step by step, she became more real. "Your letter asked for little, and it carried a summons I could never ignore. I crossed half the galaxy with the rose in my pocket and your words in my hands, and still the moment feels.. well, I don't really know how to explain what it felt like to finally land here. Bigger than I thought it would, somehow. I don't know if that makes sense. I'm just here because you called.. and because I was always going to."

He had rehearsed something longer on the way here, and suddenly it all felt like too much. "I was away longer than I had any right to be, I knew it, and yeah.. I kept going anyway. I'm sorry for that." Crinkles formed at the corners of Lysander's gaze. "You look like you belong in this garden, you know that?" Warmth spilled outward, followed by the slow rising curve of his mouth. "You're beautiful, Bel. I don't need a prophecy to tell me that."

 

[Isobel Serraris]

CROWNED BY THE SUN​

LOCATION — Zardossa Stix
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

Serenity; one might argue it had never truly existed, for the forces of the galaxy were eternally condemned or destined to collide in one conflict or another--however small those battles may yet be. Yet, mayhaps serenity was never meant to be the absence of war altogether, but instead the comfort of belonging somewhere among the countless star systems and nebulae. To breathe without fear of poison filling one's lungs, without anticipating a blade in one's back. Or merely a soothing hand reassuring you that, for a fleeting instance, you were safe. Peace. Peace. Was it truly a lie, or merely a flower too delicate for mortal hands to preserve for long?

Though her heart ached with the burdensome truth that his presence nudged the white poppy within her soul into bloom, she could not yet permit its roots to settle . For what if his deeds might still wound it in time? Hm, though Bel believed--firmly--that he had sworn himself to his whispered vows, to be there when the fates allowed their paths to converge. . . The shadows of her own melancholy dissolved rapidly beneath the familiarity of an echo in the Force, a mark that haunted her very dreams. More than she would prefer to confess--even to her plants. "Lys," drew itself from her lips akin to a breath, muttered before her eyes had even found him.

In spite of the soft press of the boots on the path, she would not turn toward him yet, walking along the path toward the thorny bushes with numerous different roses. From the light pink species she had attached to the letter, to the dark red of the Malreaux and the white river roses that blossomed by the small pond behind the foliage. Her travels had guided her across numerous systems, some riddled by hostile flora whilst others lacked life altogether, though she thoroughly regretted not slipping into the Ottega system in search of an Ithorian Rose. . . A pursuit for another time. . .

A faint blush graced her cheeks as he reminisced about carrying her gift with him across half the galaxy. . . Her mind longed to insist such efforts had not been her intent, and yet her heart could not deny the delight the mental image provoked. To know he treasured the flowers she had gifted him, felt more meaningful than any grand declaration or lavish gifts ever could. Her touch brushed lightly along the stems of the Great Maiden's Blush, when one of its few thorns caught the tip of her finger, drawing forth the faintest trail of crimson.

"You do not know how pleased it makes me to hear you say that. . . I had picked it for a reason," Softspoken and carefully crafted, as though she feared speaking too quickly might cause her thoughts to crumble apart before him. "My family taught me the beauty of roses, its rather complicated language, its growth, its weakness--one might think such time was better reserved for learning the Force, though it was not fated." Her gaze did not depart from the numerous petals of the blushing rose, inspecting the anatomy and its growth in these secluded gardens.

A moment of silence lingered between them, before she finally turned to face him, her eyes darting over and just beyond his face--unable to gaze upon him for too long without fear of her heart becoming the embodiment of Chaos itself. "So I have been told, always more a gardener or a botanist, rather than a well-mannered lady or Jedi." A timid smile presented itself on her sun-kissed visage, softening the faint tension around her eyes. Her steps brought them nearer with each breath, before her fingers wrapped around the floral gift in his palm.

Her eyes studied the biology of the plant, whether it was not accursed with wilt or decolouring, and whether its stem had not grown weak. . . Its condition was adequate, no more no less. "Great Maiden's Blush. Many proclaim it to be one of the prettiest flowers in the galaxy. . ." Gentler than before, Isobel offered him a sliver of the floriography--nigh on stumbling over her next thought. She bit down upon her lip as if it were her worst foe before bringing a voice to her ramblings. "It holds a meaning--If you love me, you will find out."

Her thoughtscape had transformed into battlefield, preparing to yield to the overwhelming forces of madness as she avoided his gaze as if it were the plague. Had she been too forward? Was the meaning of the flower correct? And if it were incorrect. . . would he shun gift aside because of it?

​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris​

Chaos; Sith might argue it was the only honest creed, for the galaxy had never once ceased its churning.. stars dancing among stars. The strong consume the weak as naturally as a sun devours its own fuel. Perhaps he had always known, somewhere beneath the armor of that conviction, that chaos was not a destination but a current.. and currents, however violent, must eventually find still water. To burn without consuming everything. Planets, entire sectors, he'd witness to many terrible things. To strike without the intent to ruin. Selfishly so one might desire a pair of eyes that did not flinch from the fire that'd been known to burn intensely within the blonde.. that looked instead as though they had been.. waiting for it. Peace. He called it cowardice for so long the very word calcified in his being. Yet what if it was not surrender but something more dangerous.. an opponent he had never learned to fight? Every instinct imaginable sharpened against the admission; Isobel's presence may have even disturbed something ancient and banked within him. Could he truly afford the kindling? But the Force did not ask such permission, as it never had.. only pulled, as tides of the great oceans are pulled. The echo of her reached him before she did. Before he made a single turn.

Stillness; Lysander chased it across star systems and through the fields of a dozen meaningless wars, and still it eluded him like light bending around something darker. Perhaps it was not a destination at all. Perhaps it was only ever this.. a garden, a certain quality of air, the smell of something green and ever alive. Fingers brushed the stem of a flower he could not name, and he let them rest there. To be somewhere without calculating every single exit. To stand in a patch of dying light and feel, for once.. no pull toward the horizon. He had told himself repeatedly that wandering was freedom. He was no longer was certain. There was something here that unsettled him in ways no battlefield ever had. Different from Ilum. Chest tightening, he exhaled slowly.. and turned.. only to hear his name already already spoken, as though she had known before looking.

Along a stone path he stepped closer. The garden around them stirred gently in the breeze, but he paid it little mind.. his focus was entirely on her, on whatever implications there may be behind every single word. A poet, an emissary, a Sith; clearly a mosaic of faces. "I know that bloom scares you," came the gentle confession. Roots needed time to find soil, did they not? Scattered as they'd become, thoughts began to slow, drawn inward to possibilities long dismissed.

Afternoon light cast a glow as he looked on; a thoughtful crease deepened by one eye. "Roses are more than just flowers, aren't they?" Lysander mused, stepping just a tad closer until brushing against a shoulder. "They're like people.. complicated, strong, sometimes sharp, beautiful in their own way." As fingers traced the flower, he shifted. He watched.. no, he admired the careful way she tended to the plants, the pinch of pain when a thorn caught her skin. "It's good to see you still bring that careful touch to everything you do. It's part of what makes you.. well, you."

