Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Please," comes the urged voice of Councilor Komisi'am'alo as Idaomo wavers on his feet; there's a panicked shuffle from some of the other high-ranking family members in the room. You note a particularly twisted grimace on the face of one of the House's guards. She watches the unsteady bow with elevated amounts of anxiety and shifts at her post, "Take a seat, Patriel."

"—Oh, oh, yes, thank you."

Lest you'll keel over, you think to yourself, and Sifan lets it happen.

Councilor Siama visibly relaxes in his spot on a long, pale emerald sofa once Idaomo heeds his suggestion. The Councilor — a man who you've come to admire greatly in your unexpected time at the estate — gestures quickly to the intricately carved chair adjacent to his own, beside you. The lines of worry in his brow are nearly comical.

Siama can be a rather dramatic man when it benefits him — such is the life of a politician. Even still, you're slowly beginning to wonder if perhaps this grandiosely cynical disposition is simply how he is.

The sitting room to the Komisi's main estate on Rentor is rather nice — though, admittedly as a cousin of the family, it wasn't often you found yourself here. Up until recently, that is. Now, with your earlier-than-planned retirement... well, Rentor's capital city was nice enough. Warm, even. Quite the adjustment from Csilla.

High windows cast streams of warm light as Patriel Idaomo lowers himself — and his heap of official Aristocran regalia — into the chair beneath him with a creak. Beautiful crimson linens with gold embroidery pool around his spindly wrists. His voice — no matter how kind — quivers with age, and his papery blue hands remain knotted in his robes as he smiles.

"I bring good news."

Sifan offers the questis from over Idaomo's shoulder.

Somehow you suspect he does not bring good news.

You learned quickly in your time at the Ascendency's capital that when word trickled down from Syndics to Patriels to Councilors there was most likely a catch. A political one, certainly. And with everything that had gone on in the last few months surrounding the attack on Csilla and conflict with the Nikardun, the impacted supply lines to Kinoss have been a spot of continuing political strain between the Komisis and several families — mostly the Mitths.

For as long as you can remember, the Komisis have always been a family built upon their pivotal contributions to Chiss arts and finery — silks, embroidery, jewelry, and the gem trade would be nothing without the Komisian hand. Paying ode to craftsmanship, as much mining and refinery, was a poignant part of carrying this family name.

The planet Kinoss, far to the Galactic East and on the outskirts of the Ascendency's core territory, plays a pivotal role in the family's attributed reputation. After all, the planet's pyroclastic caverns yield a wide array of gems used in day-to-day Chiss fashion. Owning something like a Komisian hand-carved periquartzen bracelet is seen as a flagrant display of status. It's the societal desire of those very baubles that cements the Komisis position amongst the Great Families.

Hells, everyone in this room was gilded with Komisi finery. You weren't exempt. Your crystalline pink teardrop earrings sway as you bow your head slightly. There is a necklace beneath your collar of matching pink quartz. Even your traditional dress was overlaid with familial touch. The silks were embroidered with spring scenery — specific to the family's homeworld of Rentor. The telltale jade-green of the family is intertwined in nearly every piece you wear.

The collar was a bit itchy. But on-trend. And, you suppose, rather pretty. Even you could admit that much, even if the layers of silks will stifle your freedom at the behest of expectations of you, a Komisi cousin. Blood, but not so coveted as a true son or daughter.

The Mitth were busy with the Usfa, vying for rights to mine Thearterra — pinching the supply to their main inner-Ascendency export on Kinoss was becoming a sore spot. The truth was that, despite their reputation, the Komisi relied heavily on the larger ruling family to fund their mining operations. Travel, freighter transport, and operations came at no small cost.

Talks of barter between the Mitth and the Komisi families have been rumored for nearly a month now. It seems like your well-timed leave from the Csilla's capital Security Force was enough of a push to get those talks going.

When Patriel Idaomo speaks, the entire room listens.

"The matter of union has been proposed as a mutually beneficial arrangement."

Ah.

There it is.

Councilor Siama has to hand it to you. He expected some sort of reaction at the suggestion. After all, arranged unions were gradually becoming less common Ascendency practice. At one time, they were as ordinary as snowfall. Siama and his husband had been arranged — and his mother before him. In fact, the sitting Councilor knew the history of the Komisi family well enough to rattle off eight generations worth of notable matches — each bringing in powerful allies from other Great Families. Even some from the previous Ruling Twelve.

