Private A Change of Regime

[Bastille Rommer]

R A ' K A T H A

Tag: Jamilah Rommer

Ra'Katha's sun shone brilliantly over Saltuhn, casting its light through every window, every crevice, every open pavilion, courtyard, and street. For a planet that was so dry and almost inhospitable, most -- especially offworlders -- cursed Ra'Katha's sun and the heat it brought. It was the sun that killed the plants struggling to grow, it was the sun that dried up the oases and drinking holes, it was the sun that caused people trapped under its heat to waste away until they were sinew and bone.

Yet, the Wan'anteen knew that while the sun's heat was deadly, equally so was the chilling night. In between the two was the twilight, the dawn -- in between Ra'Muhn and Ra'Laya was Ra'Mallah, the life-giver. The Dejoka'ar had not always exactly been as fervent in their worship of the gods, but that did not mean they did not keep them. The Festival was coming soon, and Bastille hoped that he would be able to deliver the gift of life and light to Ra'Katha with his plans that he was fomenting in the national government.

But first, he had to deliver news to his wife that might break her heart.

It had come early in the morning that the Queen of Naboo had been killed; a childhood friend of Jamilah, one of the people who'd known her closely throughout her life both as an adolescent and an adult. Bastille knew that Jamilah was a strong woman -- stronger than most assumed. She had largely stayed out of the political limelight, to the extent that most outside of Ra'Katha did not even know of Bastille's beloved. Yet, no tragedy of this caliber had been afflicted on her; and now her husband would have to tell her the news.

Bastille himself had not largely been affected in any emotional way by the news of the Queen's murder -- his mind had immediately begun to spin with political calculations. Up until right before the late Queen's coronation, Naboo had been a world of insignificance; but now, it was the capital of the Confederacy and seat of government. A change of regime would create reverberations that would echo through the whole nation, and Bastille intended to adjust his course in order to not let those waves sink his ship of state. But for now, he would fill the role of comforter and companion for his wife, a duty that he had taken on willingly when they had been betrothed so many years ago.

It had all seemed so simple back then. No aspirations, no political scheming; just two partners on the starlit honeymoon of their love. And there were no limits to what a part of Bastille would give to be back in those moments.
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[Jamilah Rommer]

T A G S | Bastille Rommer ​

This hour was Jamilah’s favourite. The hour when Saltuhn was just beginning to chase away the shadows of sleep to the sweet chirp of birds. The dazzling array of hues that danced across the Ra’kathan horizon were always too stunning for any description to do it justice. Jamilah had spent many a night watching the sun slowly rise. Watching as the colours shifted from the darkest ebony to a burning orange as the light began to peek over the mountaintops. To many, the desert world was an acrid monochromatic landscape with little to offer in the way of beauty, but Jamilah knew the truth of it. ​

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The beauty of Ra’Katha could be found in the detail. Things that many would not spend long enough there to witness. The sand as the wind whipped it violently over the dunes, forming waves that tumbled and swirled across their dry sea. The vastness of the heavens in the dead of night, when the heat had long since seeped from the earth and the stars twinkled boldly against the backdrop of midnight skies. The beauty of an oasis in the middle of the desert, the breath-taking flora made doubly so by the crystal-clear pools of life saving elixir they surrounded. Jamilah had lived long enough, and seen enough of other planets, to know that none could hold a candle to Ra’Katha.​

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In the soft glow of the slowly dawning sun, Jamilah sat before a silver mirror. Long curls of chocolate brown hair lay tumbled about her shoulders, still tousled from the night’s sleep. In one hand she clutched an ivory comb, which she had begun to slowly pull through her tangled locks. When she had first arrived, Bastille had insisted upon a servant, but Jamilah preferred to do it on her own. It was part of her ritual. Just as he rose and read the documents his council had prepared for the day, Jamilah rose and combed her hair. ​

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The soothing motion, in its own strange way, provided comfort. A moment alone where she could just be Jamilah, before having to step into the shoes of royalty. ​

