fighting_mad | [OOM] Devotion

Entry tags:

eiattu,
oom

[OOM] Devotion

It was the middle of the night when Plourr woke suddenly. This was not her bunk it was too big where was her blas--

Oh.

She sat up in the darkness, leaning her head back against the wall. She had been on Eiattu a week now; you'd think she could kriffing remember that. She opened her eyes and methodically untangled herself from the sheets and rolled out of the huge bed. She crossed the stone cold floor, but paused in the doorway and then ducked into the wardrobe, emerging with a short robe. It was hot pink and shimmery, unfortunately, but it would do for getting her down to the palace kitchens and back without causing any coronaries along the way. She pulled it on and belted it at the waist, immediately discovering that, just like most of her title-appropriate clothing, it was too small. Apparently, whoever had stocked the closets had assumed that the heir to the throne was of the same stock that her mothers and sisters had been – namely, delicate.

The reality of a six foot tall princess who could take out a zoneball team had left more than a few courtiers and servants in the palace scrambling.

Rolling the robe’s too-short sleeves up to her elbows, she went out into the dark corridor, fingers curled around the hold-out blaster in her pocket.

Dialogue in italics from Dark Horse Comics' Star Wars: Rogue Squadron: The Warrior Princess.

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The smallest of the palace kitchens is the one that Plourr remembers best; the one that had been staffed by people instead of 'droids when she was a girl. It had been her sanctuary. The assigned chefs, aides, and servers would welcome her with open arms, hiding the eight-year-old troublemaker from annoyed tutors, furious etiquette teachers, and occasionally a put-upon Empress.

It's deserted now; they tell her that the kitchens don't have any human help anymore. Still, she can see signs of the place that she had loved. The tuber bins that she would hide breathlessly in, the impression in the wall where Dysander had pounded his fist after poor little Brigon had dropped the second course, the billions of knife-marks marring the tabletop in the center of the room.

Her bare feet and blaster are currently resting on those white knife-marks. The princess herself is leaning back in a chair, hand steadying a half-drank mug of caf on her hip and robe thrown carelessly over the back of her seat. A small, genuine smile plays across her lips.

Days spent listening to coarse voices and loud laughter and the sounds of chopping; tasting everything offered to her and basking in the warmth.

And it's a few moments before one Count Rial Pernon freezes in the kitchen doorway, long brown hair pulled back, impeccably dressed despite the hour.

The freezing is for several reasons.

Is one of them because she has a blaster pointed at him? 'Cause she does.

She'd whirled at the footsteps, aiming the weapon even before she'd even finished turning. Her heart sinks as she sees just who the newcomer is, and she slowly lets the hold-out fall to her lap. "Count Pernon."

Well, yes. That would be one.

Also, it's the princess, which he hadn't been expecting, and she'd looked happy, and-- She is wearing very little in the way of clothing; just tight, small jogging shorts and a similarly sized top.

"You're awake late, Princess," he greets, graciously averting his eyes from the sinfully long stretch of leg up on the table.

"Yeah. Well." Plourr is a stunning conversationalist. And also suddenly feeling incredibly underdressed. She shrugs her robe back on and pulls it tightly closed, though it's not going to do much for hiding her legs. She sets her feet down on the floor.

"Are you well?" he asks in some concern.

She counters with an 'are you stupid?' look. "I'm fan-kriffing-tastic. Why?"

"The hour is late and you are in the kitchens, drinking caf."

"So are you."

He smiles faintly. "I followed the smell of the caf."

She eyes him a moment, then sighs, setting her mug on the table. She gets up and crosses to the counter, pulling a second mug from a cabinet and pouring the last bit of caf from the pot that she'd brewed. She sets it down hard on the table, across from her own place, and she drops back into her seat. "Complain about the taste and I'll shoot you where you stand."

He was going to offer to do it himself, but she was too quick. So instead, he watches from the doorway, marveling once again at the way that she can move so fluidly and so silently.

He is pleasantly surprised when she makes a place for him at the table, and he laughs, taking the offered seat. "Noted." He tips the mug to her with a deferential nod of the head. "Thank you, Princess." He takes a sip.

His face is carefully blank.

Plourr is annoyed to find herself having to fight back a smile. "I make the worst caf in the squadron."

He shakes his head immediately. "No, I'm certain that honor must belong to another pilot; it is not so terrible." He takes another sip to prove that.

He might regret it a little.

"If I'd only made caf and served it at dinner tonight, I don't think there would be any more problems with the Priamsta," she says wryly. "They'd all be dead."

Not that she would mind that.

Rial sets his mug on the table. "You were marvelous without it. I've never seen the nobles so outraged."

"I yawned, broke some glass, told some men they were being arrogant pieces of Huttslime, outraged some people." This is all in a day's work for Plourr. She fixes him with an unimpressed look. "What's so stanging marvelous about that?"

"These men aren't accustomed to being spoken to in such a matter." He smiles suddenly, teeth flashing under the mustache. "It felt refreshing."

He sobers again, holds her gaze as long as she'll let him. "It was a show of strength that this palace hasn't seen the likes of in many years, Princess. You have my gratitude and admiration for it."

