Private They'll Clap When You're Gone

[Cassilde Vortayn]

The Alcyne, Serelane, Callamar

The heavens were blemished.

The beautiful symmetry between the sky and the still lake waters of Callamar was marred by the unsightly stain of the Tyranny, like a great, angular spider looming on the ceiling. The water's mirrored quality, usually a boon, was now an oppressive reminder of the hand that had been dealt; everywhere Cassilde's eyes drifted, she found herself confronted by implicit threat.

Mercy.

The day's business was done, marked by the greying of the light, and the mask had come off somewhere on the causeway, the warmth and readiness shed for the empty audience of the pavilion. It was a private space, a small pale folly on its island of stone and surrounded by the water with the palace at her back, away from the watchers and the waiters. The weight of the assembled face could be cast aside here, leaving only a bench, a single plain cup of tea and the pale lake-birds that drifted in off the water to the rail, expecting her.

Unlike the monstrosity in her skies, she, too, had been expecting them.

She had seed in the pocket of her gown, and she scattered it along the stone, which they took from a hand's breadth away without alarm. Cassilde let herself be gentle with them, because she could, and because they wanted nothing from her she could not just simply give. They carried no secrets; they did not need to be read or managed. They did not lie and could not be lied to. And they did not require her to wear any face but her own.

"There," she spoke gently to a small grey one, the boldest who came the closest, in a voice she used with no living person. "There. Take it, it's yours."

It was the kindest she permitted herself to be to anything all day.

Alongside the teacup, a small lamp glowed at her elbow. The light out here never truly failed; the moons and the nebulae saw to that, a dusk that never fully turned to the black. However, she did not like to watch it deepen, and so the lamp sat beside her, small and steady, and she was not ashamed of its companionship.

A question of why hung heavy in the late afternoon air. Mercy had largely been absent for the course of her rule, which was naturally, the preferred order of things beyond the brute perishing suddenly, crushed by the weight of her own gall. But why had been the question left on lips since her coronation. Why her? Why did Cassilde of House Vortayn survive where her mother and sister perished. Why was she 'perfect' where they were not?

If I see one wrong move... I'll be back.

Her hands were shaking, very slightly, and she detested it, waiting for it to pass. Mercy could not possibly know. She had been careful, she had been…

The Duch'a of Callamar pushed the paranoia from her mind, not dwelling on fearful speculation of why this woman was here now, and instead resumed her focus on the birds, whose only concern remained the seed scattered across the stone.

The tainted peace could only last for so long, and Cassilde became acutely aware of Dame Oravel on the approach at her back. The head of the household, a formidable woman who managed the running of the whole palace, and whose presence could only spell the ruination of her small measure of peace. Her eyes softened, rumination replaced by serenity, lips turning to a soft smile; the only face that the galaxy knew.

"My Lady, I apologise for disturbing your retreat, but there is a shuttle inbound. I've taken the liberty of readying the kitchens. I do hope that I've not overstepped."

Cassilde offered a smile, a more tailored businesslike warmth to be shared between two competent women, "Oh, Dame Oravel, I do not know how the Alcyne would stand without you." It was the truth, which made it easy. "See to it as you think best. Is Captain Oleth prepared to receive our esteemed guest?"

Esteemed guest. A generous, necessary description, even if it was inaccurate. Loathsome brute. Audacious murderer. Tyrant. The Duch'a of Callamar's smile never moved, and she carefully stood, the lake birds hopping in slight retreat at the movement.

"Of course, the house-watch is on standby at the landing pad."

The house-watch, the palace guard by any other name. A modest force of women officers and their subordinate men-at-arms. Enough for order and appearances, but nothing that could stand against Mercy. Even Captain Oleth herself knew this.

"Would you be so kind as to prepare the west solar? I would prefer to take our guest there, should they be so agreeable," Cassilde conceded, hoping to opt for a private audience rather than the exposure of the banquet hall. Perhaps fruitless, possibly even offensive that the full refined welcome was not the preferred option. Even Dame Oravel's usual, even expression found cause to twitch at the notion. Whether it was due to the possibility of offending a warlord or loss of potential public spectacle was unknown, but Cassilde held an inkling that it was the latter. "If she has come bearing an entourage, we can adjust course."

"Yes, My Lady. Is there anything else?"

"No, not at current, no. Thank you for fetching me so promptly, and for your initiative, as always, Dame Oravel," Cassilde replied, gathering her lamp and teacup, which her Chatelaine swiftly took custody of. "I shall join Captain Oleth at the landing pad accordingly; I would hate to appear impolite."

 

[Mercy]

Cassilde Vortayn

There were two points on the itinerary for Mercy's visit to the Hapes Cluster.

One had been to participate in the crowning of the new Queen Mother, Astraea Vega , as a guest of Aether Verd . She had to be on her best behavior even when some individuals, such as Mia Monroe tried to provoke her into brash actions. But that was why the second point on her itinerary was last, so she could work out some of her frustrations.

While Arris Windrun had the pleasure of crushing Jedi skull, she had to watch the ascend of the Queen Mother, a mixed affair for her.

But thankfully Cassilde did not disappoint.

Her agents had already made it clear that Cassilde had either been part of the conspiracy or acted independently, inviting Jedi interference. Either part of the gang or on her own, she had invited Mercy's wrath on her House. The Tyranny hanging over the capital, up in the sky, was the sign of that. The shadow long and blotting out the sun.