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On this particular morning, however, it wasn’t to be. The sound of shoes slapping against the polished stone floor drew her attention away from the silver mirror, toward the door that hung partially open. For a moment, she was almost irritated at the interruption, but the instant she saw who the “offender” was, it melted away completely. “Good morning, my love.” She rose from her seat, readily and willingly abandoning the ivory comb and her ritual along with it. ​

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Almost relishing in the cool stone beneath her bare feet, the soft thin silks of her nightgown swaying as she crossed the floor to greet him. “How are you?” Her honied tones asked of him as she lent forward to press a tender kiss upon his lips. Jamilah had been lucky in her life in many ways, but nothing more so than when she had been betrothed to Bastille. There was an irony to the fact that an arranged marriage had been the reason she’d found love. Not many in a similar situation could have said the same. ​

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Over such a short space of time he had become more than just a husband, more than a lover. They were one mind, one soul. Jamilah had given him everything, and in return Bastille had given it back. As she settled into his embrace to await the answer to her question, Jamilah remarked to herself that she could no longer imagine, nor wish to imagine, her life without him.​

 

[Bastille Rommer]

R A ' K A T H A

Tag: Jamilah Rommer

Bastille's slippers were soft against the polished sandstone of the palace floors as he walked through the doorway left open into his chambers, the love of his life sitting and combing through her hair, her silk nightgown draped softly over her body. She rose as he entered, greeting him with a soft kiss, which he returned more than willingly -- it was the most fleeting, yet most desired of pleasures. "How are you?" she murmured in a low tone almost seductively.

"Better, mva'Jamilah," Bastille smiled as he held her hand at the side of his head, staring into her dark eyes. He couldn't even begin to imagine the wrath that would've consume him if Jamilah had been the one murdered instead of Kairi. Although she would not see it that way, in that Bastille was grateful.

"But, my love. . . there is something that I must tell you," Bastille said, his tone sobering, his smile fading. "News just came in this morning. Kairi, your friend. . . she's passed, my love." It was a more blunt way to say it than he'd rehearsed, Bastille surmised, especially for someone as well versed in political tact as he was -- but there was a different level of intimacy between him and his wife that went past political veils.

He only hoped that he would be adequate comfort enough to her right now.
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[Jamilah Rommer]

T A G S | Bastille Rommer ​

Something was not quite right. She could see it in the way his gaze darted nervously across her features. She could feel it in the way his hand shook as it pressed hers to his cheek. Even his words, despite their meaning, did not ring true. However, she did not have to wait long to find out why.​

At the sobering tone that came from him next, the flicker of an uncertain smirk crossed her sun-kissed features. Was this some kind of cruel joke? Unintentionally, entirely driven by instinct, Jamilah stepped back from Bastille. The moment she felt the cool morning breeze drifting through the gap between them, she came to her senses. Bastille was not a cruel man, in any meaning of the word. Even when his duty forced him to be so, even when he did not know the faces behind the names that would be affected, it weighed upon him heavily. Some nights the guilt kept him awake for hours, and when sleep did take hold it was restless. Filled with nightmares. Bastille was not a cruel man.​

And yet, how could what he was saying be true? She had received a letter from Kairi only the day before. The same elegant, beautiful handwriting on thick dimpled paper, headed with the crest of Naboo emblazoned in silver. The same loopy, girlish signature she had possessed since they were children. The letter had not spoken of danger, of any kind. On the contrary, it had told of joy. At their reunion during the coronation, and at the coronation itself. It had spoken of nervousness, at the prospect of ruling such a powerful planet with a weighty reputation to uphold. It had even idly spoken of the delicious breakfast Kairi had eaten the very morning of penning it, but nothing about a threat to her life. Nothing about any inkling of something that could cause her harm.​

The dumbfounded expression had remained cemented to her face. It was a rare occurrence that Jamilah was so blunt with her true feelings. She had been raised as royalty. Raised to keep opinions and inner thoughts for moments when they could be more appropriately articulated, but not today. “Kairi, dead?” Her voice sounded foreign as it questioned Bastille. Where a honied tone had once been, a blunt and unabashed display of her confusion had taken its place. Jamilah shook her head, soft curls shifting across her silk nightdress. ​