And so emerald traced another color, the delicate crimson welled where skin was nicked, barely visible.. but there nonetheless. The softest crease of concern crossed his brow, and without thinking too much, he shifted the flower and tome into one hand before leaning in, allowing his other to rise until it cupped hers. A thumb brushed lightly over the trace of red; the sheen was noticed as lips met that curve, out of reverence. Naturally, there'd always been this feeling of wanting her to feel safe.. and seen. Easier to enact than to speechify, that much was understood.

Then, more thoughtful, "I'm glad you taught me about it, because.. it helps me see a little more of you in this place." Focus took in the landscape's lush embrace before settling back on her face. "And I think you're far more than just a gardener, Bel." A bridge spanning old chasms. Garden scents deepened around them. "It's more than a flower to me, Isobel. It's a story you started telling.. one I want to hear, to understand.."

Roses, people, wounds, beauty.. those parallels were almost too obvious. "Somewhere between your war of bravery and doubt.. hope or fear.. you've always left me enchanted and humbled, Isobel. Your fears are sacred to me. I wish to meet you there, beyond words. Teach me.. the language of the Maiden's Blush. Not just the outside beauty.. but the secrets beneath the petals. The terrain of your heart.. "

Warmth, blessed by Zardossa Stix, softened the edge of his mouth. "We need not rush to uncover all the answers.." After all, the city had so much to offer, and away from the Covenant's more pressing issues, there was nothing to stop him here.

 

[Isobel Serraris]

CROWNED BY THE SUN​

LOCATION — Zardossa Stix
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

The sweet scent of roses under the bright rays of the sun blossomed the numerous memories from Naboo, of the foolish nobility she had once been forced to entertain. For the sake of alliances and prestige alike. They had all vexed her in one manner or another, with their endless disinterest toward anything beyond their own egos. She had been expected to play Shah-tezh against opponents infinitely more skilled than she, or dance--if one could even call it that--until she could not walk for days. . . Not to mention, the endless discussions of battles and military strategies, all these hollow conversations pursued only because such things were supposed to delight the bachelors. While all Bel could do was smile and yearn that one soul among them might ask after her own interests instead.

There was no iron fist to dictate what she could and could not speak of, there was only the gentlest of offers to bear witness to all she had loved. And may yet grow to love. Lysander's questions did not sting with the false politeness that most would bring forth, sincerity beamed from his words and deeds. It made her heart flutter to know he had taken care of her rose, or well.. his, to know he had not dismissed her letter as a mere petty demand to be left on the never-ending stack of petitions. Even with all the conflict and demands raging around them, he had found the path toward her and begged to know more about her.

The feel of his shoulder brushing against hers startled her only for an instance, before her muscles relaxed again. "Roses are truly no different than them," She began, offering a gentle affirmation of what he dared tell. "Some aim high, whilst others thrive better in the shade. And well, some bear many thorns and others less. . ." Her gaze dropped toward the crimson droplet trailing down her finger, the sting so faint it could almost be dismissed entirely. It provoked no anger within her, for it was merely the nature of the flower itself; to repel against those wishing to tear apart its beauty.

A bewildered gasp escaped her lips as she stared wide-eyed as he leaned down to her hand. . . The small wound inflicted by the stem was veiled by the nigh on reverently press of his lips against her tan skin. "Lysander--" Rolled off her tongue flusteredly before she could stop herself. The crimson departed from her finger only to flood across her entire face, her teeth lightly grazing against her lower lip as she gazed upon him. . . unable to move, unable to do anything but stare at the mesmerising cascade of silver hair.

There were no glimpses of abstract visions nor embarrassing memories haunting her mind; there was only the present, no past nor future to worry her still, only the strange comfort that this was what mattered. . .

When his lips at last left her hand, she remained a statue for moments to follow, the redness on her face dimming only barely as she desperately attempted to centre her thoughts on any folly other than his gesture. It was for naught, as her brown eyes remained fixed on the contours of his visage, and on the calm that sung in his emerald green eyes. . . His voice was akin to the still waters after a stormy night, of the merriment one may find at the end of a classic holotale--daring her to do the one thing she had never acquired the permission for in her youth. To ramble to her heart's desire about the flora within this vast galaxy. ..

A shy sound, almost akin to laughter or a giggle left her as she stumbled over what she wished to tell him. Her eyes sparkled like the starry sky on a serene night as they refused to withdraw or yield to the suppressed anxiety within her. . . If he so deeply yearned to see her, to truly know her, then perhaps an equal devotion was demanded of her in turn, one she would gladly oblige. "There is much to be told, and frankly I do not know where to start," A shy confession left her first, as her focus at last darted from the countless flowers within the gardens.

A quieted 'hm' left her, as she took hold of his free arm and nudged him along the fragmented path. "Floriography," Bel excitedly begun, fuelled by her own excitement and perhaps another factor. "It is the language of flowers. Some people use it to correspond in secret, like lovers on opposite sides of conlict--from the books about love. . . That I...definitely did not read." A bright, flustered smile graced her features as she looked upon him, devoid of doubt or any lingering shadow of negativity. In that moment, the only song was that of adoration; for the flowers she so dearly loved, and for him alongside them.

"Roses for example mean a hundred things, it is. . . oft the colour that defines it, or the assortment of flowers. If one has a very fervent meaning, and the other for example defines sorrow or desire, then its meaning changes." She found it difficult to explain the art of it, and gestured with her hands to the bush with white river roses and the dark red malreaux pair. "White means 'I am worthy of you', I think. . . And Red often means love, or passion. Placing them together it becomes unity." Isobel stopped for a second to smile at him, trying to read whether he understood what she intended.

​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris
​

For as long as he could remember, visitors came to him with minds already sculpted and sealed.. certain of what they'd find. They carried their conclusions like banners, and he only had to stand still for them to drape those convictions about him. It wasn't unpleasant, but a man could feel terribly alone inside a portrait painted by himself.

Back on Naboo and even on Ukaits they first met, the beginning of transformation had taken root, etched by the Kaggath brush after near death's whispers. Fully there and somehow distant. Tongues faltered on fences of speech; questions spun circles in one's mind, seeking any path to voice their allusiveness.

But now, clarity had dawned.

That cautious youth was not entirely gone. He was still in there somewhere, still drawn to the qualities she seemed to exude.. still arrested by them. But the hesitation.. that ever long hush between wanting and reaching.. that was gone. Zardossa Stix was no whim or chance. Nay, destiny breathed in her nearness. Because his truth was born on Ilum's frosty breath. He meant it, and found he was still meaning it.

The heat of this world never troubled him before. Today it wrapped around him differently. He was aware of it now, the warmth pressing in at his collar, at the lines at the backs of his hands. It wasn't just the sun's fire this time to blame; there was a shift weaving around them, flirting with the air's edge.

The Sith's lips lifted into that small smile, a crescent moon solely for her.. a soft glow hiding behind twilight's clouds. A curious flutter in his own chest stuttered. Had he ever known teasing could taste so intoxicatingly sweet? "Pardon me, mi'lady, if my kiss startled you," breathed softly. "It was only an excuse.. to bask in your warmth. I.." Words found themselves trapped between hesitation and truth. ".. I cannot recall another across the galaxy where I've been so utterly at peace."