This newer generation of Chiss is less interested, really. Often, the more vocal a blood-born or cousin was about matched marriage, the less likely it was to happen. As helpful as an arranged match could be, a messy severance of vows was nearly twice as troublesome.

And — in the current political climate between the Komisi and the Mitth — the suggestion bears more weight than usual.

Weighty. But, not entirely unexpected.

Siama finds his inky, blue-black brows lifting at Partiel Idaomo's words as he processes them.

Certainly, it would reinvigorate a sense of comradery between both parties. A union of such is a metaphorical peace offering, after all. For the Mitth to propose such an arrangement meant they were willing to bring in a Komisi into their family ranks.

Quite the compliment.

You're apprehensive.

You level your gaze with Siama's, then incline your head to the Patriel.

The delicate beading of your headdress tinkers as you do. "With respect, may I ask who the proposed union is with, Patriel Idaomo?"

Immediately, you find yourself wishing you could swallow the question back up. You know that the answer doesn't matter, truthfully — you will do whatever the family decides in line with your status as a cousin. You hold a unique position of power in the House of Komisi. One that can be kept or traded. Your name and your life, now, are one to barter with for the betterment of the family.

The person matters not. Whatever Chiss they've betrothed you to, so be it. You find yourself scowling at the girlish request to know their name.

"They propose Senior Captain Mitth'raw'nuruodo."

...Oh.

Your head snaps up. All girlish demure melts away and shifts to a glacier-like sense of disbelief.

Siama mutters a curse in Cheunh.

Where he saw a levelheaded young woman, he now sees the other half of you — a warrior who has just been ordered down from war.

You clench your jaw so tight your teeth ache. It's all you can really do to keep your mouth from falling open.

The clear joy with which Idaomo speaks the name is as if he has no idea who the Senior Captain in question is. None, none whatsoever. There simply isn't any way that's the case — after all, Idaomo was present in the ongoing proceedings around Yiv the Benevolent's arrest.

Idaomo is smiling. Grinning!

He's as affable as ever, even when a cough resounds from one of the sitting room's guards. Even Sifan winces at the delivery of news and moves to push his glasses up hurriedly. Gods, all of this is completely uncomfortable, you decide.

The eyes of a few other high-ranking family members in attendance are now stuck to you with a mixture of bitterness and pity.

All you can do is try not to gawk.

In the corner of your eye, you spot Siama dropping his head into a leaned hand. He rubs his brow with ringed fingers and then pinches the bridge of his nose. Again, another quiet curse is wrung out of him in Cheunh. He crosses his legs, creasing the well-starched blue slacks as his intricate, Komisi-family robes swim around him. He leans his elbow on the arm of the sofa.

He looks as if he'd like to squirm out of his skin.

He's covering his mouth. Hell, he has to. This is — he hadn't expected this. No, no, at first he'd expected the word of a re-matching when Patriel Idaomo had arranged this meeting. A proposed union was a surprise, but not entirely unwelcome.

But this?

... This is disastrous.

This was Thurfian.

"Mitth'raw'nuruodo." 

You say it slowly, looking to confirm the blatant fact.

His name is one you've heard plenty in your time as a silent, faceless Sentry in the inner halls of the Syndicure's main governmental building in the center of Csaplar. You've heard it whispered in hurried tones by passing Syndics or boomed off the walls by bitter Mitth leaders. You were privy to a world of information as a Sentry — that's why the job held a high expectation of anonymity and confidentiality within its ranks.

...The very expectation you'd broken when you'd learned of a high-ranking officer spilling family secrets back to her homestead.

Perhaps you did earn your permanent leave for your post. And the knife in your back mid-confrontation.

"Senior Captain Mitth'raw'nuruodo," Idaomo corrects with a well-natured waggle of his finger, "A rather accomplished member of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Fleet from the word of Syndic Thurfian."

...Thurfian.

You can't place his face, but you're sure you know the name. Siama — on the other hand — knows is oh-so-well.

