Private Ulysses | Renascent Republic

[Natasi Fortan]

The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
​

Natasi's recuperation from her ordeal at Ukatis had not so much given her the time for introspection as forced it upon her. She had retired to Suffolk House, on the warm, eastern edge of the Sea of Pallas on Aegis, to the seat of her would-be husband's duchy. The title of Suffolk House belied its true nature; it was more a small palace than a house, and its beauty belied its true nature as a fortress. Dyrn had seen to it that any place Natasi might have laid her head was nigh impenetrable, so that even when he was regrettably away from her, he could be reasonably certain that she would come to no harm.

He was rightly furious about her injuries, and Natasi suspected that she was more sinning than sinned against in his estimation of the situation. Her duties to the Renascent Republic, as its Supreme Leader and as its Senator, had caused her to put herself in danger more than she would have liked, and certainly any danger at all was more than Dyrn would like. Perhaps she ought to have expected the barbarity of the Mandalorians. There was a saying about old dogs and new tricks and it was doubly true for Mandalorians, it seemed.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.​

Natasi shut the lid on her dispatch box, pressing the back end of her pen against her chin. She was in rather a black mood, and despite a myriad of reasons why that could be -- her son's rejection and subsequent choice to stay in the Netherworld, her daughter's seething hatred for her, her fiancé's absence, yet another galactic conflagration -- she couldn't quite put a finger on why. Though her injuries had been mended as best modern medical science could achieve, her bones still ached when the barometer changed. She capped her pen and set it down, pushed her chair back, and leaving behind the red dispatch box and cold dregs of tea, stood.

Wrapping herself in the black-and-gold pashmina shawl that she had draped over the back of her chair, she relished the warmth it offered. An old Galidraani, she took comfort in the cool of the mornings here at Suffolk House. With the sea so close, the house would be shrouded in cool fog until midday at least. Her fingers pulled the shawl tighter around her frame as she strolled out onto the balcony. It was truly beautiful here; there were moments when she could envision herself staying here with Dyrn forever, never again returning to the filthy ecumenopolis of Coruscant. The city was oppressive -- dangerous. When she was there she felt the eyes of the Strategic Intelligence Agency on her every moment. There was nothing she could do to convince them that she meant no harm --

Her knuckles ached and she realized she had been clenching her hands painfully. Relaxing her grip she decided on a turn in the gardens. Everything looked better after a walk in the gardens, hadn't her mother always said that? Natasi found that she couldn't quite remember.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. ​

In the hall she was greeted by the butler, who bowed and murmured a Your Majesty. Natasi nodded a return greeting. "I'll be in the garden for awhile, if you need me," she told him. The butler -- not a patch on old Hendersmith, but that kind of service took generations to build up -- nodded. "Very good, ma'am." Natasi could sense something from him, something not quite surprise, not quite incredulity. He doubted whether anyone would come calling for her. Internally, Natasi smirked; he was right, of course. For all her grand titles -- Supreme Leader indeed -- her relevance to affairs was minimal. Prime Minister Renata Westaway was ably guiding the Renascent Republic according to the ideals that she and Natasi had discussed years ago. Doctor Westaway, with her feet planted in the real world, without the layers of deference and privilege, was much more well-suited to direct leadership.

Natasi did not begrudge her that, and yet --

Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are​

Emerging into the dim morning sun, blunted by the cool marine layer, Natasi considered this. She had never been one to thrust herself into the action. Her way was to be above the physical fray, and the fact that almost every time she was involved in some kind of combat she came out the worse for it suggested that her instincts were right. It may have seemed snobbish, elitist, or cowardice. Natasi knew better, and she was coming to a point where she didn't care if others knew it. But there was a point, she had to concede, where the appearance of being ridiculous could inhibit the very real work one was attempting to do.

She paused in her stroll along a large flower bed and bent to cup a bloom to her face. One of the species of wildflower from Oetrago, she had cultivated as a pleasant reminder of the time she and Dyrn had spent there together. It smelled something like honeysuckle and jasmine. Natasi sighed and plucked the bloom, then stood and continued along the walk.

Her dark eyes glanced back to the house. She wished Dyrn were there. A sounding board might have been helpful then. The Prime Minister was due after luncheon; that might work as well.

One equal temper of heroic hearts
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.​