But amusement too curled in that revelation.. the secret joy of sparking Bel's bashful confusion. Was it torture? Surely not. More like an effortless game where she was his willing, if slightly blushing, opponent. Or perhaps here, in her sanctuary, happiness chose to dwell. Affection wished for her recognition.. but maybe wishing was another foolish endeavor. Besides.. opportunities like this were precious and few; after the relentless gulf of time that once kept them apart, none would slip away unclaimed..

Would fate have decided to weave a different thread entirely if she'd been part of his life before he embarking on the conquest of the Core? Endless what-ifs surfaced, each sparking deep cascades of wonder. But these mushing were gently set aside. Though, perhaps the path forged was meant to be.. that some things are better left as they are.

"I think that's exactly what draws me to them," curiosity kindled the next time their gazes intertwined. "You said some thrive in shade.. which kind are you, then?"

Lysander allowed her to slip her hand into the crook of his arm. Together, they began to stroll along the uneven path.. not with her trailing or leading, but perfectly by his side, just as he had imagined.. countless times before.

"Opposite sides of conflict, you say?" The riddle was clearly meant to invite reflection. A sideways glance revealed a touch of sheepishness crossing his youthful visage. "Sounds suspiciously familiar. I admit, I'm rather fond of such literature myself. Though HoloDramas tend to be my guilty pleasure, perhaps a tale for another day." Inside, he felt a surprising lightness. Confessing these little quirks to her brought neither shame nor vulnerability.

Attention drew to the weathered tome cradled. "I even brought some of my own writing."

The gentle breeze coaxed the petals into an elegant ballet, and an attentive ear was poised to catch such whispered secrets within their folds. Warmth in his gaze might've hinted at deep contemplation sparked by her thoughtful explanation. "So, a single rose can tell a whole story, like a secret message just waiting to be understood?" spilled in a murmur accompanied with his radiant curve that danced like dawn's first light. "If white proclaims, 'I am worthy of you,' does that imply it's given before love's bloom?"

Before asking the next question floated forth, an arm moved naturally, enveloping around her shoulders with protective grace. "Or maybe after, when you want to remind someone how deeply they are cherished?"

A head tilted in curious wonder, mirth interlacing the tones. "Alright.. and who decided all this? Was this the hand of one heart, or did it just.. happen, over time, the way words do? Who set all these rules to carry across generations?"

 

[Isobel Serraris]

CROWNED BY THE SUN​

LOCATION — Zardossa Stix
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

Though the chains of the Sith bound the planet to its whims, one could not deny the beauty it manifested. . . Zardossa Stix was as warm and serene as his allusions had painted it to be, there was not the burden of expectation to pin her down, nor the lifelessness to make her soul wither and die. With its sun-kissed shades, narrow passages and hidden treasures, it had admittedly shaped to be the closest concept to Home. Nay, 'twas not Naboo, not as green or as diverse. There may be naught that could compare to the fonder memories of that place, but one could forge new ones here. . . With him, with whomever may yet bloom within the garden of her life.

Peace, a word uneasily uttered upon a board of war, and yet he had dared say it. . . Peace, and she had been its origin, its wellspring. The white petals of the poppy she had refused to let blossom, but how could she? Corruption clung to the edges of her psyche, taunting her with each encounter within the galaxy--begging her to indulge in darkness. And yet, the passion with which it was spoken forced her to believe it to be true. Bel had been blinded to other sides of him, to sides clouded in darkness or furor, was that the serenity he referenced?

"I. . . am charmed, Lys," her nerves steeled lightly as she spoke her words, whilst they wandered the pathway--refusing to diminish his gestures to mere folly. . . for they made her heart thrum so loudly and left warmth blooming across her skin akin to sunlight. "It is merely that most nobles barely spared me the time of day. I have not a clue what I am doing to make you feel at peace, or. . . this way." The confession was not a refusal, merely the quiet admission of her inexperience or a lack of understanding in this elaborate game. . . well, beyond the petty holodramas she had often entertained in her time before the Jedi.

The sweetest of fantasies had plagued her in her youth, kept her thoroughly distracted--if not properly amused--amid her days in the gardens. She could spend hours picturing herself with some prince, or a rogue as some of the tales sometimes picked, rehearsing the scripts of an elegant waltz or a quieter night in a grand palace. Once, Isobel may have believed that to be her fate, only for the passage of time to tear it asunder with each moon, with each rotation of the sun. Though for once, a feeling equal to her adoring imagination settled deep within her core, a promise of a destiny even better than what she could once fathom.

His question left her wondering, was it truly the sun or the shade which she preferred. . . Or what preferred her? "The sun is wonderful, I had sorely missed it after Ilum. . ." The cold upon her skin had been a sensation hard to dismiss, akin to shackles of frost that shunned all feeling from her skin. Her brown eyes lingered on him, twinkling brightly with feelings she refused to admit. "But the shade," him. . . "It is calmer, gentler. It means the warmth of the sun is not too bright, yet still present," Foolish thoughts rushed through her head, before Bel dismissed them.

The feel of him near banished all other thoughts from her mind; there was only the rhythm of their footsteps matching, and the tenderness of his arm nestled with hers before it shifted toward her shoulders. . . drawing her closer against him. The smile upon her lips met no restraint, brightening instantly within Lysander's presence. "I fear I may have entertained a novel or two whenever I managed to sneak them in." The remark echoed of a light playfulness, touched by the innocence of days spent concealing holotale disks within the narrow space of her bodice or amongst bouquets of flowers of tall flowers. For had her family ever discovered the indulgences, the consequences would surely be grave.

Her eyes briefly drifted toward the tome he had brought with him, its pages filled with the writings he had spoken of. . . He had once 'blessed' her with his poetry, well she could not help but believe that he was capable of far lovelier things than that verse, with the way he wove his words now around her so dearly. . . so romantically.

The pace slowed akin to the rain after a fervent storm, making more room for her to rest her head against his shoulder, the dark brown curls lapping gently against the dark of his tunic. "Myths and legends shaped it I think, storytellers and poets all had a hand in the symbolism of these roses. White roses are given as a declaration, a. . . new beginning of sorts," The Nabooan softly instructed him, wishing she had taken her Flora Symbolica with her when she left the Order. "It is like a dialect or... language in general, it occurs over time and constantly changes meaning. Everyone interprets it differently and its meaning changes."

"It is a language of poets," Isobel mused quieter than before, subconsciously wishing it may make more sense to him that way.

A contented sigh slipped from her lips as she ambled beside him, unwilling to witness the moment change, unwilling to allow the reality of their lives to come crashing down upon them. To remain here, upon Zardossa Stix, for however long their lives might permit such peace to endure. "I could remain here beside you for all eternity, if you so wish it. To let the galaxy forget about us for as long as the fates would allow. . ."

​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris​

Lysander stretched his neck against the mosaic of Zardossa's bleeding stones, shadowing folding into shadows where Light so often dared not trespass. An oppressive grandeur siphoning warmth from the air. Even in her presence, the whispers of Sith scars pressed close, more ink spilled across the page of fate unwritten. And so he listened, not with ears, but with the pulse beneath the chest; a rhythm half dragon, half lament.

Words were trailed long moth wing prayers against the abyss he carried; how to explain the weight in those veins he bore before notes of warmth found its way there? Before peace was a fractured dream. Only hunger beneath the blonde's calm, a darker chorus lurking. Petals pressed against scales, that was the only flower that threatened to still burn. Still, he would never repulse this. Surely a fire remembers its own flame. Each breath drawn while she spoke tasted less of the poison curling on his tongue, bitterness retreating before her innocent candor. Mayhaps.. a tempest contained within frozen glass, patiently waiting..

