#roganda

[fallenrepublick]

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.

[fallenrepublick]

The Lady Ismaren

[fallenrepublick]

There Will Be Yet Another Day

Part 2 of And She Shall Be Called Upon For Greater, Find Part 1 Here!

More Lore! Yay! I love this series <3 Enjoy!!!!

Warnings: Mentions of fertility

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She woke with a start, a few hours before the sun was set to rise. Dreams of gold cloaking itself over her body held themselves in a heavy haze over her mind. The future, young and commanding at her feet, stood before an endless crowd of followers on their knees, reaching to her and the small figure below, crying out words she couldn’t discern. Steadily she grew, the image of the people fading from view as her stature outmatched them all, eyes passing through the clouds. There was only a single thing higher than she - a crown, seated atop her head, stretching just as quickly to the heavens. There was no telling whether the dream was good or foreboding, simply that it existed. A reflection of her desires, she thought, and perhaps  a message for the future.

The time, as it were, mattered little to her. Plagued by these thoughts, by a fear of waning opportunity, she paced, recalling again and again the images, the faces she could not see. That figure below her, a child? A child dressed in red, a bright, nearly regal presence. And the gold, that of her god. Was it her, lifted above all else, growing into the beauty of her becoming? Or was it another? The god herself?

In bare feet, Roganda rushed once more to her table, awaiting orders. The glass top reflected her fingers in a dark blue as they tapped against the surface, humming the entire contraption to life and displaying a set of commands. Swiping and tapping through the menu, the pad of her index finger lingered over the lights, filling the darkness of the room with an almost neon hue. It had been far too long since she had last made this particular call, far longer than any usual visit. And yet the name, Physician, hovered like a threat, like a trillion questions yet asked, a lifetime woven between the year of silence. By name alone, her voice broke through the silence of the room, impending philosophies and advice tossed in Roganda’s way, desiring to know absolutely anything and everything of what she’d missed out on. Splitting her time between Tantiss and Geonosis, the Physician had become a force to be reckoned with throughout the Empire, moving to the top at a speed rarely before seen in any usual scientist.

With a quick breath in, Roganda gave one last tap, listening to the gentle hum of the table as her request for connection traveled, waited, and accepted.

“Oh, dearest, darling Ro,” spoke the Physician on the other end, heavily accented as any other core-born woman, “How long it truly has been!”

The Physician, as always, smiled in a way that suggested she knew something no one else did, smug and proud, haughty and styled. She rolled each “r” with pleasured confidence, curled each word with care and stylized articulation, that type that sent most men she worked beside broiling with anger. From the echo, Roganda gleaned that the woman was once more on Tantiss, no doubt after a long stint on the wretched bug-planet, taking part in whatever information trading was needed to build, what the Physician liked to call, The Ball.

In truth, she was no physician, not truly. In every official documentation, she’d been given the title Chairman, and yet, it was quite an acceptable name to call the woman, given that Roganda had long since forgotten her real name.

“Quite a while,” Roganda responded truthfully, meeting the woman’s eyes, “I had a dream that reminded me.”

“I’m honored,” smiled the woman widely, entirely unaffecting her tightly wound bun behind her head, “Although, I suppose it would do me no good to assume you dreamt only of my loving friendship. Have you so quickly run out of medication?”

The Physician was a rather pale creature, slender in a way that made many far too afraid of her, reminiscent of a vulture awaiting your near death, prepared to pluck your eyes from your head the moment she sensed despair. In only the most dire circumstances, she donned thin-rimmed glasses, from which she stared down the nose bridge, discerning in the opinions she held and thoughts she drew from others. Roganda had been offered the pleasure of meeting her in person once or twice, invited to some odd soiree here and there that ultimately amounted to little. And yet the upper class of Coruscant seemed delighted in the pair standing side by side, remarking that, in their countenance and a few facial features, the two might have been thought twins. The opportunity, though, informed the women that, beneath the surface, they could not have been more different.

