The House of Parmellion

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Sailor moon, but I do claim all of these characters seeing as how I created them and they are original.

The Chronicle Saga(in order):

1. Chronicle I: Record of a Simple Life

2. Chronicle II: Those Left Behind

3. Chronicle III: The House of Parmellion

4. Chronicle IV: The First Millennium

5. Chronicle V. The Tale of Pietro & Madalena

Chapter 1: Ominous Signs

The Beginning of King Elieon's reign upon the moon, year 570

Diceto, Mars

The House of Parmellion

The Marian sun was high in the sky, reflecting heatedly off from the fracturing scales of dried clay prickling upwards from the land. The borders of the magnificent Marian estate resting in the dust were lined to the teeth with crowded hovels surrounded by fields, worked by the serfs who lived there. Within the Khanate, or fiefdom, of Diceto was a whole different world entirely. There was a shrine to Anubus on the grounds, near the main Konak where monks dressed in long flowing red robes were almost constantly at prayer to the God of violence and strife.

The Konak, house of the ruling lord, belonged to Parmellion; a chief Marian diplomat and relative of the king. It is here where his family takes up residence. Within the stone walls of this elaborate dwelling, lived the ruling Khan Parmellion himself, his wife, two daughters and his only son Raiden.

It was the growing season. Parmellion had been off on the moon for a fortnight now and had still not returned. His foreign affairs kept him, no doubt, long overdue. All the while the house of nobles was restless, but not nearly as restless as the youngest member. A son of Mars, Raiden, the only legal heir to the Khanate; a boy of only 5 winters old.

It was a long day of lessons for the young khan apparent. He had sat through many long hours with lectures being tossed at him on subjects on this or that, nothing that really made any sense to him. He paid no mind to most of his instructors and they were very often to frightened to beat him out right for his disobedience, much as other children were. At first he thought it was fear of his father, one of the most powerful men on Mars that stilled their hands, but early on he had found out the true answer. A disgruntled tutor, very much distraught by his blatant and outright disrespect for him, cried out against the boy, calling him an abomination to his house. Raiden, ever the stubborn youngster, stood up and shouted back; arguing that at least he was not a coward. The man retorted, throwing insults at the boy.

Finally, Raiden stood and the instructor was forced to step back from the intense anger in his eyes. It was then that the mentor stated quite fearfully that it was not Parmellion he and his fellow teachers feared, but Raiden himself. Within the Marian boy's dark eyes their burned and insatiable fire and for one so young to be so full of arrogant ambition was rare and eminent sign. It was not the small boy's wrath they feared, but that of the man he would be come.

There was only one mentor who commanded the attention of Raiden completely and his name was Prasutagus. He was a monk, a devote of Anubus and a philosopher. Always stoic and enigmatic was his way. The middle aged man hardly ever spoke unless he was teaching, it was simply his way. Perhaps, the young boy's most avid praise of his first teacher came not from his teachings, but from his tales, for Prasutagus was an avid story teller. He told stories of the early days of Mars. Of the wars between the tribes before the first king was forcible placed upon the throne. Of Anubus and his life on earth, living among them and then of his death at a young age and of his rise to immortality. Many of the yarns Prasutagus would weave otherwise were parables, stories intent on teaching the young boy lessons without boring him. The meanings of these fables were not lost on Raiden and he thrived.

Indeed, thanks to Prasutagus, Raiden had a head start in cognitive revere early in his life. He learned how to think like others, how to anticipate, and most of all how to win. These were valuable life lessons, ones he was not likely to soon forget. On this particular day, Prastuagus was in the process of tying up one of his fables.

"So Practis died young?" Raiden stated sitting on the red marble floor, his knees crossed in front of him. "But with great success."

Prasutagus walked to and fro before the boy, making occasional gestures with his hands as he spoke. "Yes, but at a price, Raiden. No grand gain ever comes without a loss. What was his loss, Raiden?"

The young khan monitored his teacher's movements, burning eyes finally turning to the sky where he focused on the steady streams of golden sunlight breaking holes in the Altocumulus cloud formations. Finally he turned back toward his instructor, his face as calm as it had been beforehand.

"His life and the love of those around him, but at the expense of great feats." Raiden replied.

