And She Shall Be Called Upon For Greater
Part 1 - Part 2
Here it is, my little passion project. Of course, this is just an introduction to it, but I wanted to start off with this piece. There's plenty more going on in the background, and I'm so happy to be working with this character and concept that I've always felt deserved better than what she was given. I think she has the potential to be fantastic, and I hope you all think so as well. Let me know what you think or if I can answer any questions!
Warnings: None
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Steps on an empty ground have always been, and shall always be, the greatest method of measuring absence. The echo of a heel, or the swipe of a shoe’s sole, lingering in the air as replacement for the voices long since lost, serves to remind the only being, which makes their way down the oddly blue-tinted hall, of the many memories lying in wait beneath the metal and stone.
In the time of overturn, where age-old systems crumbled beneath her feet, where tradition gave way to a new, cold, soulless floor, so little had changed for her. Ghosts gripping fiercely the hilts of practice sabers ran across the space, not yet ready for the dangers of true kyber. Sage beings slipped over the patterned tiles, whispering of the war only just come to rise, drenched in heavy, neutral fabrics, fighting to remain upright in spite of the weight. Arrays of girls tip-toed to the doors that lined the wall, whispering and daydreaming amongst themselves, unable to help their speculation of why they'd been moved to such a grand temple at all.
She could almost see them, kicked up and made of old dust, no wiser to their fate than they'd been the day before it befell them. And as there was nothing to be done for them, she left the poor souls over her shoulder, keying a small code into the pad below the name plaque, reading in fanciful letters, “Ismaren”
Low lights switched on in the midst of her presence, rising in straight, perfected lines from the floor, and flickered just a touch with the shut of the door. The clasp holding together the ends of her cloak clicked as it came undone, short nails tapping the spotless gold and shoulders shrugging the covering off. It was not in her nature to litter the ground with her clothes, tired as she was, and the soft pinks, purples, and blacks folded nicely as each layer shed from her skin.
“Shall I have these washed for you, My Lady?” questioned the voice from behind, a flash of silver passing through the woman's periphery.
“Yes,” she replied.
The washroom was the place of sanctity, where one could remove the pins and gold from black hair, wipe away the pale creams and colors from her skin, dye the towels unnatural colors, remember what Roganda looked like. Rather than a deep sensation of blood, her lips were a gentle, muted pink. Rather than lined in heavy black and surrounded by reckless swipes of blue, thick white skin beneath it all, her eyes were truly unornamental, epicanthal lids held low most days, a very slight tan giving life to all she was. Water running to the floor of the shower might have drowned out the laugh she gave, if only to recognize her own features with a smile.
The place drew peace, rolling its warmth over her body, warding away reality. She breathed. It was time, that odd, damned thing that she’d wasted. How long had it been, two years, since the war ended? Waged for four years as she stood on high, witnessing an ascent to power, a schism splitting the galaxy in more ways than the Republic had ever predicted, peace brought through only the greatest of sins. She’d watched chaos reign, she witnessed loss and the fall of those she once knew. Children she had the privilege of growing beside felled by barbaric methods, mocked in their graves by violent, painted lips that believed every word their master spoke to them. How they could bear to consider it the truth was beyond her, as she herself knew truth to be the perfect opposite. Rinsing hardened product from each strand of hair, the locks slowly grew softer, falling to rest against her skin, sticking to her back and waving around her shoulder blades. And oh, she could remember it, that feeling of being a child. To run, unbeholden to where the carpet ended and began, nearly tripping over your robes, or that of your friend. To learn one day how cruel children could be, to teach yourself the greatest skill ever written as you protect your mind the most of all. She could remember the sounds, the voices of the masters, their eyes studying who was worthy of their lessons. The silence of the night she was spirited away, left to wonder whether any searched.
None of it truly mattered, not in this year, not as she dripped to the thin mat outside the shower and combed her hair, nor as she donned a soft pink robe back into her room. The droid had left, no doubt, to work tirelessly at the laundry and chores, in that age-old fashion that would keep the machines occupied for hours on end, leaving Roganda to her silence.