"I must say 'accomplished' would not be my sought-after definition of Senior Captain Thrawn," comes Siama's pained voice, muffled into his hand as he bows his head. He looks as if he'll wind himself into a knot on the couch out of sheer frustration.

And there's Patriel Idaomo, as happy as ever, speaking candidly. "Ah, so you have heard of him?"

Heard of him?

What politically-minded Chiss hadn't?

Now, it was all beginning to make sense. The Mitth weren't offering this union as a means of agreeance, of comradery. No, they were attempting to keep their family's black-bantha from rising the ranks. Marriage to a lower-ranking member of one lesser, Great Family would certainly cement his status — at least politically — as defunct.

Suddenly, a rush of full offense blossoms at the double-edged implication of the union.

So that was just it: you were seen as an amenable option to keep the orchestrator of the Vagaari pirate incident, Mitth'raw'nuruodo, anchored to the lower political caste of his family. You, with your own sorted and blemished reputation in the eyes of the Ascendency. Even still, you can't help but feel it was hardly worth the sort of punishment being given.

Your leave from Csaplar's Security Force had been on necessary terms. You did the right thing. You had caused a stir, certainly, when one loose thread lead to a pull a parsec long. Bribery and blackmail were certainly expected of the Syndicure, but their security force? Unimaginable. And you'd been the one to unabashedly draw all attention to it. You were, in a way, lucky the attack on Csilla came a week after the wave of turmoil came crashing down — it preoccupied the frenzy.

It clearly didn't stifle it enough, however.

You have to fight a sneer at the thought of some Mitth Syndic casting judgment upon your now tarnished reputation. Thurfian, you remember.

The most difficult part of all this is that House Komisi will see a union to a Mitth as a move towards greater political power — in the fallout, and in the wake of the Kinoss mining tensions, this will be a well-sought gesture in the eyes of the public. After all, if one of the Great Nine was to choose a cousin to marry into their family, the House was worth renown. There was no possible way the Komisi would say no to this purposed union. In the grand scheme of the Family's best interest, the pros outweighed the cons.

All in all, a rather daring play by the Mitth.

One that leaves your hands completely tied.

"Yes, Idaomo, we've heard of him," Siama says, still as pained as before.

You reach up to press a well-manicured hand to the curve of your brow. Once again, the delicate beadwork sewn along the headdress jingles and sways. Your hair is wound up and back, hidden beneath the traditional Komisian piece of apparel. You'd always admired your mother in this set of robes, in the blues and greens of House Komisi. Now, you feel the part of a girl playing dress-up. The truth is, you're far from it. But, uncertainty creeps in to weigh you down just as the layers and layers of handsomely embroidered silks do.

You'd thought you knew the right thing to do all those months ago. You were confident then, leading the charge to stamp out the corruption — and it lost you your respected title as Sentry and earned you a vibroblade to the back. Even now, as you cross your legs, the healing wound aches.

Eugh.

You can feel a headache coming on.

Perhaps your headdress is too tight. If you're lucky, this is all some ridiculous dream.

"What do you say, then?" Idaomo asks you, leaning forward a bit as he hands off his questis to Sifan and smiles, "We can propose a chaperoned visit — perhaps to belay the anxieties of the courting rites? I see no reason why the Mitth would oppose."

Siama slides you a look.

You slide it right back.

"All due respect, Councilor, Patriel," you bow your head to both men respectively, "My thoughts on the matter bear no weight on the determination of this offered union. I extend myself as a hand for us Komisis. If this union will cement a further friendship with the Mitth, then I abide."

Siama hasn't known you long. Surely he's known of you — a cousin who spent her years training to acquire a coveted position in the Csaplar's Security Force. Though the positions were bided in secrecy, he knew you to be a reputable woman. To serve the Syndicure meant to be privy to the sort of secrets families would kill over. And now, stripped of your title, you still maintain the sense of dignity that earned you that position of Sentry.

Siama feels a pang of guilt in his chest. There are members of the family that resented you, surely, as any sort of scandal was a sure promise of disappointment. To some Chiss, a good life meant wading through the water so slow as to barely cause a ripple. But, you did a good thing — and here you are, falling victim to the bewildering game of politics you sought to protect.

