Chapter Text
damnatio memoriae — condemnation of memory (the removal of a person from all official accounts)
The invitation was engraved onto a thin strip of gold-plated metal, encased in a box of buttery wood with dark geometric patterns inlaid on its lid. The aurebesh that marched down the metallic strip had been rendered in an elegant script, the normally blocky ligatures transformed into swooping lines and delicate curves. It was a summons to join his Imperial Majesty at a small, private gathering in his inner sanctum in the heart of the Imperial Palace. In a distinguished career in the Imperial Military that stretched over two decades, Thrawn had only received a summons like this one twice before.
The invitation did not extend to his aides or personal assistants. Bodyguards and weapons were expressly forbidden. When Thrawn arrived, alone, at the first checkpoint, he presented the invitation to a white-robed attendant who examined it with a sour expression and placed it on a side table with a row of other long, thin boxes.
The attendant waved him through the first door. Thrawn could feel the hum of a security scan as he walked through a narrow chamber and into the next checkpoint, where he was scanned again by security droids. He acquired an escort: a pair of Crimson Guards. In their helmets, they were even less expressive than droids, flanking him on either side as they led him through a series of winding corridors.
The thick red carpet on the floor muffled the sound of their footsteps. The walls, paneled in dark wood, were bare. Every turn was marked by a plinth supporting a large faceted crystal formation. The crystals were translucent, their glasslike facets tinged shades of light blue and green, and they varied in size, with some nearly as tall as he was.
Their destination, behind a heavy, reinforced door of stained black wood, was a large, circular room. The curving walls were covered with panels of black stone, carved with bas-relief images that Thrawn wished he could study in detail. Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out abstracted figures grappling with each other, cities, strange animals, and celestial events. He thought perhaps that the panel at the far end of the room depicted a scene from a battle, but he couldn’t be certain. It would have given the room a cave-like feeling, if not for the high domed ceiling. A series of small alcoves had been incorporated into the carvings all around the room. A thumb-sized crystal hovered in each recession. The brightly-colored crystals were an odd contrast to the severe, void-black lines of the sculpture.
The dark grey marble floor was shot through with lines of black and gold, the ceiling a golden dome ringed with light. Burgundy circular rugs with black geometric patterns marked out four conversation circles, furnished with antique chaises and armchairs, with room still to gather in the center of the space. Silver Protocol droids with their voice-boxes removed circulated stiffly among the guests, laden with trays of drinks and small bites.
Three of the four conversation circles were occupied. Palpatine’s guests were all members of his court with close ties to the throne, an elite inner circle. The only other military officer present was Grand Admiral Declann, a known favorite of the Emperor. He caught Thrawn’s eye and raised his tumbler in his direction; a salute, but not an invitation.
Presiding over it all was the Emperor himself, reclined in a hoverchair that curled around him like a shell. The metal chassis of the chair had been covered in dark red wood, polished to shine. Like the rest of the room, it was a masterwork of craftsmanship.
Lord Vader stood by his side. Thrawn was used to his domineering presence sweeping across the decks of star destroyers, the crisp contours of his black uniform suited to the precise lines of Imperial Military design. Despite his unquestionable natural authority, he looked somewhat awkward and out of place in the soft-lit luxury of Palpatine’s private rooms. A young man that Thrawn didn’t recognize stood alongside him, his head barely passing Vader’s shoulder. The young woman on Palpatine’s other side looked up and detached herself from the Emperor’s gravitational pull, gliding across the room toward Thrawn. Sate Pestage moved to replace her, leaning low to murmur in the Emperor’s ear.
The green dress she wore shimmered like an oil slick, the gown cut mid-calf to show off sharp golden heels that clicked on the marble. Pleated fabric gathered at her neck, tucked under a gold neckpiece wrapped around her throat. Her lightly-tanned shoulders were bare, brushed by the fringe of a sleek red bob.
“Admiral Thrawn,” she said, holding out her hand to be kissed. Her voice was low and husky, as if she were older and more worldly than she appeared. He suspected it was not her natural speaking voice. “How delightful to see you here.”
“A pleasure as always to be in the presence of the Emperor’s Hand,” Thrawn said, bowing over her fingers.
“You remember me!”
“Of course, Lady Brie,” he said. “You aren’t easy to forget.”
Shira Brie was one of Palpatine’s many tools, a spy and assassin who moved among the higher echelons of the Imperial Court. He had been warned that a visit from an Emperor’s Hand would most likely not only mark the end of his career, but also his life. They were fanatically loyal to their master, but their influence was mainly restricted to the Court and their careers were short-lived. It was a pity how quickly Palpatine tired of his toys.
Thrawn’s influence in the Court was limited. It was an obvious blind spot. His own web of spies and informants would never match Palpatine’s for reach and depth; it was a masterwork constructed over decades. All he could do was continue to ensure his own network remained secure and silent.