Steps would remain slow and sure beside her; the crunch of earth beneath his boots felt quiet against the honesty spilling from Isobel's lips. The voice wove itself around him like a whispered incantation. To be charmed, she said; it was a thing rare as a star fallen to ruin.

How cruel, he thought, that she spoke of being passed over.. a ghost in noble halls, unseen, unheard, her worth left unreckoned. The thought kindled a low burn within Lysander, a fierce, silent bell tolling against the blindness of those fools. But the Sith, disciplined as he may be, held that flame carefully. "Isobel.. that nobles failed to see you.. it's a grave injustice.. a cruel lie etched upon their hearts. You posses strength unseen by many. And I, by some twist of fortune, have finally come to witness. I can't help but wonder why I've been granted the chance to walk beside you."

Curiosity sparked when thoughts dared to wonder if any other soul had paused in awe of her quiet power. His Chest tightened to think of the aristocrats who had never paused to know the Rose of Naboo's name; so a cold anger coiled in his chest at their myopia. It was possible, she may even feel that thread in the currents surrounding them. Inexperience, he reminded himself, was not emptiness.. but purity.. something untouched by cynicism. Furthermore.. something he had no right to touch, but could not resist drawing closer to.

A question arose; did she crave the sun's fierce kiss or shadow's gentle lull? Perhaps neither, or both entwined in some forbidden tapestry. Indeed, it left him wondering.. spinning like an unsteady quill. "If I offer you even a shadow of that, it is you who bring warmth into my life.. that I would not trade for sun or starfire. Walk with me, then, not as the warrior of war's merciless blade, nor some dutiful noble performing in the Great Play. Simply.. be the sanctuary where your heart can rest; truth alone should be your armor."

Lysander closed his eyes against the swirl of feeling her words awakened. Everything one might say found its truth there. "Then let me learn every lesson you share," whispered into the air, "and speak it back to you in verses only you can translate."

Zardossa itself held its breath. A black heart swelled until he began to fear it might spill its longing into the air. Instead he pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head and breathed back, "If loyalty is yours to give, I'll dedicate each dawn proving I'm worthy."

A pale blossom, ethereal as moonlight, detached from the overhanging branch, or perhaps somewhere else.. and began a gentle descent between them. Without haste, Lysander raises his hand, fingers outstretched, and the petal alighted softly on his palm. He turned a hand toward her, offering it. "Come. Let us see what awaits." And together, they would soon step into the soft glow of the street beyond.

Bathing in coral dusk, the street before glowed with lost fountains. Walls of stone bore scars from a viper's tongue. Stallholders hawked fruits and figs, weaved into drums and distant laughter. Gusts carried the tang of honeyed wine and hot sand. Lanterns hung at window ledges. So he stepped onto the cobbles, a firefly of destiny.

 

[Isobel Serraris]

CROWNED BY THE SUN​

LOCATION — Zardossa Stix
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

Eternity spent upon a planet; weaving memories, fairytales to her heart's content whilst dismissing all the shadows tainting this accursed galaxy they lived in. She wished not to spend a moment away from this sanctuary, from the warmth of the sun upon her skin and the even warmer embraces--and kisses--he had graced her with. It was more than she envisioned herself ever achieving--for the tale had always meant to play out as an arranged marriage, an unhappy wife, a disgruntled husband. . . not the sweetness of this adoration--not the intoxicating presence in which she longed to remain.

A new home could be built upon this planet, not within territory where even her own kin had rejected her. . , but here on Zardossa Stix~ Needless to say, should the call of duty not result in her untimely demise--as it did many who had or will tread that treacherous thought. But it was naught to burden Lysander with now, not when bliss had graced their path here and now. That confession shall wait for its proper time, for not even the threads of her vision had fully unravelled into imagery beyond a mere blur or colour.

His sweetened words were akin to a lullaby to her, nudging her further into his gentle embrace, declaring it to be an injustice for them to look past her shy self--in favour of the more prestigious and studious ladies. They had the name, the wealth of their kin, and the intellect to baffle even the smartest of bachelors. The ideal asset to be acquired for one house or the other. Matters she had scarcely lacked, if not for her personal qualities, for who would be content with a wife so vexingly fixated on the various properties of flora? And so haunted by the whispers of the future. . .

"I am eternally grateful that the fates allowed our paths to cross in Theed, Lys. . . You need never doubt that--" She trailed off and let out a bemused huff. "Though. . . as grave as it is, I must confess, there were definitely others who needed those flowers more," Her words--soft as a whisper--had haunted her persistently since their fated encounter upon that rainy day, , ,

No other confessions, words or even thoughts needed to be voiced, there existed only this haven. . . a fairytale come to life within the graden, where even the Force appeared weary of its eternal war between light and dark. Bel bore witness to his words, and hummed in accordance with them, her presence within his arms answer enough for her. There would not be an end to this, even when the duties may force them astray; for a part of her heart had already been sworn to him, long before her words had dared proclaim it as such. And within the Force, their presences intertwined into one elaborate bouquet, unable to be separated from one another. . . at least, 'twas that way for her.

"Our paths are intertwined--Ilum, Naboo. . . Ukatis, whatever it may be that draws us to one another is a force to be reckoned with. I would not dare battle it..." There was a lightness in her voice, a playfulness that arose from her comfort, then her fingers ran over his free arm. "There are plenty of holobooks that detail all one needs to know about flowers, I can be persuaded to loan you some," Isobel teased softly, mostly intending to learn more the most curious looking tome he held near--likely with all his little poetry experiments within. . . Endearing.

The pale white bloom landed in their midst, and she gracefully accepted it from him thereafter. "A moonflower. . . they have chosen a most peculiar place to bloom," Bel mused softly to herself as her fingers tucked the white blossom in the curls of her hair. "Dreaming of love," she recalled its meaning, it was overly romantic--even when the flower was hardly that spectacular. But it was the only explanation she provided before slipping from his grasp in a graceful twirl.

Her gaze lingered upon him with a newfound playfulness and lightness, inspired and challenged by his words. . . and a bit flustered by the kiss on the crown of her head. Akin to a Tooka-cat prepared to dart away at the sight of a human, she was tensed up to vanish in seconds. "There are many corners in this city left to uncover, Lys. . . Best keep your pace." A--terribly awkward--wink followed thereafter, before the short Nabooan vanished into the numerous cobbled passageways of the port city itself, weaving swiftly past its human and alien inhabitants, as she vanished from sight.

The older streets and buildings were slanted, with cracks and crevices in just about every place one looked. It was a hassle on its own to navigate the narrow pathways, let alone not lose one's footing in it.

Isobel's trail led her eastbound, toward the bustling markets by the sandy beaches of Zardossa. . .

​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris
​

It was nice to watch the fragile bloom of Isobel open in the harsh daylight; her shyness was a delicate mist at the edges of grace. He wondered how such untroubled purity endured amid the galaxy’s countless scars. The haunting of his own past wrapped intimately tight in Sith teachings and hunger.. far heavier than the sun’s gaze. Lysander’s calm was a cage built of shadow and fire, a darkness that had learned to bend but never submit. And yet her light..no, not fragility but something fiercer.. shone brighter than this planet’s blinding sky.