But only a single shuttle came down to meet Cassilde at the landing platform.

Only one figure stepped out of it.

As if to say: Even inside your home, surrounded by your people, I fear nothing. The Titan stepped out and looked around the place. Taking in the guards that had been stationed nearby and then the figure of Cassilde herself approaching her.

"Cassie, darling," Mercy called out with a big grin. "It's been so long... too long, how have you been, sweetheart?"

Darling and sweetheart in one breath.

That didn't bode well.

 

[Cassilde Vortayn]

As the shuttle descended onto the pad, Cassilde stood by the side of Captain Oleth, features equipped with the correct amount of grace and deference in anticipation of the boots that would soon trample the palace. Her head didn't move, chin held high as her eyes tracked the small craft. "You'd tell me, wouldn't you, Oleth. If the wind changed," she spoke softly, causing the commander of the house-watch's head to tilt slightly.

She did not elaborate, did not continue the hushed test of loyalty that had slipped out in the anticipation of this unexpected visitation, a slip of the nerves. Her composure was well-tested by the memory of Mercy; the hand around her throat, Elsivane and Séverine's bodies still atop the marble, and a decision to spare her that still lacked answers yet plagued thoughts too often for comfort. It had happened; it could not be changed, but that fact made it no less unpleasant or soothing to the nerves.

By the time the shuttle doors opened, Cassilde was luminous and delighted, because delight was Hapan armour and she had learned at a young age to wear it into any room. Even the rooms where it did not fit.

It did not fit here.

Mercy was larger than recollection gave her any right to be. Memory had made her imposing in that brutish manner but failed to account for the truth in flesh. Cassilde was already acutely aware that this woman was more than capable of slaughtering them all like errant livestock, but the sheer physical presence of the tyrant gave cause for the fine hairs on the nape of her neck to prickle.

Cassie. Darling. Sweetheart.

So dreadfully familiar it was almost callous, as if Mercy could trundle into her home and play Hapan social etiquette and Cassilde, in playing the game correctly, responded with a slow curtsey, as deep as it was reverent.

"My Lady." She crossed the landing pad to meet her, warm as the morning. "You should have sent word ahead. I'd have had the place worth looking at, and something worth eating." Cassilde's hands reached to take one of Mercy's, her hospitality found in touch, and warmth found in her easeful smile.

 

[Mercy]

Cassilde Vortayn

As Cassilde took her hand, she'd once again be struck by the sheer presence of the Sith Lord in front of her.

Like a mountain coming down on her.

The only saving grace was that Cassy had already experienced it once before. When that shovel-shaped hand had closed around her throat, it would have been like being struck by lightning.

Mercy was looking around the place as Cassilde took her hand. Taking in the view, witnessing the people that were around them, committing their faces to memory. Cass would notice that. That the Empress was not really paying much attention to her in the moment and instead was paying an unhealthy amount of attention on those around them.

"My Lady." She crossed the landing pad to meet her, warm as the morning. "You should have sent word ahead. I'd have had the place worth looking at, and something worth eating."

"Oh, fret not, sweetheart." Mercy purred sweetly as she finally looked down at her. There was a thick signet ring on her index finger now. It hadn't been there before.

Heavy plated and just its proximity inspired a heaviness when you looked at it.

"But you should kiss the ring," She murmured low, just for Cass' ears. "We wouldn't want the help to think you think you are above such matters, do we?"

 

[Cassilde Vortayn]

In a breath, Cassilde had returned to the Mirror Hall with that hand around her throat, not in person, but in spirit. An immense pressure sat atop her chest, spreading like a miasma into every ill-prepared crevice, stirring something both inexplicable and animal inside of her that wanted to flee, fight and howl all at once. Her hands, for lack of reason, gripped Mercy's tighter under the crushing weight of sensation, unable to do anything but create tension.

The Duch'a of Callamar had felt this before, but had brought reason to madness and called it trauma. She had just witnessed her mother and sister's necks snapped like fickle promises and was being held in the same grip that spelt the same fate. It was a violent ordeal, the near-annihilation of her house, and in some small, dark measure, something that Cassilde had wanted. Of course it had felt that way back then. Near indescribable, sensation stripped of all sanity in a moment of terror.

For a second her warmth faltered, eyes widening for a flash as the smallest of gasps escaped parted lips.

Cassilde returned to herself and her mask of warmth as Mercy continued to assault her with the same platitudes wielded daily in her court, the word 'sweetheart' striking a dissonant chord when uttered from the mouth of a behemoth.

"You never have to ask me for this," she replied, low for the tyrant's ears only. It was, of course, a distasteful task. A humiliating trap with no escape. Refusal was not an option, and bristling confirmed her disloyalty in front of her own household. The manoeuvre would never be to fence, but to comply with the warmth and grace made to lessen the sting. So she bent, bringing her head down to Mercy's hand rather than bringing the ring up.

Cassilde's animal desire to let go of Mercy's hand was unseen, and instead the gesture was unhurried; the kiss lain upon the ring with the exact amount of decorum appropriate.

When, at last, she rose, the Duch'a finally allowed herself to release Mercy's hand and turned to the waiting staff with the most gracious of smiles, held as much in the mouth as it was in the eyes. "Note it, all of you," she announced, "there is no smallness in honouring what is greater than us, only smallness in pretending otherwise."