The Councilor draws in a deep inhale through his nose. He claps his hands to his knees and tries to shake his evident anxieties away — for now, a union was something to celebrate. And, if the Mitth saw the Komisi excited over this probable union, then maybe it would knock some damn sense into them.

"Then, I believe we best contact the Mitth family's representatives," he says, "As we have a union to prepare."

You try your best to smile. It comes off pained. Idaomo doesn't mind. He wouldn't be able to see the exhausted look in your eyes, anyways. He laughs brightly as he rings those weathered, blue hands together.

"Isn't this exciting?"

"Isn't this exciting..."

Ar'alani has no idea how to react. Truth be told, the late-night interruption to her usual wind-down routine wasn't all that unwelcome. After all, it was Thrawn who came knocking on the door to her quarters well past the implemented CEDF curfew.

He is — as odd as it feels to admit — one of her closest friends.

I mean, people like her and Thrawn don't have friends. They have higher-ups, co-commanding officers, and warriors under their command. They sit neatly in a well-balanced military hierarchy that isn't built for friendships, even when they pack them into the barracks like a bunch of Sorgan salt-water sardines. Or, better yet, a bunch of first-year academics finally getting a taste of freedom.

...Well, Wutroow is a friend. Thalias, too. Even Samakro could be considered if she squinted hard enough.

The whole lot of them were unofficially grounded — at least while the majority of the fallout from their little incident with dearly beloved Yiv the Benevolent unrolled in the trials and courts of the Aristocra. General Ba'kif had called it a vacation of sorts, though Ar'alani isn't sure how much one could truly relax on Naporar. While the planet is home to the Chiss Expansionary Defense Fleet, it isn't exactly quiet.

Naporar is a densely urbanized planet, laying directly on some of the most vital hyperlanes within the Ascendency. Spaceports, shipyards, docking and repairs stations... Not to mention sky-creeping complexes of barracks, training grounds, and educational buildings as far as the eye can see. And that was only the Fleet District. Outside of that, the bustle and burn of life in the city rolled on.

Some of the best starcherry puff bread came from a bakery on the outskirts of the Fleet District. An entire loaf of her favorite guilty pleasure is sitting on the small counter across the room. That was certainly a plus to being planet-side. Wutroow would agree.

... The point is, friends are rare. All the more reason Ar'alani let him in, despite her barely awake state. She was in bed with her tea and slice of puff-bread, parsing a handful of old academy flight tactics when he knocked.

Light reading material. And a snack to boot.

Thrawn's quarters were across the esplanade — smaller at the behest of his rank, but accommodating all the same. He'd known those walls for a handful of years now. To pry him from the quiet calm on a rainy evening, when he himself could be reading about the mid-to-late century analytical cubist movement that gripped Mandalorian painters at the tail end of one of their civil wars?

He'd nearly thrown himself from his cot when the notification had lit up his desk questis, painting his face a stark — and rare — look of confusion.

The moment Ar'alani's door slid open, she saw the out-of-character stare on his face and knew that this interruption would most likely be important, if not well worth it.

What she wasn't expecting was a burning bright questis page being shoved her way, bearing the title:

She almost laughed. Then, she saw the twisted corner of Thrawn's frown and realized he had not been expecting this either.

No, not at all.

"I don't understand."

"I am afraid it's exactly what it says," she says slowly.

Ar'alani tries not to sound as if she just sucked on a sour citra wedge. Marriage? Really? What sort of half-cocked idea was this? No doubt Thurfian had a hand in this. When they'd landed back in Ascendency space the waves of uproar were nearly immediate. One particular Syndic seemed particularly interested in keeping Thrawn out of the fray... as long as possible.

But, marriage? A proposed union, of all things?

Hell, they must be desperate.

But, they were Expansionary Defense Fleet officers. No doubt Thrawn will soon be earning flag rank — and he will give up the Mitth family name just as she did when she first took the post as Commodore. A proposed union meant little with no family to tie your power down to one nexus.

Furthermore, marriage wasn't often explored by active members of the CEDF — not until retirement when re-admittance to a family was sought or permitted. Be it proposed union or desired union, Chiss courting rituals alone sometimes proved lengthy and time-consuming, all dependant on the families involved and their respective traditions.

Ar'alani can remember a particular Irizi cousin who spent three whole months locked in courtship practice with her soon-to-be partner. And the Irizi weren't even considered a particularly devout family to traditional Ascendency courting rites.