"Correct, you are always observant and perceptive, Raiden, one of the brightest pupils I have instructed." Prasutagus stepped forward, "Do not place all of faith in your ambitions and the pursuit your personal desires. Such things destroy men. Dreams tear the otherwise reasonable apart from within. You are young yet, do not commit yourself fully to foolish aspirations. You are descended from great blood, but do not let the power of assumption delude you. Lessons for today are concluded, you may go about your business."

Raiden's eyes narrowed, but he nodded in agreement and stood. Without delay he descended the steps of the shrine and walked the almost nonexistent to his family's konak. Silently he entered, through the kitchen. It was midday and his sisters, Polyxena and Caria, were preparing the afternoon meal; a traditional stew and bread.

Raiden leaned stealthily against the wall, feeling no incline to help, only to watch the development of greens and red meats. Why should he help? It was below him. The ways of his people dictated that the men were the masters, the soldiers, and the leaders. The women served, birthed, and endured their lot in life. He would one day be the master of these grounds and his sisters would manage the domestic aspects of it. He knew them, his sisters, they were harpies. Stubborn mules, who although beautiful, were wild and untamed, against following the laws of a child brother half their age. Though they would not like it, they would follow this life. It was not theirs to protest, it was for the good of the state. But for now they were elder and a force to be obeyed and reckoned with if slighted.

Caria was busy adding chopped vegetables and herbs to the cauldron over the fire and turning the game meat on the spit, to notice her brother's entrance, but Polyxena's violet caught sight of him as he stepped closer.

"Why do you stand so idle?" Polyxena asked, lavender eyes landing on him as she finished seasoning a piece of raw meat. She then pulled out a knife and in a measure of skill sliced the meat into chunks of edible brawn to be thrown into the pot. Wiping her hands clean on a towel slung over her shoulder, she turned to a clay bowl in the corner where a dollop of dough had risen over its potted barrier. As she pulled the bowl over beside her, her eyes again turned to her brother. "Why do you still stand here? Mother has asked for you. She is on the terrace."

Raiden nodded and stepped away from the wall, entering the adjoining corridor. The essence of jasmine and incense, his mother's chosen perfumes, haunted the foyer in her wake. The wall torches had been extinguished, for there was no need for firelight in the day as opposed to the garish dark of night. He came to the entryway and was again greeted by the supreme heat of the afternoon.

Danae was seated before the marble railing of the balcony, her great green eyes taking in the landscape and the surrounding homes, in which many of their forced laborers lived. Where their wives were no doubt preparing meager meals to feed their children and husbands still at work in the fields or bush. She was a dignified woman, regal in her bearing, the perfect standard of what a Marian wife should be. She sat, in he red gown, watching life unfold on the outside of our tiny internal world. She regarded the women , spreading the wheat seed over out fields, and the infant toddlers, who were too small even for 'specialized labor'; strapped to their backs in baskets. The men, manning plows pulled by oxen ready to till the soil.

Raiden approached his mother's side. He need not announce himself to her, for he knew she had noticed his presence almost as soon as he entered. Her emerald eyes, so much like those of a poised serpent, monitored the horizon and narrowed while falling upon some of the younger workers whom she had been monitoring in growth almost since they were infants. A mother's main priority is the well being of her children and, in this case, of her land. The young khan took a seat beside her quietly.

"Am I so old, Raiden?" She asked turning her unwavering gaze to him. "I have lived my years on this khanate, watching more than a generation live and die. Now the dying are replaced by their children, ready to take up their work in the fields just as my children will some day replace me. Tell me, my son, Am I so aged as to be replaced so quickly?"

Raiden gently reached over and took his mother's hand, placing a reverent kiss on the smooth tanned skin. "You will always be the first in my eyes mother, a great shining star not to be outdone by any other, forever eternal, forever immortal."

Danae's lips curved into an enigmatic smile, "Why have you come to me this day, my son?"

"Polyxena told me you sent for me." Raiden stated letting go of his mother's hand and sitting back in the iron seat leisurely.

Danae's eyes twinkled and her smile grew and the mystery, began. The Lady of Diceto, as she was called, always spoke in riddles when with her son never revealing the underlying meaning, allowing him to figure it out for himself. "Look." She pointed to a laurel tree nearby.