A throaty laugh was Shira’s response to his compliment, the sound crafted to be inviting and intimate. “Have you ever been called to the Emperor’s sanctum before?” She touched his arm and he offered her his elbow and allowed her to guide him forward. “It’s a great privilege, you know.”
“I have had the honor of an invitation a few times,” he said as they crossed the open space in the middle of the room, heading unerringly toward the Emperor and his entourage. “Though never in this particular venue.”
“I believe it’s one of his favorite rooms in the palace,” Shira said in a confidential whisper.
At their approach, Sate Pestage broke off his monologue in the Emperor’s ear and retreated. Shira released Thrawn’s arm and drifted toward the young man at Vader’s side.
Thrawn went on one knee in front of the Emperor, the lord and master of all Imperial Space. He let his eyes rest on the carpet below the hoverchair, tracing the black and red mandala pattern. All the hairs on the back of his neck stiffened to attention as Palpatine’s gaze settled on him. It felt like a heavy weighted cloak, or a net, draped over his entire body, cutting him off from the outside world. All that mattered were those yellow eyes, their cold, almost reptilian gaze. He could feel pressure beginning to build behind his own eyes and knew that when the reception was over, his head would be pounding, a stress response triggered by the intensity of an audience with the Emperor.
“Rise, Mitth’raw’nuruodo, and welcome to my sanctum.” The Emperor gestured with a wizened hand, and Thrawn took the place that Pestage had vacated. “Tonight, we are celebrating the arrival of Lord Vader’s heir, who has finally joined us here in my capital after spending his childhood under the thumb of his mother on Naboo. We have been waiting for his arrival for many years, have we not, Lord Vader?”
“Indeed,” Vader rumbled, his breath hissing like a leaky valve. “Grand Admiral Thrawn, meet my son, Prince Luke Skywalker.”
The young man stepped away from Shira to greet him, his face genial and open, with none of the haughtiness that Thrawn would have expected from royalty. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Admiral Thrawn,” he said, holding out a hand. His grasp was firm and dry.
The prince wore a formal, deep blue high-collared vest that hung down over a long tunic, pants in dark red underneath, tucked into tall brown boots. He was good-looking in a way that made Thrawn wonder if the prince had inherited his looks from his mother or his father’s side. A belt with an embellished golden buckle spanned his waist, over the vest and tunic. Hanging from the belt was the second lightsaber that Thrawn had ever seen. It was more streamlined and elegant than the functional-looking cylinder that hung from Vader’s belt.
“You’re stationed near Mandalore, aren’t you?” Luke asked. “I’ve heard there’s some unrest in the system.”
“I am, your highness. The local insurgent movement has become active again, and his Majesty thought that my skills were needed to assess the situation.”
“I’ve never been to Mandalore,” he asked. “What’s it like?” Shira leaned closer, her face fixed in an attentive expression as though she were hanging on to every word.
“The planet is barren—completely inhospitable to life—but the domed cities are still quite remarkable.”
“Mandalorians,” Vader growled, “never learned to respect the power of the Force, and it was their downfall.”
There was a rasping sound from the Emperor—a laugh, Thrawn realized, as though he were reacting to a joke that only he could understand. “I don’t believe our Admiral has had the chance to witness what a Sith can truly do with the Force,” Palpatine said, lifting a hand and gesturing toward the prince. “Perhaps our prince could offer a little demonstration?”
Thrawn had seen both the Emperor and Vader use supernatural abilities to punish insurgents before, but he held his tongue. If there was more to their talents, he would be eager to witness a demonstration.
“It would be my pleasure, Your Majesty,” Luke said. He turned to Shira and caught her hand, bowing low over it. “Shira, would you assist in this demonstration?”
She smiled. “Of course, your highness.”
He swung her out toward the center of the room as if guiding her through the steps of a dance. Her dress swirled around her calves as she swept forward in a wide arc and came to rest in the center of the room. Skywalker let her hand drop away, but kept his own raised, turning it flat to face her, a gesture that could almost be interpreted as a sign to stop an approach.
After a moment, it happened.
Shira gasped as her feet left the ground and she rose slowly into the air. She floated upward a few feet, and then a few feet more, hovering at shoulder height above the floor. Skywalker’s jaw clenched; sweat broke out on his forehead. Judging from the strain on his face, the effort it took to use his strange powers to levitate Shira appeared more physically taxing than it would have taken to simply lift her in his arms. There was little surprise or awe on the faces of the other guests; they must have witnessed such wonders in the presence of the Emperor before. Luke held her in place for a few long moments, like a moth suspended mid-flight, before his hand twitched and Shira drifted slowly to the floor again.
“Oh, Luke,” she breathed, her eyes wide and shining. “That was… indescribable.” Was this a performance, too? It was hard to tell.
“Thank you, Shira,” Luke said with a bow, with a formality that forced her to curtsy and retreat, though her eyes locked onto his face with carnal promise in their depths. It would be a beautiful sight, the two of them entwined.