The wedding itself, however, was rather fun. She remembers that much... and she doubts that would come as any consolation to Thrawn.

Ar'alani's words come out more pitied, and half-winced. She's trying to make a joke. "I take it you would have told me if you'd met someone nice—"

Thrawn wants to laugh.

But, he's too preoccupied with reading the debriefing note over and over — so preoccupied, he's hardly noticed he's begun to pace as Ar'alani settles down on the edge of her mid-sized cot and crosses both her legs and arms. She winds herself tightly, feeling a sudden edge of guilt creep into her heart.

In truth, she never considered marriage. Her career is the most important thing to her — and she held not a single doubt that Thrawn felt the exact same way. Now, be it by Thurfian's hand or some other power-that-be, that path he'd spent carving out for himself was changing.

Not at all lost but changing. Whether he likes it or not, it seems.

"The only logical answer I can glean from this," he says finally as he lifts his gaze and levels it with Ar'alani's, "Is that our little... conflict with Yiv alarmed those above us more than we realized."

Ar'alani lifts a brow. "You believe this is retaliatory?"

"Perhaps," he's regained some of his cool edge. Even still, he doesn't seem completely convinced, "Though I am struggling to understand it with clarity."

"It would make sense," she explains slowly, measuring his reaction, "Proposed unions are usually built with political goals in mind. Let me see the note. Did it say anything about your match?"

Thrawn hands the questis over once more. The bite of anxiousness is an unsettling feeling in his chest. It's the prospect of becoming a pawn once more in a political game — one he had ever hardly understood — that has him pinned with discomfort now.

Even worse is the fact the Kivu family rarely dealt in proposed unions. They were by no means lower caste, but... Union to a Kivu dealt no winning cards. It was power lost to induct one into a Greater Family. The only unions Thrawn knew of were desired ones.

The most secretive part of himself, one he keeps well tucked away, pangs at the thought — those unions, like that of his mother and father, were born out of love. Respect, care, and adoration. Foundationally speaking, those were things that, yes, Thrawn looked forward to — because love could only be witnessed so many ways through the brushstrokes of a Nabiran pasture in spring. To see the petal-mouthed kiss of lovers in a Bespin sky was one thing.

Thrawn hesitated to admit he yearned to know the feel of it.

And here he is, pacing across the confines of Ar'alani's apartment with not a single idea of who you are.

Ar'alani scrolls. "No indication of gender—"

"Hardly a concern."

"Ah, it says here they're a Komisi," Ar'alani notes with a reflective tone of approval, "Surely you'll both have plenty to talk about."

"Meaning?" Thrawn inquires, tilting his head minutely.

Ar'alani flicks her eyes over him. Dark lashes narrow in thought. "The Komisi are a family dedicated to the arts — Chiss finery, really. Gems, silks,those itchy, traditional collared jackets that are back in style. You know the ones."

The inky-haired woman waves a hand to dismiss her own off-hand comment and returns to skimming the query. Not important. The Admiral continues as Thrawn lifts a hand and thumbs the curve of his lower lip in thought.

That is some small comfort.

"And — if I am caught up on recent political drama — the Mitth and the Komisi are vying for a return to equal footing following the interruption of Kinoss supply lines."

"You're suggesting it's purely political, then."

"There was never any doubt about that," she corrects lightly, "Though what the end game is, I cannot be too sure."

Lovely.

Thrawn's expression is rather flat. Ar'alani offers the questis back. The Senior Captain decidedly clicks it shut and tucks it beneath his arm. There's a momentary pause, and then in a rare show of frayed composure, he bows his head and pinches the long, straight bridge of his nose.

The Admiral watches her friend with an apologetic look.

"You could always say no, you know," she proposes slowly.

Then, Thrawn looks up at her like she's just said the most blasphemous thing in a thousand years of Ascendency history. His own dark, crimson eyes narrow critically. He almost rolls his eyes. But, he doesn't. And that's enough for Ar'alani to quirk a brow at his reaction.

"Please, I never took you for the sentimental type, Thrawn."

"It's not sentimentality," he explains curtly, "It's..."

Her smile is slow. Not at all unkind, Thrawn realizes. But gentle and apologetic. "A bit daunting?"