Crossing her arms over her chest tightly, as though she were attempting to keep herself from crumbling, Jamilah shuddered. This made no sense. Suddenly, the morning was not as beautiful as it had seemed when she had first woken. The breeze was no longer warm and comforting. It was cold. It nipped at her exposed flesh with harsh, unforgiving bites. The sun was no longer a gleaming beacon of hope. Now it served as a torturous reminder that her closest friend had not lived to watch it rise. A sorrowful gaze found its way back up to Bastille’s tanned features. ​

She did not want to know the answer but found the words forming on her lips regardless. “How?”​

 

[Bastille Rommer]

R A ' K A T H A

Tag: Jamilah Rommer

Bastille watched with sadness as his wife stepped back from his embrace, her face first showing an uncertain smile, as if Bastille were making a cruel jest at her behalf, before the corners of her mouth dipped. Her face did not show the sorrow and confusion that her eyes did. "Kairi, dead?" she asked, whether to herself or to Bastille he did not know. She shuddered as if cold, despite the warmth of the room, and her jeweled eyes met his.

"How?" was her smile question. Bastille didn't know how to tell her that he didn't know.

One thing that the Kemotar of Ra'Katha prided himself on was that he had the information. While some warred with the Amankh or with the blaster, Bastille fought with words, ideas, and information. It was not soldiers that backed his political army, but ideas and facts strung together to create an unbreakable phalanx of argument.

But with the late Queen of Naboo? Bastille had no answers.

At last, he spoke. "They. . . did not say. There has not even been an official communication," Bastille finally admitted. "Similarly, rumor has it that Mila Karr will be selected to fill Kairi's place." He inwardly winced at the words. He knew his wife didn't care for politics now, not with her childhood friend dead.

He stepped closer, taking her soft hands in his, stroking the back of them with his thumb as he looked into her eyes. "I don't want the same thing to happen to you, mva'Jamilah," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Every day there are fewer and fewer that we can trust." His fears were sincere. Bastille had made many political enemies, and if other rumors were true, there were many in the halls of the Confederacy unafraid of murdering to get what they wanted.

He may not have been upset over the death of the Queen of Naboo. But if Jamilah were to be taken from him, the galaxy would pay the price.
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[Jamilah Rommer]

T A G S | Bastille Rommer ​

Jamilah released a second shuddering sigh as she watched her husband’s face dip from sorrow to the briefest of frustrations. He did not know the answer, something that was an extremely rare occurrence for Bastille. He dealt in information. If he did not know, then Jamilah was certain nobody would.

Finally, he broke the silence. It was not exactly the admittance Jamilah had expected, but she needed only to read between the lines to understand what he was saying. Jamilah peeled her hands from her waist and pressed them to her cheeks, where a flush of crimson had slowly been creeping across her sun-kissed skin. They were warm, despite the chill she felt. She knew what that meant. Soon after, the sharp and unwanted sensation of tears pricked in the corners of her eyes. They spilled out over her cheeks, rolling down her neck until they sank into her nightdress, staining it a shade of damp, dull grey.

She closed her eyes at Bastilles next comment. What was it to her? Politics, lines of succession, governments. She did not care for it. There was no one now that could replace the friend she had lost. None that could hold a candle to the relationship that had blossomed all those years ago in the tranquillity of Naboo. Certainly not this Mila Karr.

A shift in the breeze caused her eyes to snap open, though she dreaded the world they would be met with. It all seemed to colourless now. Black and white. Fortunately, they were instead met with the bright, tinted silks adorning Bastille’s chest. The one spark of colour she now had in her life was the man who took her hand in his and looked her in the eye with a pained expression. She was not a fool. Kairi meant nothing to him, or at least, not enough to upset him the way she was upset by it. Something else was plaguing his mind.

And there it was.

