Dynasty

ii. WHERE IS THE GLORY

ii.
WHERE IS THE GLORY

✶

"Tell me what it is to be the thing rooted in shadow. / To be the thing not touched by light (no, that's not it)— / to not even need the light? I envy; I envy that."
—Ada Limón, Carrying: Poems

The girl reached up to run her chubby fingers through the woman's hair, separating the long curtain into uneven sections. The sun seared through, colouring the hair burnt-brick red, and if the girl tilted her head in the right direction it looked like blood pouring through her fingers.

It was a terrifying sight. She blinked it away, and began to plait the hair instead, tugging at the woman's scalp as she crossed the sections over each other haphazardly.

          "Careful, Fal," the woman warned, wincing but not stopping the child. She adjusted herself so that the girl could remain comfortable leaning against her back. "Whatever you do to my hair, I'll do to yours."

Fal looked up at the woman with a smile that stretched to the edge of the galaxy and back again. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and it made the woman's throat feel suddenly dry: it was a familiar expression. "I will be extra careful then, Bo. Extra, extra, extra."

"Bo" nodded, appeased. Legs crossed, she sat gracefully upon the throne room's steps. Back turned to the throne, her gaze drifted lazily across all that she could see—the floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of the throne that afforded bright, almost-endless sunlight; the murals etched into the stone floor that depicted myths of a Mandalore long past; the sharp curve of the arch that led deeper into the Sundari Royal Palace.

To anyone, even those who didn't agree with what it stood for, the palace was beautiful, magnificent, a work of art in glass and dark steel. But Bo couldn't look less uninterested.

(That wasn't to say that she didn't appreciate the palace; of course she did. But there was something unsettling about the lack of movement in the throne room—it made her uneasy. If she hadn't been accompanied by Fal, who was drawing close to three years of age now, she would never have set foot in here in the first place. It was too peaceful. She could practically hear the dust dance in the air.)

          "When will Sat-een be back?" Bo felt her hair go slack, and turned her head to look at Fal. The girl's hands were clasped neatly in her lap, long strands of red hair tangled between her fingers. (Small sacrifices.) "Sat-een." Fal sounded out the syllables slowly. "Satine."

          "She'll be back any second." Bo smoothed out the skirt of her dress, before twisting around and pulling the girl into her lap. Her arms crossed around her torso as she propped her chin on top of the child's head. "She's bringing a very special guest."

          "How special?"

          "Very special." Bo's stomach twisted like rope, tying and untying itself, over and over again. Over and over and over. She pulled out the lily that was pinned to her hair and slipped it behind Fal's ear. "In fact—" Footsteps approached, and the woman's eyes flicked up to watch the arrivals, "she's here now."

Duchess Satine stepped into the room, a vision in deep blue and green. Wrapped up in rich, heavy silks like the lilies that adorned her hair, she appeared celestial in the afternoon light. Backlit, bathed in sun, and boasting a bright smile—an uncharacteristically bright smile—it was clear to Bo the reason why her sister looked especially content.

It was the man by her side. Standing tall, he cleared six feet easily but seemed to turn convex next to Satine, instinctively leaning towards her, drawn in by her very existence. He was handsome, with high cheekbones and grey-blue eyes, and a half-smile that flickered on and off the thin line of his mouth. Chestnut-brown hair cropped close to his scalp, Bo caught sight of a braid hanging from the back of his head, and felt the floor of her stomach drop. The mark of a Jedi padawan.