He always enjoyed the sense of history that came with the feel of the stiff parchment paper. No one really used paper anymore; it was more environmental and economical to just use data pads. Nevertheless, if one knew where to look and could afford the expensive frivolity there were a few places that still sold durasheets.
Firmus Piett always enjoyed the way it felt beneath his fingers, its fresh scent it carried and its sense of agelessness. Very rarely did he use it, usually only indulging when he felt the urge to tamper with poetry or prose. Though he was only too aware of how atrocious he was at such elegant writings it felt good to put his thoughts to paper, real paper.
Tonight he wrote for another reason entirely. His long fingers shook as the elegant, yet simple pen -another expensive relic- gently scratched the thick paper. Knowing Ellé loved and appreciated the old traditions almost made writing feel sacred.
Though Dormé once captivated him -what man could resist her beauty or charm? It was his friend Ellé who truly held his heart. Piett would never forget that fateful day she asked him out on their first date. He could still see her shy, sweet smile, and hear the musical sound of her laughter.
Do you enjoy music commander?
He smiled to the memory. He never would have guessed just how nervous Ellé had been when she presented her invitation, or that it was Dormé who gave her the courage to approach him. However, he would never forget the way her fingers felt when they first brushed against his own. How the blush that came to her bronzed coloured skin always made her look so radiant.
It had been over ten years since they first met. Yet only now in these recent months were they able to accept just how deep their feelings went. Ellé was more than just a confident and friend, she had become his beloved.
Though Piett loved poetry and the aged verses of old music, the commander could never fully express himself in a way that was either beautiful or even elegant. For this reason, he chose to write Ellé a letter over the epic poems he had always wanted to write.
As he wrote the aria of a famous Naboo symphony played softly in the background. Its notes calmed a little of his nerves enabling his thoughts to free themselves from the doubts that normally plagued him. On his right side rested a small box that contained the dream he knew they both shared. Though they had only begun, courting Fermus knew Ellé was as ready for marriage as he was. After ten years of denying their love for the sake of duty it was no surprise that they would want to catch up on lost time.
With great care, he began his message to Ellé. The pen moved with ease as he wrote in the native language that Ellé spoke. Though he was fluent in many languages Piett always felt that the dialect Ellé spoke was by far the most beautiful. With a hint of a smile, he wrote of the future he sought to share with her. Little did he know that tonight would make the end of his own.
Quietly the door to his private chambers parted permitting a lone figure to enter. Lost to his peaceful thoughts Piett continued to write unaware of the threat that was rapidly approaching. The symphony that had once been meant to sooth his thoughts, now masked the assassin's steps.
Suddenly a sharp pain hit his body causing Piett to gasp in shock. Stunned by the pain his eyes fell to his chest revealing the blade of a well-crafted wakazashi. The emblem on the blade was crimson with blood-his blood-but revealed that its owner once served in queen Amidala's entourage.
He swallowed hard while attempting to clear his thoughts, to think of some sort of reaction-a means of warning Ellé. But the pain was too great leaving his thoughts to scatter while his eyes took in the barely visible creases of the blade's folds. Vibrant drops of red splashed against the off-white parchment, intermingling with the onyx ink. Its beauty wasn't missed, yet it was entirely wrong.
"This is for Soren!" An accented voice hissed in his ears. A distant part of him recognized it to be Saché, an imperial officer who worked in security. Her commander and lover Soren Typho had recently been exposed as a double agent to the rebels. Saché had executed him personally mere days ago. In another time, another place Piett would have cursed himself for never questioning her loyalties. Now he just cursed himself for not being able to protect Ellé from this unexpected threat.
The woman swiftly removed the blade with ease, causing his body to fall limp back into his chair. It was a clean wound, a perfect cut straight into the center of his heart's right valve. To Firmus fading thoughts it seemed as though Saché was there one moment, the next she was gone.
Coughing up blood the commander felt his body growing cold, while his sight grew dim. His fading senses picked up the sound of footsteps approaching and though it sounded a million light years away he could hear Ellé's stifled cry, and the pained whisper of her voice speaking his name. Her fingers so warm and gentle soon cupped his cheeks while soft tears splashed against his pale flesh.
"I'm sorry--Saché--betrayed---" he began softly. It was hard to speak, and was even more difficult to form a coherent thought. He wanted to tell her to run, to get away, to warn Lord Vader of the threat, if only he could remember. Only one thing remained clear to him, it was his time to depart.
"Dearest Ellé--I'm sorry--But I must go--" Piett murmured, his voice barely audible to even his own ears.
"I'm sorry too." Her voice was equally distant and soft, but filled with all the love she held. Soon her gentle lips met his own; a final kiss shared. There was no need for beautiful poetry or flowery words of love, for their kiss said all that needed to be said. As their drew to an end he smiled at her before breathing his final breath and returning to the realms of harmony; leaving in his wake the promise of a fairytale future that was never meant to be.