Cavataio [Fable Merrill]

[Fabula Caromed]

The Bloody Pilgrim came to rest on the surface of Dathomir for the first time since it had last flown away, just after Petra Cavataio disappeared. The planet hadn't changed in the least. As a reflex, she landed near the old, decrepit Morte Clan stronghold. This planet wasn't Ferro, so most of the trappings of civilization here in the Cavataio name had been...ceremonial, at best. A single palace, an outlying village of servants, all long since gone with the absence of their matriarch. Now, for the first time in eight years, the last living daughter of Petra Cavataio returned home.

The palace mirrored its dynasty - shambles and rubble, attracting ghosts from a long-dead past.

Fabula looked out her cockpit window, staring at nothing in particular for several minutes. Once she'd had too much of that, she sighed, leaned back in her seat, and rested her fingers over her face. "Un migliaio di anni troppo presto, una decina di anni troppo tardi."

Behind her, Al was speaking to the hyperdrive. If he'd had ears, they might have perked up. "Mistress, my apologies. I don't believe I'm programmed with that language."

Fabula turned and offered a weary smile, fixing her hair behind one ear. "That's right. You aren't. I'm sorry, Al, but I've plans to surrender many secrets today. I'd prefer to keep one for myself."

The droid nodded and returned to his work. "Very well. Please let me know if I can be of assistance."

Echoing her previous sigh, Fabula rested a hand on his shoulder as she stood and walked past. "If only it were that simple," she half-whispered in a moody mess on her way out of the cockpit. She'd given Fable coordinates that she knew by heart and set her pulse beacon, so all she had to do now was wait for her daughter. Whether it was a blessing or a curse that this gave her time to walk the grounds and meditate on what she felt there was...less clear.
[member="Fable Merrill"]

 

[Fable Merrill]

[member="Fabula Caromed"]

There were a few calls that Fable could receive that would compel immediate action out of her - although she was by no means lazy or reluctant, the young woman had long been aware of her deficiencies. Almost chief among them was an inability to read subtext or otherwise hidden messages. She tended to put a lot of time into reading messages sent to her as a result, just in case something was implied or amiss. Unless it was from her parents (who knew better) or Razelle. (who was refreshingly straightforward for a secret agent type) So when Fabula had invited Fable to Dathomir, of all places, Fable had canceled her appointments and set out from Void Station just about right away.

Her mom wasn't very open about her past, and if Fable knew her at all, it was for very good reason. But you don't grow up idolizing someone without picking up a few things from that person, and Fable knew that whatever lay in her past had something to do with Dathomir. Her knowledge was more blanks than anything else, but that didn't stop Fable's imagination from filling them in on the way there, an experience that gave the trip a feeling of monumental importance. By the time the Faux broke through Dathomir's atmosphere, Fable put even odds on a coming battle of Galactic importance, or a world-shattering secret. She was prepared for either.

The Faux Pilgrim set down amidst some jungle-choked ruins and Fable stepped out, spotting her mother's ship and droid nearby. A moment to adjust to the relative humidity in the air, and Fable left her leather jacket behind on the ship as she jogged down the ramp. She wouldn't need it. This place was warm and jungle-y, in a pleasant sort of way. Aside from the ruined old buildings and junk all over the ground, it was nice. Fable's fairly clumsy mind tried to grasp at something clever to say about the paralells between it and her mother's conifer-choked estate on Taris, but failed. Instead, she offered her mother a bright smile and a wave. It was good to see her.

"Hey, sorry if I'm late." She wasn't, but still - she was sorry if she was, and her mom's facial expressions were a complex-looking mess of unhappy right now. "...are you alright?"

 

[Fabula Caromed]

The courtyard was so overgrown. Just a few years ago it had been pristine, a well-kept antiquity from a time long since past. Centuries ago, it had been bustling with slaves and sisters running about their lives. Morte Clan, the dominant Nightsister clan on the planet. In the stars. Everywhere. She and Kristin had played on the carefully-groomed grass in perfect safety, for who would touch Petra's youngest princesses? It would be tantamount to a very messy, slow suicide. The galaxy faced conquest by the Sith and the Potestatem, and yet their childhood had been giddy and precious.