Roganda shook her head. “No. It isn’t working.”

Yet the Physician only laughed, “That isn’t possible. What I make does not simply fail, you do realize. I won’t be one to blame it on user error, but-”

“It has failed,” insisted Roganda, interrupting with urgency that tracked its mud into her veins, “I’ve done everything, performed my duties at every turn, made certain the medication had an effect. Nothing. Am I to believe that this is just a fluke?”

“I never said that the medication would increase your chances to certainty,” hummed the Physician, raising a brow and pressing her bowed lips together, “I said it would increase it significantly. Even still, fertility is a fickle thing, child, and consistency is key. I ran the tests, I know what I see.”

Blue waves passed through the image of the woman as Roganda considered the words, interrupting each thought she formed with a reminder of where she was, who she spoke to. Annoyance tapped her heel on the floor of the room, line of sight tracking the path of the side of the table, noticing too greatly the dust that had collected in the minuscule gap between the edge of the glass and the table’s smooth bumper.

“Could it be… me?” she asked, eyes narrow, brow eyes beginning to ache with the stiffness of her frown, “What I am, it’s…”

But the Physician shook her head quickly, as if offended by the very thought of the oversight. “Dolgaraki physicality and genetics are not as different from humans as you seem to think,” she insisted, tapping the side of her cheek, gently pressing the soft skin in with each touch, “We are not far removed enough from humans to make such a difference. You only need continue your efforts, you will receive all that you wish and more.”

“Not fast enough,” hissed Roganda, recollections of fiery red hair living in the forefront of her mind, “That beast of a creature the Emperor calls a daughter can and will do all she can to stand in my way. You know this as well as I.”

“She abdicated.”

“And? That has no bearing on any potential children. He married the bitch off, and by my god, she knows the meaning of that. Are you really so blind as to think she will just let me do as I please?”

That, it was known between the two, was the struggle, the crunch that inched its way towards both of them each day, threatening to end them both between its inevitable weight. The potential, impending threat of the Emperor’s grandchild rising to the occasion in the event of the ruler’s death forced Roganda to hit the proverbial ceiling of influence, reminding her with each passing day that a claim to the throne hinged on only her ability to produce and maintain an heir. She could only breathe, in and out, held at the top for just a bit longer than she usually would, solace held in the knowledge that she’d been given no word of such a thing, that each day that passed was yet more opportunity. With the benefit of birth order at the very least, she would offer her child heavy claim to the Empire, if not, sole claim to the Empire. Under her breath, she cursed the Emperor for taking a wife and creating that beast so long ago.

With a small rattle of her dainty head, the Physician dismissed the accusation sticking yet another song-like note to the front of her words. “Senna hardly likes to share, I should know it better than any. Even if you conceive first, know that she will follow soon after, and your children will both be readily prepared to compete for the throne. Knowing the family, it will be to the death. Perhaps instead of languishing over birth order, you might focus on the methods through which you will train the child?”

“I will train her in the traditions of our moon.”

The Physician laughed, operatic and graceful, full rather than dainty, a hand lifted to her mouth, yet kept a few centimeters from her lips, informing Roganda that she’d once more painted them in that saturated, matte red she so loved. Not a hair fell out of place as the hand lowered to her chest, as if meant to stabilize her heavy breaths. She had maintained a certain youthful energy in spite of what she’d been through, that rigid pride in her spine lengthening her already tall figure and highlighting that clever mischievousness held in the purse of her lips. It was a wonder to Roganda how the woman was a mother.

“Are there any masters left?” questioned the Physician, tilting her head ever so slightly, seeming to rack her brain for any names that were off the deceased list, “I seem to recall the Jedi Order raiding the Dolgarak moon’s old temple long before the Clone War, unless you’ve got someone waiting in the weeds for your call?”

Roganda’s silence said enough, knowledgeable eyes holding a stare against the Physician’s, evoking only the faintest smile at the corner of the woman’s lips.