It was the bookcase she approached first, small and old, only a few books remaining in its shelves. Yes, perhaps it was time to remind herself of the purpose of it all. She’d never been one to question it, to find peace in the madness. To do so would be to reject the madness entirely, to claim that her god was false or used suffering for no end or purpose. No, no, she knew better, far better than that.
Hooking her finger over the spine, she pulled from its position a tome, aged leather dyed the deepest blue she’d ever known, marked on its face the symbol she held always close to her body. Between her fingers, the pages glided like silk, dark writing beautiful as it carried more so memories than stories.
Woe to all, untouched of my blessings, ignorant of curses, spiteful of pain. For what is your purpose, if not to struggle, to know that which you have earned? Do you think yourselves so entitled to virtue that you shall live only a single way? Do you live to never suffer, to never know fear, to never clench your fists in agony, yearning for what might have been instead? Those siblings of mine have known it, long before the advent of your world. My followers have known it, deeply entrenched in their creation. So cry, cry children, to my heaven, bear the weight of your sins proudly. Know absolution and await inevitability.
They were words she’d committed to memory, even in the days of her very being enthralled to the Jedi, as she’d promised herself to her god the very moment she held the book. Certainly, the Jedi would have considered her god cruel, almost sith-like, but oh, how far from the truth she knew it to be. Her god was possibly the only pure one, her teachings rooted in the reality of which they all lived, aware, perhaps too aware, of what it was to be mortal. She recalled her assertions when the world seemed to press just a touch too much, she spoke the queen’s words beneath her breath when the galaxy lost itself, when panic and grief drove every action, every thought, every conclusion. And she held the words, the shape of them, in her mind, she wondered when next the queen would speak to her.
Never would Roganda claim to be a zealot, to base her entire livelihood and perceptions on that which her god claimed as true. Truthfully, she was a realist, one that saw in the world what she had grown to know. She suffered, she was certain of that, she had since her childhood in this temple, she had since fourteen, spirited away from her barren dormitory as she awaited the possibility of an apprenticeship. And yet her acceptance of it had given her greater power than a world in which none of it had happened. Whispers of the future in her god’s voice promised greatness, promised more and more as the years went on. And from it, she found pride, a purpose stolen from her under the Jedi’s grasp. A purpose given life by the women that had once been around her, vain and greedy, blind to the lives they led. Their youth sustained her, one by one, disappearing with little trace, with little care for each other, believing it to be providence that their rivals were removed from their path. Tragedy, that was the way of the world, of their world. They never knew what they could have had, what they could have become. And so their purpose alone was to serve her own. Knowing this, her hand which supported the book began to tremble, as if the power held within this book’s ancient knowledge flowed into her veins, piercing her blood and altering the very core of what she was.
It wasn’t even a second after she flipped the page that her desk lit up from the other end of the room, forcing the girl to slip her tome back into place and tiptoe to the notification. She approached her desk, simple and purposeful, the glass top awaiting a command. With a few taps, the surface projected a portrait, the name “Osmond” written in basic beside the face, tinted heavily in blue light.
The man was older than her, beginning to bald from the hairline, though she’d not quite label him middle-aged. Wrinkled traced around his features, indicative less of age, and more so of experience, never truly able to assuage the sly smile he maintained, even in the motion of his mannerisms. She’d taken to liking this one, him and his warm behaviors. Shrouded in lies or not, he maintained loyalty to her employment, almost proud of his association, even if he never flaunted it. He’d proven himself reliable, willing to go the extra distance to do as she asked, and blazing the trail for others that answered to him, secure and functional.
“Any word?” she asked upon her acceptance of the call, the table’s projection changing to a live feed of the man’s head and shoulders.
Beginning the answer with a heavy inhale, his eyes slid away from hers, needing a moment to formulate the words. “It’s… complicated. They’re fragmented, no one’s really sure what anyone else is doing… It’s more of a thought than an actual movement.”
Roganda’s lips pressed together, tapping her nails against the glass. “And you’re getting this from whom, exactly?”