Then Kristin decided to make her...

"Hey, sorry if I'm late," came a voice that Fabula really didn't need to hear when in the midst of her nostalgia. Her head shot up and turned on her twin sister, face fighting between relief and fury. That Kristin could still be walking around after Anna had died was an unforgivable oversight that she'd have to remedy this very second. Her hand went to her lightsaber.

Then stopped short. Fabula rested that arm against a shattered marble pillar, offering a beleaguered smile at her daughter. "I'm fine," she lied. "I'm sorry. This place just...brings back some memories." Nothing but memories. Echoes from a past that she either didn't own or didn't want. She could tear down all of this by hand. That would make everything better. Kill every clone she was dead certain Petra left in stasis dozens of meters below the surface of that palace. Erase everything Petra bloody Cavataio had ever done. Maybe then she'd be-

No. That wouldn't do anything but leave her with more regret, more blood on her hands. She took a deep breath and gave a quiet sigh, then hopped her butt up onto the pillar she'd chosen as a seat. "You know, when I was little, I used to play right here. There were so many people here. I could name most of them back then, but...it's been ages." Literally. At least two galactic Eras had passed since she was that young.
[member="Fable Merrill"]

 

[Fable Merrill]

There were sometimes looks, glances that [member="Fabula Caromed"] threw her way that confused Fable - for a woman who'd given her nothing but warmth and patience, those rare sharp glances and defensive twitches stood out in her mind a great deal. Fable was intimately familiar with past trauma, and suspected that her mother's rare, odd reactions were rooted in them, but her understanding didn't stop her from a half-heartbeat of panic when Fabula's hand twitched towards her saber, only to lean against stone. It struck her as not unlike a cat that falls gracefully - but accidentally - off of a table, only to act as though the floor was where it wanted to be all along.

Like so many other things, Fable let it go and didn't think anything more of it.

That her mother used to play here made the ruinous surroundings somewhat more interesting. Fable took a second look around as her boots carried her through the overgrown grass towards the pillar, her thumbs sliding into her belt loops. "I believe it." She decided with a small smile, approaching at a casual clip to avoid crunching anything underfoot on what was now near-sacred ground. Her hip settled against the pillar her mother was sitting atop of, so Fable could share as much of the same perspective as possible... with one exception.

Fable crouched and picked a little purple wildflower that was growing amidst the rubble and high grass, smiled, and tucked it behind her ear. Accessorize. She could put it in a little vase later, to better remember this place. Folding her arms, Fable took a deep breath, then released it slowly. "The air is heavy, here." She decided, based on a feeling and a need to make conversation. "...maybe I'm just used to being on stations, though." The clone decided a moment later.

 

[Fabula Caromed]

Purple. Petra had always liked purple. She forced that onto Kristin, too, as if her sister hadn't been enough of a clone of that woman already. Fabula, as a result, was not fond of purple. She wanted nothing more than to crush that flower in her palm and then the rest beneath her foot. Nothing, perhaps, except to protect every single petal. It was a strange feeling, to hate something so viciously and yet care for it so deeply. Fortunately, Fable was there. There was nothing to hate about her. A solid contrast, to provide Fabula with perspective of her own.

"You're not wrong," Fabs responded, her tiny voice a bit flatter than usual. No warmth here. This was a planet devoid of love and light. "Scientifically there's something about moisture in the air here. I never paid much attention." The elder clone sighed and rubbed her forehead. "Metaphysically, this is the home of the Morte Clan. In Basic, 'death.' Sins weigh heavy in the air here because they are countless."

