Private The Pale Grave

[Corazona von Ascania]

Horace von Cholmondeley III ​

Fear wasn't exactly the right word. Apprehension, maybe. Cora was never good at pinning down her own feelings—but she was good at hiding them behind a demure, courtly facade.

She was a far cry from the energetic, talkative, and opinionated young woman the Jedi had come to know.

The wedding had taken place yesterday; the ceremony austere, almost somber. At one point, her gaze had unfocused over Horace's shoulder and to the nearest high window in the chapel. No beams of sun had dared to streak through the stained glass. Most brides would've been upset at such overcast weather for her special day, but Cora hadn't cared less. In fact, she thought the sky was fitting.

She'd rather not reflect on her wedding night.

The day after, Horace had summoned her to his chambers.

Perhaps she should've hurried to her new husband's side, but Cora moved with a slow, methodical pace down the corridor. Servants who bustled past were quick to duck out of the Princess' path, but the authority she carried did not stop them from stealing curious glances at her back.

Cora still felt them. Or rather, she imagined that she could. Two fingers idly played with the opulent wedding band she'd been gifted, an unrefined nervous habit. It was strange—since yesterday, she couldn't feel the Force as readily as usual. It was as if a sheet of thick glass had disconnected her from the esoteric power she'd become so accustomed to feeling. Like another part of her had been constricted along with her freedom.

She'd would've chalked it up to nerves, but event the most anxiety-riddled moments had never dampened her connection.

Cora came to a stop at a pair of high, ornately carved doors, flanked on either side by a member of the royal guard. A moment of baited silence passed between them before they reached out in unison, easing the doors open for her.

As she stepped past the threshold, Cora would hear the creak of the door hinges before the solid thump of them closing.

The Jedi in her had faced Sith Lords well beyond her own ability. She'd felt the ground of Exegol as it shuddered and cracked beneath her feet, the planet heaving its last breath underneath an onslaught of Light. She'd breathed in fire and smoke and the metallic scent of blood, slain monsters and beasts and pirates.

She'd been scared all of those times, of course. But she had stood and fought. In some cases, she'd even won. But she had always fought.

Now, her strength had been sapped by duty. Her wings clipped, her soul chained to the whims of the man who was standing with his back to her.

In a way, Cora was disgusted with herself.

Head cast downward, fingers laced together, she addressed Prince Horace in an even tone.

"You wished to see me, husband?"

 

[Horace von Cholmondeley III]

Horace felt accomplished and validated, as he stood in the lavishness of his personal quarters nearer the window.

The wedding had been a success, those in attendance had entertained and impressed with the splendor of it all like the subjects they were, and the bride had been suitably well-behaved and subservient. It seemed that, despite all the mewling and protest from Corazona and her brood of Jedi, they were unable to stop the continuation of Ukatis tradition - as was the expectation, of course.

Truly, for the Alliance and its self-righteous gaggle of Force monks to believe they had any control over Horace's desires was ludicrous.

Fools, all of them.

Nonetheless, Horace had won. He always did. That was the difference between a rightful royal and a... well, peasant. And in every way, the Jedi were peasants, incapable of doing anything other than attacking worlds with glowing swords and trying to impose their will on others through force - to which Horace chuckled at the thought, his pun - and violence.

Yet, Horace had won.

"The Princess arrives, your grace."

Horace turned to look toward the door, his radiance in the sunlight obvious, as he awaited the lady Corazona. He wore silken pants, with a robe that covered his shoulders and back, leaving his muscled chest and torso free for his wife's gaze. She would certainly enjoy seeing him, relishing his appearance. He glanced down to the desk at his side, as he chuckled to himself, and tapped some paper there.

"Send my dear wife in," Horace said simply, as he glanced to the comely servant. "And see yourself out."

The maid nodded, then opened the door to admit the other, before she stepped out and closed it.

Corazona presented herself.

"Welcome, wife," Horace said with a smile, as he remained where he was. He lifted his hand, fingers held expectantly that she would approach and take them. "I trust you are feeling radiant on the morning of our wedding?"