Now, there was a rare ache inside him.. a wound opened by soft fingers. Did she not see the stains on his soul? Did she not fear they might smother her brightness, or dim the radiance she carried like a hymn? He dared not ask, dared not voice such doubt, that foreign whisper telling him he was unworthy of this gentle star amid his presence.

“Theed..” A hush, soft as twilight weaving through leaves; now, between them. Memory surfaced like a breeze tracing the edges of a dream. “How dare you speak as if I could ever forget that day.” A subtle fold at the corners of lips.. neither smile nor sorrow, but a little place where tenderness might dwell. “The way you handed me those flowers, the cafe.. the rain on the windows.. I remember all of it. Nothing has been lost to time.”

Her confession drew a hum out of him. “Others may have needed them,” a tilt of the head punctuated the thought, “yet perhaps it was the one time selfishness was not a sin..” Others shrugged at a single sin; he carried them all like bruises. Fingers traced a sacred map upon her shoulder along their shared journey. “For had I not taken them, I would never have known you..”

Secret havens basked her inquisitive gaze. “Persuade, you say?” came the tender murmur, "I believe that some of the best lessons often come from the most unexpected teachers.."

Calibrated emeralds softened in surrender, following the spiral of her twirl.. a dance spun from starlit whispers and moonflower dreams nestled gently in her hair. Another secret garden came into being near the corners of a guarded heart. And even as she faded into the twilight.. the echo of her connection lingered like an ember pressed against frost discipline.. a secret fire untouched. “Then mayhaps,” the voice murmured once more, tender as a petal’s sigh, “the flowers themselves hold wisdom beyond my grasp.. waiting patiently for you.. as so many wonders seem to do.”

Boots echoed against the cobblestones with more purpose. The Jedi challenged someone trained to hunt shadows, and furthermore, one that rather enjoyed the chase, like fire chasing the night's cloak. Around the bend, her silhouette vanished; he followed immediately. If there were recesses left to uncover, that was fine.. he'd lost her once to the winds of fate.. and since their reunion upon Ilum, he promised that no fragment of this vast galaxy could ever conceal her from his spirit again.

Not quite fear.. but close enough to name silence. Gilmpses pulled Lysander ever forward.. the bounce of curls, the glow of her new moonflower. Those visions were a steady magnet, pulling him ahead like tides of inevitability. Along that periphery of thought, the Force answered. The drifting shade obeyed like servants, bending at will and weaving paths where footsteps faded into nothing. Those old teachings hummed, and silence transformed into a road; the spaces between stone and light beckoned. A shift that was sure carried him beyond sight.. effortless, but a ripple in still water.

From the market’s edge, arms curled gently around her waist. A rogue strand of her hair brushed against his jaw, carrying some delicate scent.. an intoxicating sweetness even made time hesitate.. to savor that quiet breath.

Ahead, the market gave way to an expanse of untouched sand, pale beneath a sky brushed with strokes of apricot. The horizon stretched, where waves pirouetted in daylight; much like Bel, sparkling like jewels kissed by the sun’s mellowness; it too was an invitation, in a language of colors and.. light.

Guiding her carefully, hands were akin to compass in their embrace; he steered her steps closer to the shores edge. A moment unfolded when his head found hers; a feather against the curve of her diadem. How he yearned to see every inch of her face right then, so that he might commit beauty to memory.

“Best keep my pace, was it?” Breath trailed near her ear, laced with amusement. “The shadows might be my home, but you were never going to lose me.”

Lysander traced the shores ahead. "Come then.. the beach waits for us. And.. I'm.. excited to discover where you'll take us..” The Sith's mouth softened, bright with a pearly gleam. “And, I want to see how the dusk lays its crown upon you, Princess Bel.”

 

[Isobel Serraris]

CROWNED BY THE SUN​

LOCATION — Zardossa Stix
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

Naboo. A sole flower, coloured in shades long forgotten by the passage of time, hatched within the expanse of her thoughtscape. Its petals a relic of past, of all the bloom and wilt within the garden of life, and its scent nigh on bringing a wave of tears over Isobel's blurred vision. Cruel it was to be reminded of fates unanswered, moreso of habits abandoned throughout the haste of passing years.

Countless canvases painted with escapades throughout the floral streets of Theed, of the thrill of riding one's guarlara throughout the endless hills, and of the cold water gracing one's skin as it battled the Nabooan summer heat. Shadowed by the fury of tutors, of a rash Lord Serraris and a hopeless Lady Panteer; its pursuits should have been suppressed, and yet its resistance would not falter. . . until the Jedi, until the Force drew forth another path, abandoning the foolish pursuits of youth--of family, of siblings.

Eyes never slipped from the elegant waltz of waves lapping against the sands, whilst a breeze brushed over her skin with a warmth comparable to Lysander's adoration. Foreignness and familiarity clashed over and over again in rhythmic succession, for her thoughts failed to pinpoint what had planted the seed for this. . . void, this. . . grief. Lay it in nature's caress upon her visage, or in the sight before her--in waves sparkling under the lowering sun, glittering like a thousand stars. . ?

Absence had banished merriment from her life, the persistence on seclusion had become an ever-tightening collar around her neck. . . and its result was as empty as death. Not even distant memories of her brothers, of home, could tear apart its shackles, shape life to be life, a wellspring of opportunities, of joy, of love--if it may be so. Lys... Lys had loosened the chokehold with his deeds, his words. His mere presence was enough to promise that life may yet prevail, and that the void of loneliness was not beyond mending.

The fog cleared abruptly at the sudden embrace around her waist, drawing her back into someone's chest. . . Whilst panic ravaged throughout her system, only an excited squeal escaped her, followed by a sweetening giggle. The weight of numerous eyes atttached itself akin to magnets upon metals, burdening the pair with witnesses of their affection. Bel hastily blinked away the unshed tears--unable to gaze upon the inquisitive passersby. The race forgotten, and the intimacy resumed. . .

The gentleness with which his arm guided her did not falter, treating her with the same care one might a cherished bloom. They moved in tandem toward the shoreline, without words and without need for guidance, as though the act was as natural as ebb and flow. . .

As pledged, the rift's edges drew toward one another, sealing what had once been thought impossible. . . His promise was akin to the sun after days if not weeks of cold and rain, the other force of nature recuperating what had been lost. "Say it again, for I wish to doubt it nevermore," His green eyes attracted hers, refusing to part from them now they were once more connected. The shade gleamed akin to an emerald under the warm vestiges of the day, one might always call them hypnotising with the manner in which they drew her nearer.

A sigh slipped past her lips, as she halted them once more. . . Their boots deep in the wet sand, as the waves sometimes lapped around their heels. Her hands rose hesitantly. Her right nearing his cheek, her fingertips--scarred by numerous thorns--ghosted his skin, before at last settling. Her left drew more toward his silvery locks, finding purchase there, a futile attempt to ground herself. "Nevermore, Lys." A plea as soft, as frail as the sea breeze that swirled around their bodies.

