Temple of Sol .-. Sanctuary .-. Albion
"Why hast thou forsaken me, Lord Sol? Your child which has suffered for atonement, your child who has bled for this family, for your scriptures. Why!!"
Knelt against the candlelight, the heart of a heavy laden matriarch shed with remorse and pain. A suicide of the soul. For years she had stood alone, faced that of death and lived, only to never escape the fiery paradise of the netherworld. Everyday had become a living nightmare, the once flighty and impulsive girl had manifested into an animal, a cold-hearted hound of hell. Lost, she had become terribly lost. Wincing as she swallowed hard, the child within moved, somersaulted. A constant reminder until her death for that night upon Endor, of the night she had confronted Talen, the afternoon with Braska. She wanted to die for it would be that soul in which her soul would not longer shiver and shake and quake and writhe in unfathomable pain.
This had not been the weight which forcefully grounded her as of now.
Zoe, her beautiful and gifted child - the little one she and Braska sought to save from their family, from Itala. Had the damage not been done enough by the betrayal of her youth to the allegiance of the Jedi Order and their filthy lies and brainwashing, it had been with the bastard of the darkness... Darth Octavian... Milamber Halo. A catalyst he may have been, a poor husband he was more. Selfish and self-concerned, he cared not for the offpsring of she and her husband, leaving her behind, leaving the children behind, by his self-righteous suicide. Pathetic. It was all she would, could, allow of herself. Now, from within the mists of the Force, another emerged from the ash of the Sith Master's death. One weak and almost as pathetic. Aiden, the chivalrous young Jedi, the padawan. Oh, it was rich. A tier of power, from the mountain's high to the valley's low.
A soft sound now came rising, audible amid the cathedral. What had been of the best intentions of her, certainly were not that of her family. She ruled with a domineering fist, guided her family as the war raged on, the death toll only escalating. Where her beloved children were concerned, she was meek, maternal. Her greatest achievements, her greatest weaknesses. The plague had not been upon her this day, the schizophrenia quelled. Would such a rouse last during his, Aiden's, arrival... this she could not speak. Interrupted by the faint rapping of boots upon the marble, aquamarine eyes jaunted for the sound.
"Lady Fiera, preparations have been made and the guards in position. Is there anything else, your grace?" A sight for sore and weary eyes, the Praetorian offered his hand, aiding Fiera to her stand. His arm remained craned at the bend of her back, a worried look shrouding the warrior's worn features. Usually, she would have killed the guard, but somehow she felt weak and needed that support. Forcing her grief stricken body away, a hand ghosted down her protruding abdomen, her teeth clenching together. A fury swept the matriarch, like the winds through the lives on an autumn's night, a disdain so great, a hatred so powerful. Fiera loathed Malice, wanted his death desperately so. This was all his fault.
"No, Dorion. You have done well, I shall await here for them to come home. I will send another relative to greet them." Bowing at the waist he left the matriarch to her own devices, securing the entrance to the temple of the Marzullo god and his wife. There would be on in her stead, a member of her kin to greet Adrian and Zoe, to make them feel comfortable before she ripped it away in sickening strides. Through the Force she called them, one by one, near and far, relatives and in-laws, lovers and alliances. They would be the weight of her decision, of the fate of her daughter and her lover.
She needed them now, her relatives in aide of her decision; she had been conflicted. Not once had her mind, her decisions been rippled. Not since that day upon Korriban. Through the decades, the accoladed Marzullo had seen war and death, life and joy. Nothing bothered her, worried her, more than the plight concerning that of her child. There she waited, with confidence that they would come. They would have to come. They would be treated no differently, the same traditions being upheld. There had been more to this than a man and a woman and Fiera would not let it slide from the balance of fate.
"Why hast thou forsaken me, Lord Sol? Your child which has suffered for atonement, your child who has bled for this family, for your scriptures. Why!!"
Knelt against the candlelight, the heart of a heavy laden matriarch shed with remorse and pain. A suicide of the soul. For years she had stood alone, faced that of death and lived, only to never escape the fiery paradise of the netherworld. Everyday had become a living nightmare, the once flighty and impulsive girl had manifested into an animal, a cold-hearted hound of hell. Lost, she had become terribly lost. Wincing as she swallowed hard, the child within moved, somersaulted. A constant reminder until her death for that night upon Endor, of the night she had confronted Talen, the afternoon with Braska. She wanted to die for it would be that soul in which her soul would not longer shiver and shake and quake and writhe in unfathomable pain.
This had not been the weight which forcefully grounded her as of now.
Zoe, her beautiful and gifted child - the little one she and Braska sought to save from their family, from Itala. Had the damage not been done enough by the betrayal of her youth to the allegiance of the Jedi Order and their filthy lies and brainwashing, it had been with the bastard of the darkness... Darth Octavian... Milamber Halo. A catalyst he may have been, a poor husband he was more. Selfish and self-concerned, he cared not for the offpsring of she and her husband, leaving her behind, leaving the children behind, by his self-righteous suicide. Pathetic. It was all she would, could, allow of herself. Now, from within the mists of the Force, another emerged from the ash of the Sith Master's death. One weak and almost as pathetic. Aiden, the chivalrous young Jedi, the padawan. Oh, it was rich. A tier of power, from the mountain's high to the valley's low.
A soft sound now came rising, audible amid the cathedral. What had been of the best intentions of her, certainly were not that of her family. She ruled with a domineering fist, guided her family as the war raged on, the death toll only escalating. Where her beloved children were concerned, she was meek, maternal. Her greatest achievements, her greatest weaknesses. The plague had not been upon her this day, the schizophrenia quelled. Would such a rouse last during his, Aiden's, arrival... this she could not speak. Interrupted by the faint rapping of boots upon the marble, aquamarine eyes jaunted for the sound.
"Lady Fiera, preparations have been made and the guards in position. Is there anything else, your grace?" A sight for sore and weary eyes, the Praetorian offered his hand, aiding Fiera to her stand. His arm remained craned at the bend of her back, a worried look shrouding the warrior's worn features. Usually, she would have killed the guard, but somehow she felt weak and needed that support. Forcing her grief stricken body away, a hand ghosted down her protruding abdomen, her teeth clenching together. A fury swept the matriarch, like the winds through the lives on an autumn's night, a disdain so great, a hatred so powerful. Fiera loathed Malice, wanted his death desperately so. This was all his fault.
"No, Dorion. You have done well, I shall await here for them to come home. I will send another relative to greet them." Bowing at the waist he left the matriarch to her own devices, securing the entrance to the temple of the Marzullo god and his wife. There would be on in her stead, a member of her kin to greet Adrian and Zoe, to make them feel comfortable before she ripped it away in sickening strides. Through the Force she called them, one by one, near and far, relatives and in-laws, lovers and alliances. They would be the weight of her decision, of the fate of her daughter and her lover.
She needed them now, her relatives in aide of her decision; she had been conflicted. Not once had her mind, her decisions been rippled. Not since that day upon Korriban. Through the decades, the accoladed Marzullo had seen war and death, life and joy. Nothing bothered her, worried her, more than the plight concerning that of her child. There she waited, with confidence that they would come. They would have to come. They would be treated no differently, the same traditions being upheld. There had been more to this than a man and a woman and Fiera would not let it slide from the balance of fate.