The answer would be obvious.

Of course she did.

Horace waited, then offered a small kiss to Corazona's cheek, as she - undoubtedly - crossed the room to join him. He continued to smile. He looked his wife up and down, somewhat proud of the pairing, however...

"And you are correct, I do wish to speak with you."

Horace remained smiling.

"Our evening was pleasant, I enjoyed our time together, especially in my suite... yet, I feel honesty and truthfulness is the bedrock of a good marriage, and I feel that our nights together could be made more efficient. For both of us."

Without pause, Horace slid the paper across the desk toward Corazona, which listed several points for her consideration.

"Now that I have shared what I feel is important for you to do, it is only fair that I listen to what you wish to share with me. What truths or honesty should I hear, darling wife?"

Horace leveled his blue stare at the other...

Corazona von Ascania​

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

Cora lifted her gaze, then paused. She blushed for the sight, and for perhaps the surprise, of Horace's bare chest.

Accordingly, she approached and slipped her hand delicately into into his. Her face flushed again, and Horace would feel the heat radiating where he brushed his lips against her cheek.

His smile unnerved her. Horace was a perfect gentleman in the public eye, but dark rumors still simmered beneath the surface. Servants whispered. Cora had been exposed to the Prince's cruel nature even before their wedding; first during their engagement party, then after in private.

She offered him a smile of her own, hollow and tired. Young as the new Princess was, Cora now understood that she had to be demure by necessity in order to appease her ill-tempered husband. How long she could maintain that was anyone's guess.

Efficient?

Confusion crinkled her brow, her expression of concern deepening as Horace presented a paper.

The demands started out fairly benign, if odd. How to wear her hair. Were to stand in relation to him when they were in public.

Then his requests became…interesting.

"Arch my back more…? What does that-"

Bewilderment slowly morphed into shock, which turned into bashful understanding. Behind the paper, Cora's cheeks burned brightly against pale features. She couldn't even bring herself to read the remaining bullet points, all of which had become progressively more…coarse.

Clearing her throat, Cora neatly folded the paper in half and pinned on a smile.

"Thank you, dear husband, for bringing these to my attention. I will endeavor to incorporate your…notions into our routine."

They were not suggestions.

"You have been suitably generous with me, my Prince. I cannot fathom any way in which you could improve."

Cora bowed her head briefly, recalling the way his attention and slid up and down her form with disgust.

I'd request that you never touch me again.

A measure of silence lapsed between them, the crackling of the fireplace in the corner serving as a backdrop of white noise.

Ukatis was a temperate world, tending to skew on the colder side. They were in the transition of the winter months into spring, and so a chill still clung to the morning air.

Cora's gaze swept from her husband to the fire. She observed the glowing embers for a few quiet moments, aware that the planting season would already be in full swing back home. Hopefully the harvests would be bountiful this year, a change from the poor crops that plagues Ascania farming territory for the past decade.

Blue eyes followed a wisp of ash as it drifted from the sizzling wood and heated coals, up to the mantle before its brilliance dimmed. Her gaze stopped there, an expression of jarred surprise flaring her aristocratic features.

"My Prince…" Cora began, taking a moment to ensure that her voice was level, but she could not entirely wring the stunned displeasure from her tone. "…may I ask, why is my lightsaber in your chambers?"

Above the fireplace, mounted on the center of the mantle was her lightsaber hilt. A weapon that was subtly yet wholly unique to each Jedi. She'd spent a painstaking amount of hours constructing her blade, memorized each component that encircled, encased and focused the kyber crystal that had chosen her as its weirder.

She had not presented the saber to him. It had been carefully tucked away with her things.

The pit of her stomach welled not only in dread, but in a growing wave of irritation. For now, she kept such unrefined expressions from taking shape on her face.

Horace von Cholmondeley III

 

[Horace von Cholmondeley III]

Horace smiled as the letter was read, with a portion or two aloud. He was glad to have such an open and honest start to things, it certainly made it easier - he felt - to be upfront and straightforward about improvements to the dynamic. After all, the pair had been thrust into a whirlwind of a ceremony, with barely any time to get to know one another.