Jamilah had thought little of the consequences of these actions, or of the threat this might pose to her own safety, beyond the fact that she had lost a friend. What did this mean for them? For Bastille? If there was some larger plot at work to rid the Confederacy of its Viceroy, the last thing Jamilah wanted was for Bastille to be caught in the firing line, but it was not himself he was concerned about. Jamilah managed to coerce her lips into a half-hearted smile. He was sweet to be concerned out her, especially when it was him that the shadow of greater danger lingered over.

Slipping into his embrace again, Jamilah remarked that it was the only place the world felt somewhat ordinary now. Everything beyond the warm circle of Bastille’s arms was unsafe. “I have no reason or desire to leave Ra’Katha.” It was a sad truth, but a truth all the same. Kairi was the only reason Jamilah ever bothered herself to leave her home, and her people, and now that reason was gone. With it, so too was the desire to walk the streets her people lived upon. “I have no desire to leave the palace either.” The markets would still be filled with the heady stench of spices, the homes and food stalls would no longer be shrouded in the pleasant hum of conversation, the roads and homes would still be alive with colour, but Jamilah didn’t have the sense to detect any of that anymore. The world had lost its beauty.

Yet, she found herself more concerned with Bastille. It would do no good for him to allow this to linger on his mind, not when there were so many other things that required his attention. “I will be safe here, with you.” The young Queen tightened her embrace around him as she spoke at a mere whisper. “We can trust each other. That is enough.”​

 

[Bastille Rommer]

R A ' K A T H A

Tag: Jamilah Rommer

Bastille drew Jamilah into a tighter embrace, her head against his chest, savoring the sweet spices of her scent. She did not need to tell him for him to know the anguish that was consuming her. He was a great orator when it came to leadership in politics, but in this tender, somber moment, words seemed to fail him. All he knew was to hold her close.

"I will not let the same thing happen to you," he murmured; a partial vow to her, but a solemn oath to himself.
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[Jamilah Rommer]

T A G S | Bastille Rommer ​

Jamilah had no opposition to Bastille wrapping his arms around her once again. In a way, she had regretted ever parting from them. They would do a far better job of holding her together than her own arms could. She despised that in her moment of grief she had forgotten this, and she hoped that Bastille would be able to see that.

Nestling into the hug she almost wished she could stay there forever. Where the knowledge that Kairi was dead was non-existent. Where the pain she felt was easily washed away by his smile, or his laughter, but it was not possible. She could not curl up and grieve like most people had the opportunity to do. It was in the comfort of Bastille’s arms that she allowed the first unhindered tears to fall.

When her moment to allow emotions to flow freely had passed, Jamilah found herself thinking. Not on her own troubles or grief, but of Bastille’s safety. Just as he had concerns for hers, she had concerns for his. Only, there was a stark difference between the two.

Jamilah had no official responsibilities as Queen, it was something she had made a personal choice on when she and Bastille were married. Save for the standard public appearances and some charity work in the poorer areas of Ra’Katha, the crown was Bastille’s. Jamilah had not wanted to take any of the glory away from him. However, that meant that he was also their voice when the Confederacy called their meetings. Now that the capital had changed from Geonosis to Naboo, Jamilah was worried.

Bastille would be in the thick of it. The very planet that Kairi had died on. If the situation was indeed as she expected it, then no viceroy was safe there. “What does this mean for us, Bastille?” Her thick accent flowed like a waterfall from her painted lips into the soft silks upon his chest, the tone was sweet but sad. “What does this mean for you?” Concern was clearly riddled alongside the grief, but it was the dominating emotion radiating from Jamilah.

What would she do without Bastille? Bastille, without her, would carry on. It would be difficult for him, and he would mourn, but Ra’Katha needed him. He could not give up on his people, no matter how much it pained him. For Jamilah the story was altogether different. If Bastille died now, there would be no reason for her to stay in the palace. They had no children to speak of to take over the line. Jamilah was not certain how succession was decided in those cases, but she would most assuredly be sent home. To live with her parents again, but she already knew.