The pale woman took another deep breath, exhaled. Focus. Her golden, Dark-tainted eyes laid upon her daughter. "This isn't going to be easy, Fable, and I'm sorry for that. I'm not a saint, and after today you might not be able to look at me the same way again." She forced a rather pained smile, her eyes softening a bit. "But you're my own flesh and blood. I love you more than life itself, and you deserve to know everything."
[member="Fable Merrill"]

 

[Fable Merrill]

Fable was... skeptical. And because she was so lacking in subtlety, she just about wore it on her face as plainly as speaking it aloud. She thought the world of her mom, after all, and then some, but she knew the woman wasn't a saint. They were combative women by nature, after all. Saints didn't throw themselves into battle like they had something vile in them struggling to get out. Saint's didn't go to hell, and they both had not long ago. Fable idolized her mom for several reasons, but none of them were because she thought [member="Fabula Caromed"] to be a saint.

Fable walked a short distance away from the pillar that Fabula had decided to sit on, found a patch of grass that was relatively devoid of small stones and rubble, then flopped her behind onto it. The grass stains would wash out of her jeans, and if this was going to be a long story, then she wanted to be comfortable for it. "You can tell me whatever you want, mom." Fable promised warmly, folding her legs in such a way that if she chose to lay on her back, it'd be easy peasy. It was important to plan ahead. "I know you're not a saint. I'm not, either. So it's fine!"

She even pat the spot next to her in invitation, since sitting in the grass appealed more to Fable's backside than perching atop a stone pillar. She assumed that her mother's almost-identical backside worked the same way.

 

[Fabula Caromed]

A mother's proud, relieved smile was more powerful than any waves of guilt and pain that attempted to wash over Fabula's mind. Hopping down, the elder clone - and the only one of the two of them with the original's memories - took a seat beside her younger copy, then patted her lap. "I guess I need to start from the beginning."

Her fingers stroked through Fable's hair, nails scratching very softly over her skin in tiny patterns. "Petra Cavataio, the woman who instigated my birth, lived here since time immemorial. I don't know how old she was, or whether she was born here, or a great many things about her. But what I do know is that she was the most powerful nightsister on Dathomir long before my mother was born."

Fabula paused, then frowned. "I'm sorry, that might be...here on Dathomir, Force users are called the Daughters of Allya, or 'witches' by outsiders. Even here, the Dark Side is uncommon and unorthodox. Darkside witches are called nightsisters, and traditionally they've served a similar role to the Sith in the galactic drama of the Jedi religious war." She shifted a bit, getting more comfortable on her heels, possibly beneath Fable's head. "Even for a nightsister, though, Petra blurred the line. She was a nightsister, she was Sith, she was a sorceress and an alchemist...she was many things, and all of them were terrible."

Fabula looked to Fable, intentionally making eye contact. "And part of her is in us. You know it. You can feel it, even if you don't know how to describe it. Like an animal, clawing at your flesh from the inside, trying to get out. Or when you stand over a fallen enemy, and you have no greater wish in the whole galaxy than to crush their throat beneath your heel."
[member="Fable Merrill"]

 

[Fable Merrill]

[member="Fabula Caromed"]

Lap offered? Lap accepted. Fable let her head come to rest on her mother's ankles, the more easily look upside-down up at her and listen to the story. Head scratches were a definite plus. Once she was settled in, Fable stretched her legs out and folded one ankle over the other, her fingers entwined in a loose fashion over her navel. The very picture of comfort. Was there anything better than laying in the sun and listening to a story? Maybe that, with the addition of picnic accouterments.

She wasn't terribly surprised to learn her grandmother (mother?) was some weird sort of localized Sith lord, given the evidence. Heck, the evidence before her - her mother, despite her sweetness, clearly had some business going on with that whole Dark Side thing if her eyes were any indication. And it wasn't like Fable didn't have a constant struggle with her own unstable, unhealthy emotional outbursts. She didn't even bother to confirm that her mother was entirely correct, because they both knew it to be the truth - Fable didn't spend her working hours beating the snot out of other women, half-naked, because she only enjoyed the cheering of the sketchy crowd she was performing for. It was the sense of power, the rushing blood, the undeniable victory and conquest. It was asserting control over herself and her environment through violence, and relishing in the mixture of adoration, lust and fear that it brought from the faceless throng.