It was understandable that, as far as Horace was concerned, there needed to be some catch up.

Still.

"I am glad my expectations are well-met, and I am willing to consider your own, of course," Horace said with a smile, as he turned and followed Corazona's gaze to the fireplace. "Ah, yes... I felt that, since your departure from the Jedi Order officially to serve as Princess of Ukatis, that you had no real need to hold onto the item."

Horace slowly walked over to the fireplace and lifted a hand, as he touched the lightsaber grip.

"So, rather than allow it to fall into some obscure cupboard or drawer, as you undoubtedly intended to do, in order to forget that past... I instead thought it more appropriate to celebrate the achievements of my once-Jedi wife, and to display it proudly, for when you or others visit my quarters."

From his spot near the fireplace, Horace grunted to himself as he thought, before he turned and looked back to the Princess.

"So, am I to assume that, beyond having no expectations, that you also have nothing to share with me, Corazona?"

Horace raised his eyebrows.

"Nothing at all?"

There was silence from the Prince, as he waited, though he suspected his darling wife would remain quiet or ignorant... such was the shame, really, as there had been a moment for Corazona to come clean, as it were. Especially when it came to that marring of her skin, the small little inked blot on her hip, which had been immediately seen and recognized for what it was.

"Allow me to reveal some simple truths to you, dear wife, so that we might approach this subject together with full understanding," Horace said with a saddened sigh, as he reached down and began to stoke the fire with a fire poker. "You have been married into a family and legacy far greater than your own, you have been made royalty by arrangement and decree, and you now reflect and uphold the von Cholmondeley name."

Horace glanced over his shoulder to Corazona.

"As do I, as does my father, and so on."

The Prince looked back into the fire, as he smiled to himself, though his blue eyes were filled with reflective flame.

"As such, it saddens me to have witnessed your display of... what, rebellion? Disagreement? Dissent? The attempt to undermine my family with your permanent body marking, you know of the one I speak--"

Horace suddenly turned, as he gripped the fire poker and pointed it at the Princess.

"--the one on your hip. Did you think I would not see it? You are fortunate no one else has, at least not in this palace, as that would force me to public action for this disrespect I am now faced with. So, now I must deal with this, here and now.

"You will have the marking removed, discreetly, tomorrow."

Horace looked to the end of the poker, which was glowing orange-hot, as he shook his head.

"Or... I will remove it myself, now."

Corazona von Ascania​

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

Horace von Cholmondeley III
​

The absolute audacity.

Horace may have been her husband and her Prince, but that did not give him license to rifle through Cora's possessions.

Or maybe it did.

Horace had a polite manner of speaking, as all members of Ukatian nobility did. Refined and pleasant even when discussing the harshest of details. That did not lesson the strength of each word as they fell upon her like blows to her rib cage, pummeling the air from her lungs by the sheer arrogance of his behavior.

Once-Jedi.

That one seeped into marrow of her bones. A flash of anger touched her eyes, swelling in the Force through even her dampened connection. Cora's rage abated as quickly as it came, tucked into the corner of her mind for now. Here, beholden to the rules that had shaped her from birth, a strong display of emotion would only be used against her.

Cora drew in a steadying breath.

"My Prince, that lightsaber is a dangerous weapon."

Her tone was even, but there was a measure of firmness to it. An underlaying authority that was careful not to undermine her husband, but teetered precariously close to the edge of doing so.

"I've spent many hours learning how to wield that blade properly, and if it were to fall into the wrong hands, it could put everyone in the palace—including my dear husband—in danger. Perhaps it is best if my lightsaber, which was crafted by my own hands, resides in my chamber."

A cordial smile settled onto her soft features as silence drifted between them.

Go to hell.

Cora had nothing more to say to Horace. The Princess was on the verge of requesting her leave when she caught the rise of his eyebrows.

"Nothing at all?"

He was trying to lead her somewhere, but Cora couldn't tell where.