Whether it was in a palace, or in her parent’s opulent mansion, life was not worth living without Bastille.​

 

[Bastille Rommer]

R A ' K A T H A

Tag: Jamilah Rommer
Word Count: 758

Jamilah nestled tighter into Bastille arms, and for a quiet, somber, and peaceful moment they held each other tight. Content with merely the company of each other. The only happiness Bastille needed at that moment was to know that his lover was in his arms, fully well, safe, her heart beating against his. That was all he needed. In that sweet, simple moment, he was content.

But as always, there was a small voice in the back of his mind. No matter how desperately he wanted it, no matter how much he desired life to be nothing more than Jamilah and him, it could not be that way. He had been born as a Rommer. Ra'Katha was his responsibility, it was his duty. To guide it through the complicated and dark galaxy, to protect it from the thousand hidden daggers that if given an opportunity would strike. This burden had been set on his shoulders since his birth, since his ascension as Kemotar of a re-unified Ra'Katha. He could not shirk it, or the planet he loved would be torn asunder.

Not only that, but the legacy of his family was now his and his alone to uphold. Marseille, Sante, they were too young, too inexperienced, too consumed by love and life and youth to understand the true duties of leadership. They were not innocent, no, nor were they inept or stupid. But they had always been the second and third child and never had the burden of responsibility been cast on them. For their sake, Bastille hoped it would remain that way. That they would have the life of laughter that would always be a flirting shadow for himself.

"What does that mean for us, Bastille?" Jamilah murmured, her voice like iced honey, soft and sweet, tumbling like the silk that hung on her chest. Her voice carried affection towards Bastille, but under that affection was an underlying current of worry, of sadness. She spoke once more, her head still resting on his chest. "What does this mean for you?" She asked again, fear and concern creeping into her voice, exacerbated by her grief for her childhood friend.

It was a question that Bastille had begun to ask himself as of late. Wheels seemed to be turning in the Confederacy, seen and unseen. This sudden death of Naboo's Monarch, the Monarch of the Confederacy's new capital no less, raised a flurry of questions, each with answers that Bastille was unsure if he wanted an answer. The Presidium had begun to make bolder moves by the day, and fewer and fewer star systems had the gut to challenge them. Bastille, in his outspoken resistance, was becoming more and more a pariah among his colleagues. That, coupled with news of this Abrion Pact, less a body of sovereign planets more than an echo chamber of lackeys to the Vicelord's will, boded ill for those like Bastille who valued the tenets that the Confederacy had been founded on.

Ra'Katha had once had an Empire, before the Gulag Plague, before the four-hundred-year darkness. But unlike all others, Ra'Katha's Empire had been unique in that it had not been founded on conquest and subjugation, but on trade. Out of intergalactic commerce and business, the Rommers had built a state that spanned across many star systems, one that grew fat on wealth and prosperity. That Empire ended the day the Gulag Plague began, Bastille had been taught since he was a child. The Kemotar had chosen his people over his prosperity, and Ra'Katha had been placed under self-quarantined.

The planet had been spared from the Gulag Plague, but only just. The disintegration of the Empire, even the sundering of various cities on Ra'Katha herself, had destroyed the culture and elegance that the planet of the Golden Sun had once held. Only just now had Bastille began to work to revive the fire that had burned in the heart of every Ra'Kathan, the desire to seek and travel through the stars. It was hard work, and outside of Ra'Katha, it made more enemies for Bastille than not.

But he was a Rommer. He was Ra'Kathan. He had the fire of the Golden Sun, one that would not be quenched by lies, rumors, and petty political games.

What did this mean for him? "Many things," he murmured. "History is being made, mva'Jamilah. Change is on the horizon. And we will prevail above all else." His words were comforting, meant to soothe, but there was a fire under them. A passion.

They were unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken.
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[Jamilah Rommer]

T A G S | Bastille Rommer ​

Something about his response sat uneasily in the pit of her stomach. There was something about the subtle determination behind his words that made Jamilah feel ill. Bastille was a confident man, headstrong in all the right places, but he was sometimes oblivious of hidden dangers. He dealt with words, politics, papers. The only danger present there was the risk of assassination, and as far as Jamilah was concerned, that was a risk now. Kairi would have told her if she was sick. She would have told her if she was dying.