And they paid her to do it.

As much as she was a fan of the Jedi - especially the horrible movies they inspired - Fable knew she could never be one. Her power flowed from her emotions, and always had. Stoic and patient was not a natural state for her, nor were they words that often applied to her. She felt most alive in combat, regardless of why she was in combat. Anything else was just killing time and making the best of the downtime until she could find her blood thumping in her ears once more, feel her body coiling like the finely-tuned killing machine that it was. She might respect and admire Jedi, but Fable knew she'd never be one.

A nod was all that was needed to say that she understood, because Fable knew her mother had struggled and succumbed to the same urges from time to time. It was part of the reason why she didn't fault her for the defensive motions she occasionally took. When you lived to fight, sometimes you got caught up in the waiting. Like how when you're craving funnel cake so much that you swear you can smell it, even when you know there couldn't possibly be any funnel cake around you.

 

[Fabula Caromed]

Fabula brushed her fingers over the girl's face absently as she continued. "My mother - the woman we met when....the last time we were here - was Anna Sachae. She had been an engineer before Petra found her and claimed her like she claimed everything she thought was hers: violently, with blood and pain and the Force." Fabula's teeth were gritting in rage now, but only because she'd been removed from that life for long enough to have a proper perspective of it. If she'd still been Kristin's pet, none of these thoughts would have made it past the subconscious phase. She'd been far too well conditioned for that. Just the thought of Kristin and Petra almost made her vision go red. Like an abused animal, she'd been hurt for too long to allow anyone to do that to her again.

But Fable wasn't Kristin, no matter how identical they were.

"Mom was as much an angel as Petra was a devil. Oh, she did her best to appear the dutiful mother, and to be fair she probably thought she was doing exactly what was right for her children." Fabula's non-Fable hand clenched into a fist tight enough that her palm started bleeding. "But that didn't stop her from showing her disappointment when one of us turned out to not be quite the same caliber of witch as the other. It didn't stop her from letting..."

Here we go. Center yourself. "I had a twin. Kristin. I was never bright, or talented, or charming, or confident. Kristin was all of those things. It was no secret which one of us was Petra's favorite. I couldn't do magic. Kristin was a prodigy. I struggled with advanced concepts. Kristin was a genius. I was shy and withdrawn, by Cavataio standards. Kristin was the queen bee." Fabula let out a long sigh, attempting to dislodge her emotional torque before it caused an undue change in her environment. "The Cavataio family favors those who are strong enough to take what they want. And when she realized that I would never be as loved by Petra as she was, Kristin decided that my perfect loyalty and subordination was what she wanted."
[member="Fable Merrill"]

 

[Fable Merrill]

[member="Fabula Caromed"]

If her mother's momentary defensive reach for her lightsaber was as apparent to Fable as daylight, then she could only imagine how obvious her shock was to someone who did everything she did, but exponentially moreso. The momentary tightness of her shoulders, the slight widening of her eyes - especially the tension in the corners - and the grasp of her fingers. It lasted half a second, sure, but it was there. How could she not be surprised? This was like finding out that your mother had a secret twin who's name you'd been using for ages as an alias or handle whenever you needed one. In fact, it was exactly that. Whenever Fable, in her incredibly brief adult life, had needed a name that wasn't hers, she'd gone with 'Kristin'.

So this was either really creepy serendipity, or something else that she didn't really want to think about.

This wasn't a position that Fable was used to being in. Specifically, not knowing what to say while also feeling like she should say something. She keenly remembered the angelic woman who'd helped them out of hell, along with her gentle eyes and voice. That that woman, Anna Sachae, was the angelic half of a couple that were the dichotomy of good and evil in her mother's life wasn't terribly surprising. But what could she say? Perhaps 'nothing' was the best option avaliable to her, and it was a fairly tempting option to be sure.

"I wish I'd had more of a chance to meet her." Fable decided, turning her head into Fabula's touch on reflex.