Cora watched her husband as he turned back to the fire, and, with pretty words, insulted her family. Something seemed to weigh on him, and she couldn't help but wonder what the end to these simple truths would be. His family. His legacy.

The ink on her skin that undermined it all in a small but poignant act of rebellion.

Suddenly, Cora understood. Her hands had been clasped together in front of her, and now they clung to each other tightly. The sound of metal shifted through braille rock. A fist of anxiety wrapped around her chest, squeezing the breath from her. Her shoulders stiffened, her eyes widened.

She was staring down the red-hot end of a fire poker, freshly glowing from where it had stoked the coals.

In an act of rebellion against what she deemed to be her fate, Cora had defied tradition and acquired a tattoo. Etched into the skin along her right hip in clean black lines was the shattered crest of House Cholmondeley. It was a decision borne out of frustration for her situation, the teenage urge to rebel, and the passion that linked her and Makko Vyres together. He'd supported her decision, and Cora blindly refused to think of the fallout that was currently pointed towards her, burning brightly with threat.

"I would never disrespect you in public, Horace."

Anticipatory fear coiled in her stomach as she addressed him directly. Cora knew that she had done wrong in his eyes, but her will to retain at least a modicum of autonomy gave her the fighting strength to keep her head above the raging waters of tradition and submission as they tried to drown her. Every step she took had been for her people, for her family; the tattoo was something just for her.

She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze steadily.

"It has been placed in a position where no one will see it, aside from myself and you."

The intentions of the marking were clear. Inhaling slowly, Cora breathed in her own adrenaline and stepped forward. Closer to the iron rod between them, suffused with heat that could be felt this close.

"If it displeases you, My Prince…"


"…simply avert your gaze."

 

[Horace von Cholmondeley III]

Horace glanced to the lightsaber and shrugged.

"I feel I am more than capable of caring for the item," he said with a bored glance back to Corazona. "I have seen numerous Jedi, with my own eyes, who are far less capable or responsible than myself... I am certain it will be fine. I will care for it, like I care for you - studiously."

Yet, that wasn't the biggest concern the Prince had, as he listened to the words from his wife's lips, as she spoke of public disrespect. He then raised an eyebrow as she mentioned who would see it, and then told him to avert his gaze. That woke a fire deep within Horace, as he turned to look back at the fire, a moment taken to determine how he best wanted to proceed, yet... the die had been cast, Corazona had challenged him, directly, and that could not be ignored.

"So... you admit that you would disrespect me in private, then?" Horace muttered. "Very well. Consider your assistants and handmaidens replaced and now directly reporting to myself. If they utter a word of disrespect from your mouth, I will see to it that your siblings feel the punishment for every syllable."

Horace turned and stalked toward Corazona, with the fire poker in hand, as he essentially jumped atop her and pressed her still with his weight--

"And remember this as a moment when I tried to be kind, and you spat it back in my face, dear wife."

--and with a sneer, the prince jammed the tip of the poker onto the place where the tattoo was. He held it firm, burning through whatever else might have been in the way, until he was certain the skin was sizzled and the marking ruined - if not outright burned away.

The smell reached his nose, to which Horace shrugged and felt no revulsion. He leaned close and whispered:

"I do not back down from opposition, Corazona. Ever. And I do whatever I must to overcome it... do not make the mistake of being on the wrong side of me again, because I am willing to see this work, if only because of obligation and expectation."

Horace then stepped back and gave Corazona space, as he suspected she would move to leave or try something untoward. But, leaving the option open was not a plan for Horace, as he pointed with the poker toward the door--

"Leave. Or I will have the guards drag you back to your chambers."

--and as if to emphasize the point, the doors across the room opened, and several guards stood waiting.

Corazona von Ascania​

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

Naive as she was, Cora had not deluded herself into believing that marriage equated love. If anything, their union was more akin to a business deal. The Ascania family's name would be elevated and their people cared for, while the crown received a well-bred, youthful bride with characteristics that would be deeply desired in the heirs she would produce.