"It's politics, Ar'alani," he says slowly as he knocks the questis with gloved knuckles. In comparison to her white uniform, the one Thrawn wears is as black as the Chaos outside, "Interpersonal politics, now. Try as I might — and fail as I often do — I attempt to give topics as such a wide breadth."

Ar'alani sees a twitch in his fingers as he straightens his posture. He's nervous. A rare sight — coming from the man who usually could be presumed to know everything.

Thrawn sought comfort in knowing. In... In understanding what came next. If he's able to parse the tactics, he can understand the intentions. Life is easier that way — when he knows how everything fits together before he finds himself hip-deep in the middle of it all.

"You plan on agreeing to the proposal, then?"

"I don't believe I have much choice in the matter," he breathes, "I hesitate to disrupt the Syndicure's plans with little understanding of their goals. That would be... unwise."

"It wouldn't be out of character for Thurfian and his ilk to be hoping you'll deny the inquest, either."

"Precisely," he nods, "So, I will act in agreeance for now."

"Let us hope they are kind, then," Ar'alani hums as she leans back and twists her mouth into a frown, "And patient. That is all people like us can ask for, after all."

He mulls on that for a while, on the slow walk back to his designated barracks.

And, back in the quiet and comfort of his quarters, he digs into the Komisi family name.

"Are you nervous?"

You hadn't expected such a question to come from Councilor Siama, of all people — but you find comfort in knowing he cared enough to ask. Across from you in the land speeder, he crosses his legs and tilts his head. He looks apathetic, and the gilded lines of the Komisi family's traditional make-up sharpen his already angular face.

You bear a mirrored composition — formulated of oil harvested and ground from the homestead's own skylily patch and a heaping pile of gilded mineral dusts — that runs up the length of your nose and splits into two archs above each brow. It's itchy, and it feels like it cracks when you worry your brows together.

Immediately, you smooth your expression. You huff.

Was that the original purpose of this face paint? To remind the Chiss that wears it to mind your countenances?

The heavy, albeit beautiful, silks of the Komisi's traditional union garments feel like they're wrapping their little hands around your neck and wringing you to death. Two sashes are family heirlooms, gifted as guidance — how kind. The pale, white qartzen earrings that hang low along your throat are your mother's, and the headdress you're wearing keeps your hair back and well out of the way.

That was a gift from Patriel Idaomo himself.

There are other parting gifts from the family woven into the outfit, as it usually goes in the case of Komisi family nuptial traditions. A delicate bracelet, the Cheunh invocation embroidered into the hem of a duracotton sock, three rings for mother, wife, and child.

All in all, you feel like a walking green, gold, and white advert for the family's craftsmanship — and you find yourself wishing to be back in that ridiculous, well-starched, high and tight Security Force uniform. Hell, you'll even throw on the boots that give you blisters no matter how many times you break them in, and thirty pounds worth of your usual polycarbonite armor. Then, at least, you'd be comfortable — emotionally speaking.

The find yourself laying a hand flat to the thin white band of embroidered silk secured around your waist.

Mitth'raw'nuruodo will be wearing a similar piece of apparel — this chord was a common tradition among the Chiss. Worn around waists, it was indicative of courting phases. Later on, it will be a signature of newlyweds. Some families insisted on keeping the sashes on nearly a year following the union. Something about preserving luck. In that case, the white sashes are traded in for woven chords — to be worn around wrists or off of jackets.

You exhale, your puffed cheeks deflating as you do so.

"I don't know if nervous is the right word."

"—Perhaps you ought to be," comes Siama's catty reply, "Seeing as I may just gut Thurfian where he stands—"

The speeder shifts over one of the traffic speed-runs as he speaks. You both list side to side. You laugh. Again, you smooth your brow as to not crinkle your makeup. You clear your throat.

"It's fine, Siama—"

"A right bastard he is. Never listens. He'd burn the Ascendency to the ground if he thought it means of bettering it," Siama snaps as he leans forward and waves a gilded hand, "I don't like him using you as a pawn."

Your brow quirks. "I'm shocked you're this upset."