"If the shadows are your home, then let them be mine as well. In your presence--in our brief moments--I have found more of the Light than I have surrounded by Jedi relics, being a wanderer among nothingness." The weight removed, and the emotions freed into the ever-narrowing space between the Exile and the Sith.

Her thumb moved back and forth near the scar on his cheek, refusing to touch it as though she feared it--the rot within her--might mar it. The light-hearted remarks about Zardossa's crown had brightened something within her, forging a path toward humour or more. What was intended as a thought, blurted out of her without pause. "Who decided that the sun reserves its crown for me? I find the Prince of the Core wears its light rather well. . ."

​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris​

The Mid Rim had given Lysander a horizon, and leaving it had taken even that. Years collapsed into one long corridor of smoke and ruin; black and red banners unfurling over dying worlds. Younger at the time, the young Sith didn't know that filling the hands with purpose would begin emptying everything in one's heart. Something was missing. That thought forever ridden beside him lie a shadow across every scorched meridian, every silence that followed the end of war that was never truly his. Twenty-one engagements shared with foe or another doctrine. To belong to a cause, even one so Dark, never felt complete.

With Bel in his arms, no longer was he some wanderer cast out into the dark between stars. Maybe the void had not truly disappeared, but it found, at last, something worth orbiting. That wasn't salvation, nor the Light reclaiming what it lost. A place he'd never previously visited. Stay, something inside him said, for the first time in years, without any desperation, simply: stay.

Lysander's breath hitched the moment he heard Bel's squeal, a sound so pure, utterly hers. Her giggles, light and delicate like the tinkling of fragile glass, danced in the air and wrapped around him. The world blurred; indifferent eyes and whispered judgments melted into insignificance. Though he doubted such was even the case, this city upon Zardossa Stix found itself more liberal. And behind her only a moment longer, mayhaps he didn't need to see the smile; he could feel the radiance of it, as though the entire galaxy was condensed to that one point.

Interesting it was, how every breath drawn from the air felt like fate reshaping itself around them; or at least for the sake of simplicity, it allowed him to understand the myriad of emotions washing over him. What Bel truly was the vessel of destiny; then that would be okay, really, as a supplicant to her whims. Lysander listened carefully as they tread near the hush of an endless shore. Echoes of that promise made to her now waited to be reborn at her bidding. And so when soft fingers drifted near his cheek, he leaned into that gesture, allowing surrender. Passion deferred to the pull of her orbit. First, his palm rose, cradling hers.. safeguarding the rarest bloom. Moments later, he directed her precious warmth across time.. guiding fingertips down the wound etched along his face. Part of him believed wholeheartedly that her Light could sooth that mark.. who knew foolish hope could be made beautiful by something called.. trust.

With her touch upon that marking, she baptized him anew. Words formed on his lips, spun from starlight. "Bel.. when you touch me like that, I could never be lost to you. Not in shadow, nor.. in light."

When a faint plea drifted once more, it reached the corners of his heart; that was he let silent heartbeats become his chorus as he whispered softer this time. "Under every sun and moon that bless our paths, if the world ever dissolves, I will seek you beyond dawn's first glow. Never shall I wander beyond the circle of your heart's light."

No footsteps had ever echoed behind him here; no one had dared to step into this twilight.. to see the silhouette as carved from solitude. Words emerged, "You don't know what you're asking," yet they failed against the warmth of eyes like hearthlight, that held his without ever flinching. "But I would sooner lose myself in it entirely than let it hurt you." Maybe that contradicted the vow from earlier, as he searched for something else he could not name. "Then stay close, so I can be worth the dark you're walking into.."

A whisper of breath slipped free, lips parting like a secret but left. Internal circuits began misfiring in cascades of wonder. A thousand unvoiced words trembling at the edges. "Bel.." hung delicately, unfinished, caught in the presence of her beauty. Lysander, charmer of courts, known in the Covenant for his silver tongue that could woo a womprat if he truly put his mind to it was extinguished like a candle cupped between two hands. The dimple at one corner of his mouth surfaced along with the next admission. ".. if you keep filling my world with words like that," came out a little helpless, " I'm not even sure where my heart will find room to hide." He was still trying to stand in that Light without losing balance..

The same hand from before was guided, tracing the hollow beneath his ear, and settling at the center of his chest.. where something beat like a quiet drum. A breath later, the bridge of his nose found her cheek. "You don't have to tell me anything; just keep your hands on me."

 

[Isobel Serraris]

CROWNED BY THE SUN​

LOCATION — Zardossa Stix
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

A symphony written over time, each instrument singing a tune of a planet throughout the galaxy--acheing with memories shared and dreams apart. Naboo, Ukatis, Voss, Ilum and lastly, Zardossa Stix. Each claimed their part in the greater composition, drawing forth a variety of curiosities; a vulnerability drowned in sorrow, a crescendo emphasised by agony (by grief), and a slow dragging harmony that alluded to a reunion. . . Of melodies once more united and amplifying each other's word, the feeling which they carried throughout each note. Each fragment uncovered, guided the music toward its true meaning.

Akin to the sun on a cloudless summer day, its warmth was raw and overwhelming--frightening to some degree. It would burn, it would scorch, and drive the subjected toward the shade. Long had Isobel rejected it, denied that the seeds had not been planted the moment their paths had first intertwined. Denied that his presence had haunted her dreams and nightmares even in seclusion, yearning for merrier days where the red flowers of a bashful love blossomed without restraint. Not even the defence upon Ilum had sufficed in wilting the bloom within her heart, for it had never been a blue-petaled rose of mystery for her. Not once

Light and Dark ceased to exist, the philosophy of Jedi and Sith slipping from her grasp, carried away by the waves that soaked the ends of her skirt. . . There was only the feel of his hand cradling hers, drawing its fingertips over the light roughness around his scar. A question of how and why refused to be voiced, as it glimmered in the depthless void of her eyes, accompanied by the gentlest scrunch of her eyebrows. It had not evaded her notice on Ilum, nor before, yet. . . Life had torn at them as a gale might at the dunes, slowly diminishing its defense with each blow.

Hypnotising words plagued her senses with each sound of his voice, her heart begged for more as if he provided the oxygen in a region of toxicity. Her remedy. Her life. The acceptance of her caress nudged her eyes shut, as she only let her touch guide her. The scarred fingertips gracing his scar over and over again, as if trying to paint its very shape upon the canvas of her thoughtscape. Fears of accursing it with her blight vanished as Lysander leaned back into her touch--her heart hammering in her chest with the intensity of a charging cavalry.

Endless vows, she failed to find the words to answer them--to deny or to accept. They lingered around them like a veil, obscuring one's vision toward the tragedy within this galaxy, there was only this. . . Ever. "You speak as if the stars themselves have pledged to guide you back into my embrace." A faint crimson bloomed upon her cheeks, though was shadowed by vulnerability, her vulnerability.

The shield he offered, the armour in which she could hide, it overwhelmed, leaving her standing there, her hand lazily brushing over the scar on his cheek, whilst her other hand loosened its grasp on his silvery mane. "I wish not for your heart to be concealed from me," Ever frailer her voice echoed between them, no louder than the sea breeze. And in spite of his plea, she felt. . Overhwelmed, unable to acknowledge, to know whether she was doing things right. Whether it was not wrong, or foolish. He spoke with such certainty she wished she could reciprocate.