“Ah, but that all reminds me… calls and all that, I never knew if you’d heard from Saviin.”

A twitch flitted itself through Roganda’s brow, stare maintained, mind forced and locked in an altogether separate world. Saviin. By her god, she hadn’t heard the name in years, had avoided even thinking it, thinking of its feeling when spoken, each letter passed over her tongue, slipping between her teeth, the hush of its very first syllable. Its reminder dragged even the deepest memory to her consciousness, held to witness before copper skin, shining by moonlit jewels and perception that two young Jedi could only be the best of companions, cots covered in shed hair all too similar in color, indiscernible as their figures beneath darkness. Forced to call upon memory of wide eyes and fingers a few centimeters shorter than her own, tunnels through the Force dug in secret, the final reward following ages of lessons on how best to protect their minds from prying eyes, a design all their own linking each other across galaxies. One had intended to fight through the Jedi Order, if only for powers’ sake, the other knowing all too well that her abilities had long left the masters wanting. After so much time, Roganda had expected to forget the girl’s voice, light and airy as they whispered, strong and willful in the face of the outside world. She’d used both as they exchanged promises, sometimes foolish, other times serious as the grave. Roganda noticed quickly a tremble in her hand.

“Who told you of-”

“Don’t sound so frightened,” the woman mused, all too dismissive, “Not a soul knows, none other than I. I was only curious, is all, you do know how I love romance.”

Forcing herself to seem at the very least put-together, Roganda shook her head, flicking her eyes to an empty corner of the room. “No.”

“I take it she’s looking for you, even still?”

There wasn’t a shred of doubt. The girl had screamed and pounded against their old bond, a wall built between them that echoed her voice in Roganda’s mind. It was months before she fell silent, knowing there was no use. And yet, she’d promised always to look, to search each corner of the galaxy. Never sensing Roganda’s death, there would have been nothing standing in the way of her search. And Roganda had never felt the girl’s death, either. She searched, she searched even now.

“And she will find nothing,” responded Roganda, flat and distant.

“Is that so bad?” asked the Physician, leaning forward with the question, “Even if she found you, what would you have done? Surely, you know what would be done to her if she was ever discovered, if you attempted to leave. Is that a risk you’d take, child?”

“You seem lucky enough in your marriage,” Roganda replied, pushing the subject from herself.

“Ha!” the woman laughed, loud and glad to speak once more of herself, or perhaps acceptant of Roganda’s attempt at avoiding the past, “I was simply lucky to have found a man that would follow me to the ends of the universe. Like that in the Academy, and still here, too…That, and I never particularly caught the Emperor’s eye, you should know. I wasn’t quite complicated enough in that particular way he seems drawn to. Or perhaps I make things too complicated. Either way, he seems to like my work nowadays. Between you and me, he never truly moved on from the little cloning obsession, it’s an awful pain.”

“So I’ve heard.”

In a moment of seriousness, the Physician’s face drifted from its high amusement to subdued concern, drawing Roganda’s attention to her meaningful gaze.

“You needn’t worry,” she said lowly, holding Roganda’s stare, “You are the best of us. Nothing will falter, not until it’s far too late for them. Focus on the first step. The rest shall fall into place without a second thought.”

With a swift, curt nod and small frown, Roganda reminded herself of the goal, the purpose. Power. Control. The ability to choose, decide the way the galaxy should be, rather than what it was. Frivolities, love, all of it would come in the wake of her and her child’s ascension. Patience, that was the nature of her being, that which she had no choice to emulate.

The Physician grinned, satisfied with the response. “I’d better return to work,” she sighed, reminding Roganda of the hour, causing her eyes to glance towards the windows and the rising sun outside them, “You know, the old cavern on the other side of the planet is now vacant. It might be worth a look, now that the old priestess is gone.”

“Perhaps.”

“Take care, child. Remember your medication.”