"Of course I am," he lays a hand flat to his chest; the speeder rocks again, "Look at you. The family ought to be hailing you as Hero of the Security Force's Confidence. Instead, here we are — marrying you off to Mitth'raw'nuruodo."

Your scoff is bitter. 

You turn your eyes out the window and watch Rentor's capital roll by. The grand architecture and winding canals are framed by bustling crowds. Academics and politicians and vacationers... All mingling along the main stretch of Philon's governmental district. Though the Aristocra has no formal footing here, the capital still possesses the space for members to convene and converse. Surrounding the capital building — that looms in the high distance — are various religious buildings and public spaces. Libraries, colleges, markets.

It's almost sunset. Everything is bathed in warm light.

"Maybe it's for the best."

Siama frowns. He casts a slow look over your expression — and he notes the touch of melancholy there. You've done a mighty job hiding it, through all the forced merriments and weighty family dinners that have led up to this catalytic conference.

It's tradition for the parties of arranged unions to be introduced with family representatives present — the high gardens in Philon frequently operated as a place to do so. Propositioned families frequently hosted the first meeting. While representatives converse over the political exchange, the courted are expected to walk the gardens. All of these moving pieces. It's a simple enough duty.

Though, the buzzing swarm that overwhelms you the moment you step from the stopped speeder would have you believe otherwise.

You inhale tightly as Siama closes the door behind you. You try to ignore the chatter of Cheunh that flies around you as two of the family's attendants make work on touching up your make-up and adjusting your robes. They're experts in their application, and the two older women seem vested in the perfection of your appearance. They aren't exactly gentle, but their looks are fond when they step back to admire their handiwork.

As you're pulled and prodded and poked, Idaomo and Sifan emerge from their vehicle — behind them, a train of Komisi advocates and Aristocran constituents gathers. They meander along, keen to hinge their actions on that of the Patriel and Councilor Siama. You are completely secondary to this exchange, it seems.

Idaomo is... as wavering as always.

Gods — can someone help him?

A chatter of members rush up with guided palms when he sways backward a bit too much, and both you and Siama go tense at the display of geriatric concern. But, the Patriel is still smiling. Laughing, even.

You blink away your moment of fear, square your shoulders, and inhale.

Siama slips you a look.

"Are you ready?"

The entrance to the gardens is just ahead — with swelling fountains and intricate bricklay. Ivy vines are climbing the walls, kissing the electric lamplights that grow brighter with every inch of the sun that dips below the horizon line. You can see a gathered crowd at the South entrance, no doubt the Mitth family organizing their own procession.

Patriel Idaomo greets you with a grand smile — those pink, cloudy eyes of his wrinkling with joy.

"You look beautiful, my starlight."

Even though he can't see you — even though you're simply a blurry little figment of the Komisis future — you believe him.

"Thank you, Patriel Idaomo."

You mean it.

The compliment is enough to spur you onward. Siama, as your main representative, matches your pace with ease. Each stride is easy, carrying your forward as you clasp your hands before you and keep your shoulders back. You cast a look behind you, marveling at the long train of the family that's come to engage in the transactional quality of this meeting. It's certainly something.

When you turn your gaze forward, you see that the Mitth have begun to enter the garden as well.

Up until this point, you realize, you never considered what Mitth'raw'nuruodo might look like.

You've heard his name plenty of time. And still, you never bothered to match his name to his face.

You've been so difficult with yourself. You'd sworn away any fantastical romantic thoughts. After all, this was a duty. There would be time, well down the road, to consider the romantic implications. For now, this was a trade. A display of vested interest in the Komisis success. You had a role to play and you intended to play it well, well enough that perhaps the scrutinizing gazes of these very Komisi family members would miss you.

...Doubtful. But, you'd try your damnedest.

But, as you enter the maze-like center of the garden, you realize that the man beside Thurfian must be him.

You're pleasantly shocked.

Nowhere in the winding gossip of Senior Captain Thrawn's exploits was there a detailed note of his looks. No, no one ever mentioned he was handsome. Tall — very tall — with a striking profile and strong posture. His void-black CEDF dress uniform is perfectly set; it seems like he was born to wear it. There's a decorum of gilded little pins along his chest. Along his shoulder, there's a skylily-white chord that matches the one across your waist.