Love burdened her so deeply, tearing at the threads binding her soul together.

How she longed to voice it, and yet it terrified her, in spite of his closeness, in spite of the pleas he voiced begging her not to part. . . The petals drifted off into the air, unable to remain where they had bloomed. Isobel fractured the proximity and took a step away, turning to face the water, picking at her nails in anxious succession. "Fate shall not bring us apart any longer, but what if I. . . ruin it? I-- I feel all these things, and I have not the faintest understanding of what they encompass, nor what I am doing. Your presence makes me at ease, and I cannot deny that I. . ."

Her gaze refused to grace him again, fearful of doing the wrong thing, of failing to speak back against his certainty. "Feel the flowers blooming within my chest, not blue of mystery, nor black of death. . ." She bit down on her lip, unable to name its colour and kind aloud.

​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris
​

With the Nabooan Rose's fingers brushing over the jagged ribbon of skin, there lay a misconception as ancient as the stars themselves.. that pain lives only in flesh and bone. The scar beneath her touch? The echo of a violent waltz with destiny that never truly haunted the Emissary. Centuries of doctrine, drenched in shadow and veiled promises of power, taught the young Sith to wear such marks like medals.. proof of both conquest and survival.

No, it wasn't the raw flesh or its imperfections that twisted Lysander's gut in that brief silence. The true wound surpasses the reach of any blade or flame.. it was the siphoning of his very essence, the ever slow and quiet erosion of hope and trust he once clasped when the galaxy was less cruel. The boy from Ukatis, another lifetime, so long ago. And somewhere between the atrocities committed and the blood spilled, a fragment of that forgotten humanity remained like a dying ember seeking air. Each stroke of Bel's fingertips unraveled an intricate tapestry of calculations and carved tiers of fear, exposing the shivering ghost beneath the Dark mask.

Doctrine crumbled, those shadows scattered, and for a breath.. the endless war within stilled by a simple act of grace. Grace that was natural for her.. it always had been, whether she saw it or not.. undeniable as the sway of willow branches in the breeze, effortless.. and captivating for the Prince of the Core.

Any notion of pride only dissipated into the void, replaced by breathless surrender to an unspoken vulnerability unfelt in so long. The deepest battles were never raging beyond the stars. They were deep within, and for Lysander, that was where Light and Dark always merged in indistinguishable shades. A precarious balance perched between these twin chasms. . but in that merging, perhaps, lies some hope than being more than the monstrous sum of deeds.. more than the shadows cast by his own hand. For all his ways, all his flaws, he was not so blind..

How to blame the winds for the messes that were created over time.. when he was the one that left the window open?

Words clung to the Zardossa's warm air like stardust caught in a web.. While a fragile bloom of crimson on her cheeks mirrored the distant nebulae.. vivid and raw. Lysander felt that very undercurrent of fragility twisted the space between them. Every breath carried the pull of galaxies unheard..

The way retreat manifests in the pull of her hands threatened to unravel the hollows of one's hope. To promise a sanctuary in his chaos at once should've felt both certain and impossibly fragile. How does one offer a heart that has wandered asteroid fields and starless corridors, beat by cosmic storms yet still.. beating?

Slowly, he turned, a pivot born of reverence. Boots pressed into the sand, leaving prints that the sea began to claim. How could someone crowned in moonlight not understand intimacy? "The stars, do not pledge. They just.. burn, and fall, and then burn again. But I have made a study of falling, Bel. I know its shape better than I know my own name.."

Did she think certainty comes without cost? Did a woman born in a garden truly know the value of flowers, Lysander wonders, because without the contrasts, some beauties could not be understood. "Maybe I don't truly understand the prophecy's Bel; but when that vision is placed to burn within my heart.. how could I ever believe it was random? I've been chosen to carry it out."

The Sith watched the galaxy take away things he never imagined losing; so why can it not give him something he never imagined having.

"Forgive me for everytime I have spoken your name and failed to live it. I am but clay, cracked and unfinished. If there is any Light in me, it is only because you're near. I've been told to search for everything but love and death in my duties, yet only death ever found me."

Some vows were forged in the long furnace of absence, hammered out on the nights when the Dark had no bottom. "I am not asking for promises. Only that you remain beside me while we discover the answer."

 

[Isobel Serraris]

CROWNED BY THE SUN​

LOCATION — Zardossa Stix
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

The sea, a mesmerising artwork, ever-changing, ever-evolving. . . The tides that shifted frequently throughout the rotation, relinquishing to the beach or devouring it once again. It was hypnotising, capable of soothing the gravest of memories--of thoughts--burdening her psyche night and day. Visions, thoughts, worries, they all ceased to exist the longer she gazed upon the sparkling ripples of waves beneath the fading sun. . . The gentle (and surprisingly temperate) brush of its water against the ends of her orange skirts, against the slippers and skin beneath.

To be consumed by matters so natural was folly, to let them dominate what they should not--these fears of loss, of scaring the other away from her. . . It was what she feared most--a loss, an unnecessary one at that, for the flower had begun to bloom between them. Each step taken was another one toward warmth and tenderness, her focus must not stray from that truth--nothing else mattered when he was here, when he pledged he would not leave. A smile faintly graced her features at the realisation, the rosy tint on her cheeks never quite fading.

The weight of prophecy and foresight accursed them both, and yet for her this was a blank canvas--its lines not yet painted, not yet interpreted. The certainty of his words and deeds were enough for her now. For once, she wished not to know how the tale ended. Let the future be veiled in its secrets, let the visions be silenced, and let her discover each page of this story alongside him. May this bliss be bestowed upon her this once. . .

"I know. It is unnecessary to dwell upon such things. Mayhaps neither of us truly knows what awaits us, nor what we are doing. . . Yet when I am with you, it feels right, and I shall hold on to and treasure that feeling." Her soft and gentle words sought to put a halt to his promises, to his words of prophecy--tomorrow may offer room for that, but she had come here to enjoy time with him. . . Not to sink into memories, into fears, into the rest of their tumultuous lives.

Her steps drew her back to his side, instinctively reaching for his hand and cupping it between her own. The warm sunset grazed her dark brown curls, turning a few strands to gold in its light. . .

For a moment she hesitated, before lifting his hand and pressing a gentle kiss against his knuckles. "We need not concern ourselves with Light and Dark. Yes, I have been most foolish in the past. . . so blind to the imbalance that would come from Light alone, its counterpart forgotten. They are the bloom and the rot of nature. Both are necessary." A nervous chuckle escaped her. "I-- I do not accuse you of being rot, Lys." The rosy tint upon her cheeks deepened. "Merely another part of its cycle-- I... It sounds wrong, and I merely want to say I think we belong together. Be it as Light or be it as Dark, it matters not to me."

All of this made her rather flushed, unable to properly think, unable to act as she stood there more dormant than a statue. Before his earlier words registered in her mind accompanied by a rather mischievous spark. . . Clay, cracked and unfinished. . . And what mended clay? Water. Her gaze briefly moved away from his and gazed upon the waves lapping the shore, before giggling softly to herself. "Well, if you are clay, and so terribly cracked. . . I would never forgive myself for not mending it," The Force suddenly swirled around her palms as she released his hands and--without any warning--pushed him back metres into the sea.

