Chapter Text
This is a diplomatic mission.
They take him to a lower level of the no longer Imperial Palace. It cries out in pain, his escort says. He's a blonde man with a lightsaber that burns green. Opposite that Jedi is another with blue hair and a lightsaber to match. That one is Eli's. He does not wear an EDF uniform, but he calls Eli by rank and he fights for the same goals and he'll return with them when this is through, regardless of what his family thinks.
This is a gesture of peace and civility between two governments in a state of rebuild.
Behind them are three frowning women. Human, Twi'lek, Togruta. The first is furious. The other two are not happy but have enough discipline to withhold their opinions.
The passages wind and twist, growing ever darker. His Jedi signals with a twitch of fingers. Not much longer, Eli knows.
"The three of us will go on alone," Bridger says, breaking the hostile silence.
The women look to their Jedi, and the Jedi Master inclines his head. "He cannot hurt us," The young Skywalker tells them. The words make his blood boil. The enemy of their enemy is their friend. But they were too stupid to understand that, in the end, they'd had similar goals.
This mission was given to them because they are Human: The admiral and the Sky-walker both. If this Skywalker executes either of them, if they do not return, the Ascendancy will show them no mercy.
Eli has no mercy and no kindness in his heart for them already.
It is a testament to time and experience that he withholds his rage. He knows what the Emperor was capable of. If this New Republic’s prolonged negligence after that bastard’s death results in Thrawn’s, if he is damaged beyond repair, Eli will give in to his temper: He’ll turn to the fire and fury he keeps buried within and leave this place in ashes.
With the way Skywalker has been talking about this place, it might thank him for it anyway.
-/
This is a place for enemies, The Emperor had told Thrawn, once.
It is dark and damp, the cold strangely humid. The absence of light and heat exhausts his eyes, unable to adapt to darkness. There is no comfort here, only despair. He knows nothing of the Force, but like the aching hollowness in his bones he can feel the futility and helplessness that drips from the walls.
This is the place where you will wish for death, Palpatine had said later, when he'd had Thrawn imprisoned, And perhaps some day, I shall grant it to you.
When the sound echoes down the winding stone halls, he knows it is not to be believed. His mind presents madness: auditory, visual, sometimes even physical hallucinations as a substitute for reality; Coping mechanisms for a truth that has already rendered him insane.
There are voices speaking now, familiar and foreign. This too cannot be real. It has been days since he has eaten, this is his body attempting to shut down, to coax him into a state of dreaming that might soften the blows of the present.
It is likely a droid here to render nutritional supplements, he reminds himself, desperate for the comfort of logic. He goes through what he knows in his mind: It has been months since he was last probed for information. It has been longer still since the Emperor himself has flayed him open in body, pouring himself into any cracks in Thrawn's mind.
But these are footsteps. Inquisitors? Acolytes? ISB? Thrawn keeps himself pressed back against the door, arm shielding his eyes out of reflex. The cell's shield drops, then its durasteel door screeches as it is pulled out of place.
He can only hope to die a warrior's death.
There is a hand in his hair. The feel of it is overwhelming, almost too hot, and this is a torture he's had before, too, so he pushes the hand back and hisses softly at the light that flickers too bright in the corridor—
"It's alright," Thrawn is told. He can feel breath on his cheek. It's warm and mint-tang sweet. The speaker must turn their head because the next words seem quieter. "Dim that light, Ezra. As low as it can go. The two of you stay back."
A whine escapes his throat without his conscious input and he waits, braced for whatever fruitless pain they will inflict. He will not tell them anything.
"Retan'cehah, g'evoti ch'itkashn." They repeat, "Look at me, Thrawn."
He has not been called by name in so long, and so he looks.
Dark, teary eyes, dark skin. Hands, reaching out to him. "No," He says, throat working and chest shaking. "Not this. Anything—" He nearly chokes on the thickness of his tongue. "Anything else."
"You offered up the memory of your brother so easily," The Emperor had cooed. "You would suffer the weight of responsibility for his death a thousand times over. But what of your sister?" He paused. "What of your translator? Him, I could surely acquire. Perhaps I would let you watch me bleed the sanity out of him until he begs me for death. Maybe I would let you end him, too…"
He comes back to himself to fingers carding through his overgrown, tangled hair and words whispered in his ear in his native tongue.
"I have you. You're safe now. I won't leave you."
This hallucination is more benevolent than most.
Heat presses against him on his right side. Body heat. Human heat. He goes limp against the source, keening softly. He has been cold for so very long.
An arm wraps around his back and under his bent legs. He has never been carried before. He had been dragged, more often than not, because they do not allow him the energy to walk.
More words are murmured into his ear and then Thrawn turns his head from the growing brightness and smells cologne. It smells like forests and clean air. He has never had an olfactory hallucination before. It has to be that, because Thrawn knows this smell. Knows the man who wore that cologne better than he knows himself.
Thrawn refuses to be lulled into a state of compliance by even, steady steps taken through the halls, nor to accept the comfort of a vision of only person in the galaxy he trusts.
A new voice joins the first. "Do you want me to—"
"No," The first says and cradles him closer. Thrawn can feel the words vibrate with his breath, with conviction. "It's alright. I have him."
Thrawn opens his eyes when the light no longer burns through his eyelids to see white. White, and black, and silver: The synthweave of an EDF uniform, rough against his cheek.
He is not a small man. Regardless of how emaciated he is, he is tall. Even for a Chiss.
And yet, the arms around him are steady. He has never been held quite like this, but he remembers what it had felt like to be held, once. These arms, this presence is familiar.
He wants this to be real, so much.
"It's me," Eli promises him. First in Basic, then Sy Bisti, then Cheunh. His grip is sure.
Thrawn presses his face into his tunic and breathes. It's too much. The light, the people around them arguing in a volume they think is too quiet to hear, the choked sound of his breath and the panicked thudding of his heart.
Eli ducks his head, turns them to go up a narrow passageway. Their eyes meet and Eli smiles at him too kindly. He feels moisture on his face, blinks and still cannot tell which one of them is responsible. Eli doesn't seem to care, just holds him close.
Time loses meaning like this.
"Say your goodbyes, Ezra," Eli orders sometime later, nudging Thrawn's face into the juncture of his neck and shoulder with his chin so he neither sees or is seen. The order is not unkind, but there is something stern about it, something that says he wants no part of it. Eli’s business is concluded.
"Yes, admiral."
The arguing that ensues is brief. Then, Bridger is behind them, following while blocking the palace from view. It is a kindness, Thrawn thinks. Bridger does not look at him. Thrawn doesn't want to look at him, either.
"You need to be treated," Eli tells him. "Do you want the medics or—"
Thrawn claws at him. He doesn't mean to, but he cannot bear to gain and then lose this, if he has even gained it at all, if this isn’t just a fever dream. It doesn’t convince him either way when Eli does not relinquish him, does not hiss at the tightness of his grip, and instead clutches him tighter, holds on.
"It's alright," Eli reassures him, cheek to cheek, nose and lips soft against his ear. "I have you."
"Prepare my cabin," He orders next, the words spoken over the crown of Thrawn's head. Subordinates move near-silently to obey. "Flannels, medpacks, bacta, everything we have." And then, in a tone like flames, licking hot and burning away the cold Thrawn has felt for so, so long, "Get us the hells out of here, Bridger. Please."