Her eyes flick to the side a moment.

"Noblemen of Eiattu, I see the future of Eiattu as cold, dark and hateful. A future where the good people are poisoned by the hypocrisy of the noble class."

Low murmurs beginning among her audience.

"A poison that has a sweet scent, but is deadly to the taste."

Grand Duke Pernon; Rial's father: "Isplourrdacartha ... please ..."

"Gentlemen, Eiattu will not drink this poison!"

Count Laabann leaping to his feet to argue; her attention is on him, but out of the corner of her eye, she sees Rial rise, glaring fiercely across the table at Laabann, his hand moving to the blaster at his side.

Later, she delivers her ultimatum: stand with the throne or fall. "The choice is yours." She sweeps out of the hall.

Behind her, she hears Rial's voice, "Stand ... or fall," and then there are footsteps following hers.

Plourr's gaze returns to him. "It really wasn't all that. I outrage people on a daily basis." A pause, and she would be highly surprised to realize that her speech patterns are changing to match his. "But you stood with me, my count. It cannot have been easy to speak against your father and his allies. I thank you. "

"It is my duty and my wish to stand by your side," he says. "And my father is in the wrong. He has been for twelve years."

She traces the rim of her mug with her thumb. "Yeah. About that. Rial, it is not your duty. If things go badly, I could be steering myself a course into the Maw here and you don't have to come with me."

"It is my wish," he says firmly. "I want to." He pauses a moment. "Though I would rather not fly into the Maw, if it can be avoided. You are a fierce pilot, but I don't think even your skill could save us from the Maw." Another pause. "Perhaps the spice mines of Kessel, instead."

Startled, she laughs. He has a sense of humor. Who knew? She stops it quickly and spits him with a glare. "I mean it, Count Pernon. If I go down, I will go down hard. I have no desire to drag others with me."

He stands (or sits, technically) tall under the glare. "There will be no going down. You are leading Eiattu well, toward a good future."

"I'm flying blind here; I'm not leading anybody."

"You may not believe it, but the people are following you," he says quietly. "You're leading, Isplourrdacartha."

"Shut up. And don't call me that."

It's the truth, Princess. You're doing very well. And what would you prefer?" He is thoughtful. "They called you Isplourr when you were young."

A flash of memory; six years old, crying after witnessing what her brother had done to a pet whisperkit. The appearance of a stranger; a serious-faced, handsome teenaged boy who sat under the stairs with her for an hour, handing her his handkerchief and telling her stories. It wasn't until he'd left that her sister had told her that that had been the young Count Rial Pernon. Her betrothed.

Her parents' voices; her sisters', too. Even her brother's. Isplourr this, Isplourr that--

"No," she snaps. She takes a moment to lower her voice. "No, not that. Just Plourr."

He nods, unruffled by the sharp tone. "As you wish." He is quiet a moment, and he dares to take another sip of his caf. It, strangely enough, is better cold. "Though you are doing a poor job of subject-changing, Lady."

"Maybe," she says, "just maybe that's because I don't want to talk about revolting angry nobles or downtrodden people or the People's Liberation Battalion or the man leading them claiming to be my brother or the past or pressures or responsibilities or tactics or politics any kriffing more!" For a sentence that started low and sarcastic, it's certainly loud and angry by the end.

"Maybe you had best choose the topic of conversation, then."

She crosses her arms over her chest, pulling the two halves of her robe closed tightly again. "I apologize," she says, and this time she knows she's taking refuge in the royal formality that was forced down her throat by tutors as a child. "I grow frustrated. I am not angry with you, Count."

That's a lie. She's angry that he's sticking to the old traditions, assuming that they're going to be married. She's angry that she is promised to him and no one seems to think she has any choice in the matter. She's angry that he won't stop following her, won't stop believing in her, won't just leave her alone.

She's angry that he's such a good man.

"Eiattu is not an easy place to have thrust upon you," says Rial sympathetically.

"No, it's really not. Are you tired?" This may seem like an incomprehensible jump, but she understands it fully well.

Rial does not understand it, fully or otherwise, but he regards her steadily all the same. "No, my Princess."

"Good. Then you can explain to me some of what happened in the years I was gone."

"Politically, economically, socially...?"

"All of that in regards to the Priamsta, primarily; I'd like to hear how they've been governing the planet." She smiles faintly, very wryly. "So I know what not to do."

Rial nods somberly. "Of course." He opens his mouth, then pauses. "You aren't tired, either?" He is surprised; she has been on the go constantly since she arrived.

"I got a few hours of sleep already." On a table after kriffing with Aeryn.

Uh. It goes without saying that this is not going to be spoken.

She realizes belatedly that she only left Rial's company after dinner an hour or two ago.

"Earlier in the day, I mean," she adds hurriedly. "Naps-- I'm fine, Rial. Talk."

Rial is unconvinced, but she says she's fine, so he will simply keep a watchful eye out for signs of exhaustion. "Very well, Princess." He rests his hands on the table and leans in. "After the-- coup twelve years ago, the entire planet was in an uproar..."

Rial makes the second pot of caf an hour later, and the third as the sun is beginning to rise.

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[OOM] Devotion

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