“Pretty tricks,” Lord Vader called out, his deep voice resonating against the walls. “Cannot compare to the sheer power of the Force.”
Something flickered across Luke’s face then, a complicated dance of what Thrawn guessed was resentment and something else that he didn’t have time to puzzle out before it disappeared. “Perhaps another demonstration, father?”
Luke reached for the lightsaber hilt at his belt. The blade that issued from the handle was a beam of gold-tinged light, casting his handsome features in a warm glow. Vader’s answer was a blade of red light that rose up to meet his son’s weapon with a sound like a mechanical scream.
Any remaining furniture within striking distance slid away from the center of the room, as if repelled by a magnetic force. It took a moment for Thrawn to realize that it was no trick of machinery, but another demonstration of Sith abilities. There was a murmur of anticipation from the clusters of guests, every face turned eagerly toward the pair. Feats of levitation may have become unremarkable in Palpatine’s inner circle, but swordplay was another matter. Fencing was not an art practiced by his people, and Thrawn watched with interest. The two figures paced around each other in a tight circle, lightsabers raised and ready.
Luke was the first to make a move. He leapt forward, pressing Vader into a defensive position, though the Sith Lord seemed to bat away his son’s blows with minimal effort. The blades whined and snarled, leaving bright streaks as they cut through the air. Luke was fast and light on his feet. There was a surprising amount of strength in his slim form, hidden under the well-tailored cut of his clothes. The skirt of his tunic flared around his hips as he spun to parry his father’s blows, and the tall brown boots he wore accentuated his lean legs as they danced across the floor.
But his enthusiasm wasn’t enough to match his father’s skill and power. Vader knocked him back with a vicious swipe of his blade—once, twice—and then, with a swift twist, Luke’s blade went flying from his hand. When it hit the floor, the weapon guttered and went out. The duel was over.
His chest heaving with exertion, Luke bowed to his father and then to the Emperor, who inclined his head in acknowledgment. Vader put a heavy hand on Luke’s shoulder and leaned down to murmur to his son. Luke’s face was open, almost unguarded as he listened. The naked hunger for his father’s approval was evident even across the room, and Palpatine couldn't fail to notice.
But as the two moved apart, it was Vader who Palpatine followed with his eyes. “A Sith is capable of all this and much more,” he said.
“Fascinating,” Thrawn replied. And it was—fascinating and troubling. Could a soldier with such supernatural abilities turn the course of a battle? Perhaps that was why Palpatine had outlawed the practice. Thrawn was aware that anyone who practiced certain religions that worshiped the Force faced capital punishment, but he understood that such trials were uncommon these days, the adherents having died out.
As it stood now, the Sith was only a cult of three.
“How does one acquire the Force?” he asked.
“It is a birthright,” Palpatine said. “Only those whose family line has been touched by the Force can sense it, and only those that I have chosen to train as Sith have the right to wield its power.”
“It must be very rare.” A genetic quirk? Thrawn had never heard of such abilities among his own people and he wondered if a similar program of repression had happened at some point in their history.
“It is. The Skywalker boy is a rare talent, even if he does not have the strength of his father,” Palpatine said. Disappointment dripped from his words. “He was too long under his mother’s influence. He’s soft. Spoiled. It will take time to retrain him. And even then…”
It was true that the prince would never have Vader’s powerful stature, but he was still young. He had time to master the skills his father wielded with such ease, and time to make mistakes.
Shira retrieved Luke’s weapon from where it had fallen and presented it to him like a trophy. Her hand lingered on his as he accepted the lightsaber and thanked her with a prince’s grace. With another bow, he offered her his arm and guided her toward a serving droid laden with crystal glasses of summer wine. Her head rose as she took a sip, her eyes meeting Thrawn’s across the room—for only a moment—before she looked away. In that moment, she hadn’t bothered to hide her expression, her eyes going flat when they met his, cold as a gust of wind over the K’surt’k’tusah glacier.
The moment passed, and she was laughing at something the prince had said, her face shifting back into its customary mask, lit with a too-bright smile.
A few months later, she was dead. All Thrawn’s sources could tell him was that a mission had gone wrong. The details had been classified above his security clearance and the reports sealed. One of the other girls the Emperor had groomed for his service rose in her place, and he never heard Shira's name spoken in Palpatine’s court again.
His sources had little to say about Skywalker, either. The prince settled into life at Court, enjoying the decadence offered but not to excess. He avoided making any political alliances and didn’t seem to have many enemies, either. The latter was unusual, perhaps, but didn’t appear to be strategic. He simply floated along in his father’s shadow, leaving little impression.
Thrawn was not the only one monitoring his progress. There were many eyes on Luke Skywalker, poised to declare loyalty or move against him whenever he chose to finally take on his role as his father’s heir and establish his place in the Imperial succession.
He disappointed them all.