Jamilah tried to swallow the thoughts that bubbled to the surface of her mind, but as the passion in Bastille’s voice echoed in her mind, she could not contain herself. Bastille was many things, but he was blind to the most important one. He was blind to the fact that it was not only Ra’Katha who needed him.

This was not how she was supposed to react, it was not how she was brought up to react, but she did it anyway.

“Stay with me.” She murmured into his chest, the grip her fingers held on his silks tightening visibly. There was something in her voice that Bastille had likely never heard before. Something that did not suit Jamilah in the slightest. Pleading. “Stay here.” She finally pulled her face from his chest to look him in the eyes. “With me, where you are safe.” Between the two of them, Bastille had always been the strong one. That was why he ruled, and she did not.

Bastille was the epitome of Ra’Kathan. Brave, confident, mysterious. Once he had set his mind to something there was no changing it. He was able to swallow his personal pride and opinions when it mattered most, and what was Jamilah doing? Sobbing into his silks and begging him to stay. Thankfully, they were alone together. Though Jamilah doubted her ability to stop if they had not been, she was grateful for that at least. She did not need mortification added to the swirling storm of emotions that dominated her mind.

One of her hands uncurled from his arm and reached up to stroke the side of his cheek. She had done so once, long ago on their wedding night. Jamilah recalled the way her hand had trembled as it stroked the stubble across his jawline. She recalled the nervousness that shadowed the room like a moonless night. The nerves were no longer there now. Jamilah was comfortable around Bastille as she was alone, but her hand still shook.

It shook for the trepidation that built inside her.

It shook for the anxiety that swallowed her sanity whole.

It shook at the nightmare scenario of losing Bastille.

The skin on his cheek was warm, sun-kissed by the bright Ra’Kathan ways. “What good will change be if you are not by my side to witness it?” She spoke again, but her voice was barely a whisper, it was a wonder he heard her at all. “Where could I find peace and happiness in this world without you?” Her lower lip trembled for a moment, and Jamilah forced herself to breathe deeply in an effort to stop the tears. A few escaped and slid down the curves of her cheek, but she pressed on.

“Please, Bastille.” Her feet drew her closer still, enough so that she could feel the rhythmic thud of his heart against her chest. Enough so that every breath he made Jamilah could feel washing over her skin. Her own heartbeat fluttered in her ears like the wings of a bird as her honied tone begged. “Stay with me."​

 

[Bastille Rommer]

R A ' K A T H A

Tag: Jamilah Rommer
Word Count: 683

Bastille was sure of his destiny. He was sure of his responsibilities and was not prepared to pay the price for dropping them. Jamilah had known this, when she had agreed to his proposal. Bastille's loyalties would always have to lie with Ra'Katha, and with Ra'Katha first. It was his duty as Kemotar, as a Rommer.

Why couldn't she see that? Why couldn't Jamilah see it?

He hands dug tighter into the silken tunic that he wore. "Stay with me," she murmured, pleading as her head remained resting on his chest. It was a tone that Bastille had never heard before, nor had he expected too -- a soft, vulnerable voice, almost begging him to stay. It was a tone so foreign for Bastille, and so foreign to see it coming from Jamilah. "Stay here," she once again entreated, lifting her face from his chest to look at him, their eyes meeting, "With me, where you are safe." Her voice was trembling, and in her eyes, Bastille saw worry and fear. The Queen of Naboo may not be the only politician who had a planned end. For all Bastille knew, the hidden knives could be coming for the outspoken Viceroy of Ra'Katha. Another silencing of a political opponent to further the agenda of the few.

Jamilah had always considered him the strong one, but from the day that he had met her, Bastille had known there to be a fire in Jamilah's heart, that when stirred, would blaze unchecked. She was as strong as the hardest Kathite steel, and in her soul held more power than any army that the galaxy could summon.

What Bastille needed was for her to reach into that strength, now. To summon it and to use to console herself.

One of her hands uncurled from being wrapped around his arm and rose upwards to stroke the side of Bastille's cheek. He looked to the side as her hand ran down his jawline, unwilling, unable to look his lover in the face. The death of Kairi. . . the pain that this was causing Jamilah. His conscience couldn't bring it to bear on himself.