The hologram switched off as the Physician ended the connection, leaving the room in an orange haze, the light beginning to pool at Roganda’s feet, rich as it seeped between the curtains. Her eyelids were once more heavy, informing her of the poor choice she had made in waking so early, beckoning her back to bed, despite the fact that she had no choice but to stay awake. Fighting the urges, she began to dress, shedding her sleep clothes and donning a dress of pure gold, forcing her hair into braids, twists, and contours atop her head that would inevitably cause her yet another deep-seated headache and constant aggravation as a single strand of hair was pulled far too tightly beneath the designs. She would have to endure nevertheless.

Pale creams, gaudy powders, strange contours not built for her face were lathered atop her skin, causing an itch that she knew would never subside. It was pure coincidence that she heard noise outside the door, hefty metallic footsteps recognizable as the damned silver droid that didn’t know how to leave her be, paired with those of a humanoid, ones she did not know. It was all she could do to prevent herself from running to the door and pressing the controls as if it were life or death. Instead, she forced a certain gracefulness, nearly sliding to the door, keeping her head impossibly upright as she stepped outside.

Yes, it was the droid, foolish as usual, leading a human, petite and unknown. Dressed in something simple for someone of high society, the girl’s yellow hair was pinned up in a strange pastry-like shape, her skin yet unmarred by makeup, save for far too much pink piled on her cheeks, blue eyes wide as they fell on Roganda.

“Ah, Lady Ismaren,” spoke the droid, unsurprised to see Roganda in the hall, “This is Tia, a new member of the Emperor’s, erm, court.”

The girl was young, younger than Roganda. High-maintenance, jittery energy emanated from the girl’s very features, her mind entirely open to the world, readable and loud. In her head, she repeated her name, age, old occupation, as if she were preparing for an interview, as if she hadn’t already been accepted to the court.

Tia, nineteen, historian. Tia, nineteen, historian. Tia, nineteen, historian.

It grated on Roganda’s nerves with each word, driving her from the girl’s mind entirely. Nineteen. Older than Roganda had been when she was taken by five years, yet it never failed to make Roganda grimace. And a historian? Someone with any bit of intelligence had no place here, though Roganda admitted silently that it was her own fault for expecting the Emperor to consider these young creatures as anything else, regardless of their accomplishments. That, at least, was her own greatest benefit.

“Would you show Tia her dormitory, Lady Ismaren?” requested the droid, emotionless eyes blinking a touch as she spoke.

“I’ve no time to babysit.”

“Please, my lady, I must return to the laundry.”

The girl stared at Roganda with wide, unreadable eyes, light blue conveying something between fear and excitement at the potential for a friend. Already, Roganda could tell that the child would be more trouble than she was worth.

“This way, girl,” Roganda said, spinning from her place and tracking further down the hall. Behind her, the girl’s footsteps only barely echoed, tiny taps of her toes indicating her presence.

“I’m Tia-” began the girl, voice small and shy.

“I don’t remember names, I’m female.”

Silence passed between them in the few moments it required to reach the room, the side of the door not yet marked with the girl’s name. As far as any were concerned, the room would be vacant, just an old bedroom, gathering dust in what used to be the Jedi Temple. It was a shame, Roganda thought, that she had no use for the girl’s youth yet. It would mean that she would have to remain until her purpose arose.

“Um, thank you,” said the child, back to the door, hands clasped tightly in front of her. Morning light had not yet begun to pass through the high windows, leaving the hall in deep shadow, the girl looking even more frightened in the darkness.

Roganda almost looked at the girl with pity, noting how small she was, how sheltered she likely had been before this. Swiping once more a quick glance into the girl’s mind, the image of an older woman, sharing a similar shade of yellow hair, came into Roganda’s vision, as did the woman’s acceptance of quite a large sum of money. How much Senna was sent to offer the woman, Roganda could not gather, but it was enough. More than enough.

“Do not expect to be happy here,” said Roganda lowly, turning herself from the girl and returning to her quarters, “You will not be.”