Namely, her force sensitivity. Yet to Horace, it was becoming glaringly obvious that his wife had less than desirable traits. Traits he would seek to stamp out before they could threaten his eventual reign as Ukatis' sovereign.

Studiously?

Cora's brow crinkled. Adrenaline had made her bold, but it also made her anxious. She knew that Horace wouldn't be happy to see how she'd marked her skin—however privately—but she failed to imagine just how far he would go to make his displeasure clear.

“If they utter a word of disrespect from your mouth, I will see to it that your siblings feel the punishment for every syllable."

He'd made his displeasure for the Jedi clear enough, but the insults he'd thrown towards her former comrades were not nearly as grating as the threat towards her family.

The Princess stiffened. A second shot of adrenaline surged through her, tingling every nerve to attention as her eyes flared in alarm. The seven younger siblings she'd left behind were precious to her, and Cora would protect their wellbeing with her own life. Rejecting the marriage proposal would’ve reflected poorly on her family, but she hadn't thought Horace so undignified as to directly threaten her brothers and sisters.

Jaw clenched, fingers curled into the skirt of her dress, Cora only managed to utter a single syllable—

"You-"

—before Horace suddenly forced her to the ground, pinning her beneath him with his weight.

Memories of the previous night shocked her into becoming still. The ache in her core, the exhaustion from their lengthly wedding celebrations had dulled her reaction time. For a frantic moment she wondered if her husband would strangle her, but she caught the glowing orange tip of the fire poker as it moved from her field of vision. When Cora realized what was on the verge of happening, she squirmed desperately against Horace's hold.

The next battery of sensations were decidedly new for Cora. The mingling scents of singed fabric and burning flesh, the terrible searing pain concentrated at one very specific area on her right hip. Horace, lingering above her with a sneer of disgust that made her stomach turn.

Cora did not want to give him the satisfaction seeing her in pain, but the agony was too much to bear. Her lips had been clamped shut, but now they trembled. Tears that had beaded along her lash line now cut fresh paths through the powder and rouge on her cheeks. Horace's words, vile and stern, brushed against her ears as he drew unnervingly close to her.

The Princess could not hear her own cries of anguish as she struggled to throw Horace and the poker from her body. Her voice was simply white noise, lost in a sea of gruesome sensations. One hand braced against her husband's shoulder in an attempt to push him away, while the other grasped desperately at the short fibers of the carpet beneath her.

By the time Horace had stepped back, Cora was an ungraceful heap of pretty fabric and misery on the floor.

Perhaps she would have stayed there for longer than the few moments Horace had allowed, if the doors did not open to reveal a trio of royal guards. Cora forced herself to move, still reeling from the utter cruelty of her husband and the unrepentant wave of shame and humiliation that swept through her.

Cheeks flaming in embarrassment, she grunted softly while slowly clambering upwards, using the bedpost near her head as leverage to lean her weight against. Even when righted, Cora was quivering and bent at the waist, a hand cradling the area just above where she'd been burned.

Mutilated.

Nausea rocked her exhausted body, ushering slow, careful steps from the Princess as she dragged herself across the room. Even in the wake of punishment, Cora would cling to every modicum of dignity that Horace hadn't burned away.

Eyes were on her. She could feel them. Cora's jaw tensed; she wanted to disappear.

Finally standing at the threshold of the doorway, she paused and craned her head toward Horace. There were a hundred things she wanted to say. A thousand things she wanted to do.

Monster. Coward. Ogre.

A dark thought began as a spark in her mind, a delicious distraction from the pain. How much effort would it take to call her lightsaber to her, and carve out his heart with the sizzling blue blade?

A wave of fresh pain, sharp and stinging, rolled through her and Cora winced. It wiped away the unseemly thoughts and set her on a more practical path; self preservation and protection. If she lobbed so much as an insult at him now, who knows what he'd do to her family?

With teeth pressed tightly against her lower lip, Cora focused her remaining energy into holding her head high as she brushed past the guards, stumbling out into the hall and towards her chambers.

She may not have liked this game, but she'd at least learned the rules.

Horace von Cholmondeley III