The Mitth are more practical. Less obsessed with the theatrics and fashion associated with a monumental moment such as this. Their garb is simple, lacking in comparison to the silks and paints and gems of the Komisi.

"No one said he was handsome," you mutter tightly as you walk alongside Siama.

"His accomplishments overshadow any conversation about his looks," the lanky Councilor offers slowly. He was just thinking the same thing — lights alive, that man is tall. He scoffs cattily, swaggering along. His voice is low. "Besides, anyone looks good next to Thurfian."

You choke on a laugh.

You swallow it down and try to remember your posture.

When you lift your eyes once more, you find that Thrawn is looking right at you.

After all, you're beautiful — delicately pieced together in traditional family details relevant to the event at hand. You carry the weight well, and Thrawn can see that there's an undercurrent there. Perhaps a dancer? Or a warrior? He isn't sure. A better look at your hands will prove worthy.

Thurfian is tense beside him.

Thrawn tries his best to ignore the stares being burned into the back of his uniform as he steps up into the center of the garden, beneath the blue-glass of the belvedere. The space will serve as a negotiation zone. The families will mingle while he and you take your time about the garden.

The Mitth and the Komisi aren't the only families present tonight, it seems.

Across the way, in another arbor, there is a meeting between the Styblas and the Drocs. They've begun introductions, it seems, and a nervous half of the union seems keen on fainting. He looks rather pale. Shakey.

Another couple is wandering the aisles. Thrawn isn't sure what families they belong to, but he catches a snippet of the conversation as they pass — something about traversing the plain of Chaos' quantum sub-space depending on a multitude of mathematical factors. Interesting enough. Academics they both are.

Thrawn's eyes dart back to you.

In the center of the greenery, he settles neatly with his hands clasped behind his back. Not necessarily at ease. He watches you — sees the way you mind your step and level your head. It's graceful. Easy. The intricate coronet atop your head stays steady. You seem... confident. Placid. Calm. Thrawn even thinks he catches a dash of humor in your expression when you mutter something to the man beside you.

Your words pause. Siama looks up then, noting Thrawn's evident attention on you.

The Councilor smirks.

Komisi finery indeed. Not only in their wares, but in their members as well. Lest any of the Mitth forget, Siama chides to himself, And he's damn proud of it.

While Siama isn't, you are certainly surprised to find Thrawn staring.

Thrawn is wholly convinced your beauty amplifies with every step nearer you take.

There's a bit of confidence that suddenly comes with this territory, you realize. You're not sure you've ever been looked at like this.

This mythic warrior — a steadfast symbol of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Force. A man scandalously invested in the nature of the Ascendency's future. Senior Captain Mitth'raw'nuruodo.

And here he is, bowing low to you.

Here the entirety of the Mitth are, their gesture of welcome rippling through their gathered crowd like a wave. To you.

The Komisi do the same.

At the center of this political cosmos, you stand mere feet from Thrawn. Surrounded by a laurel of advocates and Aristocra, you seem cooly calm. Your expression is set in something that lays between stern and receptive. Your hands still lay entwined before you.

You offer him a well-hidden smile — so subtle as he nearly misses the lifting corners of your painted lips.

"House Mitth," Siama greets, "We excitedly assemble to discuss the arrangements of this prosperous union."

"That we do," Thurfian parrots — the two hold gazes for a tense moment — before he continues, "As the... appropriate parties seemed to be gathered, may we begin?"

You slide your eyes over Thurfian. Siama catches your look. Thrawn notes the glare. Thurfian ignores it in favor of scowling at Siama.

...Already, it's wholly too much for Thrawn.

"We may," Siama grits out, trying his best to play his zealous part.

There's a bated bit of silence as Siama and Thurfian turn to the two of you.

"Then let us allow for our union to walk," comes the excitably weathered voice of Patriel Idaomo, "Go on, as we have done for ages — walk, and know one another."

Easier said than done.

But, with that, you and Thrawn are shooed from the glass-roofed pavilion and into the setting sun. The garden is hailed in pinks and oranges. The path is clear, winding, and long, and as your boots touch the gravel you have a sneaking feeling that this will be a longer night than you anticipated.

If the sudden, terse exchange of informalities between Siama and Thurfian are any indication, you're sure of it.

Thrawn clears his throat.

And so the night begins.