That hand turned his face to look into her's once more. "What good will change be if you are not by my side to witness it?" Her question was barely a whisper, and even Bastille, standing in such an intimate closeness with Jamilah, barely heard it. "Where could I find peace and happiness in this world without you?" At that second question, her lower lip trembled, and Bastille watched as she fought to stem back the rising tide of emotion that was swelling inside of her.

A single tear ran down her cheek, betraying her thoughts. "Please, Bastille," she pleaded. "Stay with me."

His hand rose to hold hers, still pressed against the skin of his jaw, warm under the Ra'Kathan sun. "Mva'Jamilah. . . you know there is nothing more in the galaxy I want than to stay with you, to stay forever in this moment with you in my arms." His voice was caring, but it had an underlying firmness. He had known this was his duty since the moment he had risen to Kemotar. This had always been the path he would walk on. "But how will we, side by side, witness change if there is no one to enact it? There is no one, on Ra'Katha and outside of it, willing to go the lengths I am to ensure a brighter future for our children, for the children of Ra'Katha."

He broke from her grasp to move to the window, resting his hands on the balcony, looking at the panorama of Saltuhn on display in front of the Kemotar Palace. "Without a strong leader -- without people who are ready and willing to make the sacrifices they need to?" He turned halfway to Jamilah, his hand sweeping across the open window. "All of this. . . our paradise. . . will cease to exist."

He returned to stand with Jamilah, this time holding her face with his hand. "We both know I cannot let our people down in this critical moment."
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[Jamilah Rommer]

T A G S | Bastille Rommer ​

Bastille’s words stung, softened only by the hand that he placed atop hers.

They were like a sunburn, at first. They ached Jamilah, tugging at her skin where they came to rest. The voice he used no longer belonged to her husband. It belonged to the Kemotar. Jamilah had learned to tell the difference early in their marriage. When Bastille was himself, he was amiable to reason, to her reason. To the love and devotion they had for one another, but when he used this tone of voice? Jamilah knew to give up. The Kemotar only had one love, and that was Ra’Katha.

Ordinarily, she would have felt a fierce pride. He was her king first, and her husband second, but right now Jamilah pined for the latter. Right now, she despised that tone.

He broke from her grasp, as easily as freeing a loose thread from his silk tunic.

She made no motion to watch him as he moved. She knew this room like the back of her hand. She could hear where he was walking from the way the floorboards creaked alone. His words still felt sharp, now like the edge of a knife that sunk in wherever it could find purchase. Paradise. The word tasted sour. Like milk left out in the sun too long. Jamilah hated it.

When Bastille returned to her side, Jamilah could feel her body tense.

Jamilah waited, with patience she did not know she possessed, until Bastille had finished his speech. It was then that she reached up and peeled his fingers away from her damp cheeks. That action alone should have crumbled the world around her. There was rarely ever an instance where Jamilah would refuse Bastille’s comfort. However, today, it felt hollow. Like the once beautiful morning dawning over Ra’Katha. It was empty.

She spoke monotonously as she let his hands fall back to his sides. “I know.” It was all she could manage to say, she could not even bring herself to look at him. So, she turned. Her feet carried her somewhere, but her eyes did not have the strength to follow. When she felt the cool bedsheets beneath her fingertips, she felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Maybe if she got back into bed, and fell to sleep again, she would wake and find this was all just a dream. Kairi would be alive again. The morning would be beautiful. Bastille’s comfort would mean something.

It was not long before she felt the mattress pressing up against her body, her back to Bastille. Followed by the muted darkness as she drew the sheets over her head to block out the light. She said nothing further to her husband. What else was there to be said? It would not matter either way.

When she awoke in the morning, it would be all be forgotten. She would wake to Bastille by her side, his comforting whispers soothing the fear away. This was just a nightmare, but nightmares could be chased away. Nightmares could be sent back to the shadow from which they were summoned, and that's what this was. Just a nightmare.​