Isobel hurried after him before his body had hit the water, and swam toward Lysander--cursing the impractical gown beneath her breath.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris​

Under Zardossa's sun, his voice lowered in temperature, akin to snow finding a place on stone. The breaths that left Lysander were softer than a sigh; Isobel had pulled him from the shadows of his own thoughts. “You are right. There is no wisdom in chasing what has not yet come to pass. If this feels right to you.. then I will hold to that.”

Even so, the Sith remained where she had left him, a statue carved from hesitation. He didn’t bridge the distance; he was terrified that the slightest movement would shatter the fragile equilibrium they’d struck. “Rot, am I?” His brow lifted in amusement. “If you wanted to call me dangerous, I mean.. there are simpler ways, Bel. But I will take ‘part of the cycle’ if it means you stand with me..”

When she reached for his hand, pressing her lips to his skin with such intentional grace, he felt the composure he’d spent a lifetime cultivating simply.. dissolve. His pulse began kicking against his wrist; when he looked down upon Bel, his emerald eyes were uncharacteristically wide.. a boyish flush creeping up his neck to stain his cheekbones.

Leaning in, it was believed he might even find her temple with his own lips.. but instead only his mouth opened, as though it wished to tell her that it was gravity that held him to the earth, not merit.. that he was only ever half-formed, a mosaic of so many broken things.. but the words only died in his throat. The Force surged, a slightly violent, kinetic ripple of light that didn’t just nudge him; it snatched the ground from beneath him.. and more.

And so being a Sith was no longer part of the plan, just a young man caught entirely by surprise. An undignified yelp escaped. Time stretched into a crawl during that airborne arc. Humid air whistled past the ears, the body forced into a violent backward bend as boots lost all purchase on the sand! Seconds later, the surface of the water shattered upon impact in a rather ungraceful splash.

The sea swallowed him whole. For a few pathetic seconds, he just drifted. Then, he kicked hard.. breaking the surface with a sudden, dramatic gasp, his siler hair plastered to his forehead like a drowning specter.

Wiping the brine from his stinging eyes, it was realized if he was going to be ‘humiliated,’ he might as well enjoy the performance, no? So, Lysander sank halfway back under, one elegant hand raised toward the sunset like a fading star.. his chest heaving. The tide nudged him, the portrait of a tragic Sith defeated.. HoloDrama worthy, or so he hoped..

The sound of splashing through the shallows came as she drew near. Slipping beneath the surface, boots began kicking to propel him forward. All of it weighed him down, but the distance was short, fortunately. Breaching the water right beside the Nabooan, arms surged out to wrap around her waist, pulling her into the contact of his soaked, and lithe frame. Mischief lit up his features as he leaned in. Before words could fall, he spat a mouthful of seawater out into the horizon.

“Clay does not mend this way,” muttered with a huff of laughter against the damp fabric of her gown. “You’ve pushed a Sith Knight into the abyss, Isobel. That’s a dangerous game to play.”

Tightened his grip on her, he tucked a chin over her shoulder; perhaps so she could hear the honesty humming in his tone. It was almost the same way he’d found her earlier.. maybe it just felt right from that angle, or maybe that was simply the excuse he’d decided to keep. Either way.. Lysander wasn’t inclined to question something that felt natural.

“You’re lucky that I.. like you,” whispered with lips brushing the shell of her ear. “And for the record? You owe me a towel. And perhaps a conversation that doesn’t involve being launched into the sea.”

 

[Isobel Serraris]

CROWNED BY THE SUN​

LOCATION — Zardossa Stix
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

The waves wrapped around her akin to an iron shroud, its weights seeping into the colourful fabrics of her gown and burdening the every move of arm and leg. The further one might stray from the shoreline, the colder the tides grew, shackling her legs with what may feel like ice. There was an endless nothingness before her, no more than gentle ripples in the sea shifting back and forth, growing tall and then short once more. Furthermore, there was the sun; a warm deity on the distant horizon, casting her glow upon all of Zardossa Stix's beauty.

One might nearly call it serenity incarnate, if not for the absence of the one she had plunged into the tide; "Lysander!" Bel called out, her lips barely taller than the waves she swam through. Her focus had been centred upon the swirl of bubbles brewing in the valley between the sea swells, though her eyes did not spot the silvery mane of her. . . friend. Had he known how to swim? The thought had never quite occurred to her, and what if she had doomed him--become responsible for the death of one dear to her, and. . . a prominent Sith within the Galaxy.

With a crescendoing rhythm within her chest, her resolve was ever fueled. The Nabooan, experienced at swimming because of her past, cycled her arms swifter through the expanse of water, drawing ever nearer to the anomaly.

Her pace faltered at the sound of his loud gasp, only for sweet laughter to immediately wash over her. His drenched appearance was a sight to behold, for he looked no better than a wet voorpak. His luscious strands of hair clung to his face like a veil, and the befuddled expression glittering through them was enough to make her bark with laughter.

Upon the, almost familiar, arm around her waist, drawing her ever nearer, a second murmur of his name tumbled from her lips. In spite of their closeness, her right hand rose to brush the silvery locks behind his ear. Whilst his embrace too made it vexingly troublesome to avoid hitting his leg in her attempts to swim in place, her motions almost appearing amateurish and chaotic for the briefest of glimpses.

"Colour me utterly terrified, Lys. . ." The familiar warmth of her giggle crowded the shallow space between them, as her eyes instinctively closed at the feel of his chin upon her shoulder. "For a moment I thought the great Prince of the Core never learned how to swim." She whispered back to him, the humour sparking off her every word.

His admission struck her with the force of a supernova. He likes me?! No vision had prepared her for this. No prophecy. No dream. The gentle brush of his lips against the shell of her ear left every thought in ruin, in madness, and her legs lost control of what they were doing. For but a glimpse, half her face disappeared beneath the waters of the Zardossan sea before she surfaced once more, unable to say anything for a moment.

Once rhythm had cautiously returned to her grasp, the girl's hands found his--drawing them away from her waist--and began to guide the pair back toward the shoreline. "Well, looking at ourselves. . . I think we both require a towel and a change of clothes," her voice resonated with the light and gentleness of a spring sun, though her thoughts burned evermore with the echoes of his earlier declaration.

Her body moved gracefully through the endless tapestry of waves until her feet settled upon the sandy soil once more, her slippers still filled with seawater. . . . While the sunset hues of her gown had darkened gravely, clinging to her form where the sea had consumed its shape, while her damp curls appeared even more unruly than before.

Isobel pulled him nearer, refusing to surrender his hands. "But I shall promise not to plunge you into the depths again, truly. . ." The sincerity was clear in the sparkle within her eyes, in the blossoming smile upon her lips, and in the fact that she appeared almost dismissive of the wet garbs clinging to her skin. As before, the only thing that mattered, was he.

"I have taken up residence beyond the Eastern Fountains," she confessed softly, her lodgings rested on the far side of the city. "Though if you truly require a towel from my hands, it would be a rather long journey in cold, wet clothes. . ." Her gaze briefly trailed off toward the ever-lowering sun upon the horizon, its descent proclaiming the approach of evening. "Or must Bloom and Rot part ways so soon?" The words were spoken softly, undeniably teasingly, though within blossomed a hope that the answer would be no. . .

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

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