Raiden inspected the bark on his own, it was light brown and frazzled from the baking heat, but there resting in its boughs was a large black serpent, sunning itself on a supportive branch. In Marian legend, it was a black serpent who caused the eventual death of the mortal Anubus, but the snake's deadly poison, a double edged blade; being the end of his mortal life furthered his eternal renewal in the afterlife. Ironic, the great war monger who could never be bested by any enemy or rival, was killed by something so small as a black snake.

"What do you see, Raiden?" Danae asked observing every movement of her son's face and eyes.

"The serpent." Raiden replied clearly.

"The black serpent." His mother emphasized. "Serpents, they are like people, in their behavior. You can approach one as cautiously as possible, but still they are suspicious of you. You step closer and still they do not strike, and you become bolder. Then when your confidence in high, they strike, wounding you beyond all repair; as people do."

Raiden nodded. "I am always careful, mother. A predator can mistake me for its prey and hunt me, but when the opportunity arises, I will become the predator."

The obscure smile radiated from Diane. "Cautious, not eager. Much as you should be. Be weary, my son, do not attack too soon, nothing will come of it. You will be great one day, young one. We are descended from the great Anubus, the route of strength and divinity in this land, I know you will cause his blood to swell with pride."

Raiden nodded and stood. His mother motioned that nothing more need be said, and he departed racing down the corridor. He stumbled through the foyer and out the front door, fumbling with the straps of his sandals and over tunic as he confronted the immense heat.

He ran out of the house, his bare feet connecting with the hard, heat parched dirt of the ground. The rays of the Marian sun burnt the ends of his short ebony haired head and bare, sun smoldered back. To children born on most other planets, conditions such as these would seem intolerable, inducing much whining and crying; but Raiden was a Marian youth and to him the Gods could not fashion better days. All around him were smaller houses of mud brick, baked and cracking, blurring by as he ran passed. Their families were out toiling in the heat, bending over and picking crops growing in their fields as well as tilling the soil to ready it for some other type of crop.

Some workers even fell over from exhaustion and the heat, but they were not down on the ground long before an armed guard, spear in hand; escorting a water bearer came to their relief and they were up on their feet again and if they were not, then the fiefdom would have one less mouth to feed. The small children were too young to be of any use for hard labor yet and so they were escorted outside the borders of Diceto every morning to pick berries and indigenous roots that grew nearby, returning daily well past the dark of night, sullied and grungy. 'Specialized labor' the process was called. Indeed, a fief's life was not favored upon Mars, at least not under its feudal system of ruling khanates.

Raiden ran hard, crossing over the scorching land without any reserve nor care to the pain. In fact, he relished in his tolerance of it. As if, it somehow made him extraordinary. He was extraordinary, he thought, powerfully different than everyone. Than his cousin the king, than even his father. Yes he was different. As his lungs filled with the searing essence of humid air and his legs gained speed beneath him despite the pain and the aches in his muscles, he somehow knew. To be great, it was written in his destiny and nothing would ever change that. He would be a Khan one day, and the most ruthless to live. He would make the helot families who worked for him tremble in their fields.

He would be a warrior, the greatest. He would lay down his legacy in the history books of his people and no one, not a king, not a man nor any God could ever be powerful enough to begrudge him that.

Though this was what he wanted, running over the rough terrain of his ancestral home, he knew that this greatness would not be enough. He wanted more.

And not one day of his life did the fates intervene. Not one day did destiny reach out and keep him from achieving his ambitions. Time never stopped, never told him what he could not have. Spirits stirred and went in the Galaxy Cauldron. They whispered, oh yes they talked of him, but they made no move to prevent his eventual succession. The Nine, greatest of all immortal beings, did not rouse their spirits from their eternal slumber to warn mortal men of the scourge which would befall them. Raiden wanted more and he had it.

Author's Note: The House of Parmellion is modeled somewhat after the House of Atreus in a way that it has a history of violence that befalls everyone in the house and leads to its eventual decline as a result of a curse. These types of characters are of course hard to work with. Because of their characterizations swing so much one way, aka the evil side, so it is hard to give them real depth and this will be a challenge, but I think it can be done. Regardless, tell me what you think. R & R!