“Oh, the usual,” he hummed, shrugging his shoulders, “Convicts, traitors. This one guy that used to sell death-sticks. They’re reliable.”
She’d nearly forgotten his post, the very reason she’d chosen him. His affinity for the lowest levels of Coruscant and the poor souls that served as their occupants were perhaps the best to ask when it came to information, to potential uprising. In fact, nowadays, the levels became home to those the Empire despised most of all, the groups that remembered all too well the way things had been before even the war, who threatened the “peace” brought about by the Emperor. Joined by a collective desire and crudely-designed codes to identify each other, these little pockets of rebellion often found themselves vying for Osmond’s attention and the protection he offered. Armed with resources and the ability to make even the most wanted citizens disappear with a flick of the wrist, those that managed to get more than they bargained for came to him for a restart. And in return, paired with a fair sum of cash, these sad souls offered him what they knew of the impending revolts, fears quelled by promises that the Empire would never find out. With a bit of luck at his side, the man was able to glean the names of a few leaders, some senators, some not, to offer his employer.
“I realize they’re reliable,” Roganda hummed, low voice sending a chill down the spy’s spine, “I need to know if they will join the ring. Or at least give us more than what we have. It cannot be trusted what was said of Mothma and Organa without sufficient proof or corroboration. We haven’t enough channels to securely pass information to these groups, and we certainly haven’t enough knowledge of what factions they associate with. Without greater resources, what is currently known is useless to our ends.”
He couldn’t help but laugh, albeit nervously. “You’d have me do…”
“I’d have you dig deeper. Expand our horizons. There will be more defections in the coming months as higher ranking officials abandon their posts. Take advantage of it. Lengthen the chains of communications and ensure that no actor knows the identity of any other, only locations and times of information drops. Offer certainty where no others can.”
“You make it sound so easy!” the spy laughed yet again, throwing his arms from his sides, “The clones that pass through here are few and far between nowadays. People are scared to talk. Hell, they’d rather pay me extra just to keep me from asking more questions.”
For a moment, she was silent, her eyes cast to the edges of the table, though her mind remained elsewhere. “What of that scientist? The one rumored to return from Vallt?”
“Ghh…” the man half-growled, trying to come by the name by luck alone, “Aee… Eh… Ers…o?”
“Erso,” she repeated in a husky whisper, far more purpose to the word than he’d expected, “How likely is his compliance? With the Empire, that is.”
Osmond sucked in through his teeth. “He’s got a wife and child.”
“Very likely, then,” she concluded, “Though such people rarely take kindly to threats on family, you know. Keep an eye on him, will you?”
And he nodded, hesitance in the motion. “What, uh… what do you need him for?”
In return, she smiled. “If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.”
“Fair enough, you’re the boss,” he said, a certain lightheartedness returned to his voice, tossing up a few finger blasters to remove any remaining tension, “Find new recruits, track Erso and don’t engage. Pretty typical.”
“For now, it is. Should any factions start to mobilize, send notice immediately.”
“You got it,” he acknowledged, giving a sharp nod of his head before ending the transmission. Once more, the table’s lights lowered, awaiting any further command before shutting off completely.
She was left to silence, now that the spy knew his task. She took the space to breathe, to sigh in relief that her greatest ally still lived. It was often she wondered if he would be unlucky, if he would one day cease communications, if the Empire would catch him or perhaps kill him on sight. Even still, he’d been lucky until now, she could hardly imagine that he would fail in the future.
And so she returned, dragging her book from its place yet again, carrying it as one would a child toward her small couch, curling her legs to her body, resting her feet on the cushion at her side, her back to the pillow that leaned always on the arm rest. Ever so carefully, she pulled open her book, eyes tracking over the words, over the golden designs swirling along the edges of each page, noting the gilded edges reflecting the room’s light from the corner of her eye. It quelled her anxieties, her thoughts. From every responsibility, from every role she took, the imagery painted by every sentence took her to the moment she lived, to who she remained. In time, she would sleep, taken to yet another day, and she would be called for. Soon, she knew, she would be called for greater.
