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Vurawn is six years old and stands alone. The thin air makes his chest feel uncomfortably tight as shrill cries of excitement echo against his ears.
He wants to play – in fact, he has been directly involved within the schoolyard’s morning session of Tsan’ch’ah ch’at rcin’bisbi, before Kepaolo’s nervous laughter shifts into a horrible, drawn-out wail.
Vurawn saw it himself, her sturdy fur-lined boots treading against the snow-covered ground, moments before the wind-swept terrain gave way to a patch of ice.
Nobody touches her, least of all Vurawn, who was freeing his peers from the opposing team’s makeshift jail when the event occurred.
Yet blame would consistently be placed.
His instructor, Ipsa’li’rico, does not question Kepaolo’s account for a moment, merely nodding his head as he tickets judgment.
Vurawn tries to explain himself and attempts to make Saliri grasp that it was not him or any other member at recess who harmed the girl.
“She has nothing to gain by lying,” Saliri says plainly as he unlocks the fence, depositing Vurawn on the other side.
The sharp eastern wind causes Vurawn’s eyes to water as his gaze drifts through the gaps that encompass each piece of frost-coated wood.
He has always been kind to Kepaolo, guiding her through both introductory algebra and literature, even staying at the school until well past sunset, breaking down problems and tutoring her until he was confident she would pass their next test.
And yet, she still blames him for something they both know he did not do.
Sinking to his knees, Vurawn watches his peers play, noting how quickly they replete the space that was once his.
Not once does anybody come to check on him nor welcome him back.
He is forgotten on the other side of the fence.
Thrawn is fourteen years old and holds a single duffle bag.
He did not entirely want to depart Rentor, not yet.
Thrawn has studied the merit adoptive program extensively, and after Vurika’s disappearance, he knows it is only a matter of time before he is selected too.
He would go into the fleet, this much Thrawn understood.
Yet, at fourteen, there are many things Thrawn wants to do with his life. He craves exploration, from the highest peaks of Ool to the canyons of Schesa; he needs to see it all.
But just like the adoption process, Thrawn’s own wants and desires are of secondary importance. He is a part of a ruling family now – the Mitth, it was now his duty to serve their name and fight their wars.
Thrawn’s saliva tastes bitter as he meets his parent’s gaze.
Their faces are etched with old grief as if each child stolen from their grasp was another decade taken from their already fragile life span.
They would die here, and there was nothing Thrawn could do to save them.
“Return to the ice and sea.” His Father’s voice is low, flat, as if he always understood his time with Thrawn was predetermined.
Bowing his head, Thrawn slowly embraces his mother, savoring the muted scent of salt and brine that clung to her furs.
Boarding the transport, Thrawn can’t bring himself to leave the viewport as his home – the only planet he had ever known turns into nothing more than a stain amongst the endless fabric of the universe.
He will not be returning to Rentor or to the notion of choice.
Whatever path stands before Thrawn, it was one he walks alone.
Thrawn is twenty-four years old and lays beside a human.
“When I first met you, I assumed all of the Chiss were like you.” Car’das’s voice is thick with sleep as he traces patterns against Thrawn’s bare skin.
The Senior Captain doesn’t answer as he leans into the man’s touch. He knows the smuggler means well with his words, but the phrase makes the hairs on his neck prickle.
“Patience and an application to detail are skills anybody can cultivate.” He pauses, rolling over to face Car’das. “And yet so few of my people are willing to look beyond their own prejudices and one-sided beliefs.”
“It is their loss.”
Standing alone had never felt like a victory to Thrawn.
The Senior Captain’s eyes were heavy as he brings Car’das knuckles closers, lightly brushing his lips against the smooth skin, savoring the salty aftertaste.
“Do other humans share your innate curiosities?”
“I suppose it depends on the individual, but yes, I believe many hold a desire to know what the Galaxy possesses beyond their meager boarders.”
Thrawn lightly hums against the Corellian’s skin.
“Do you think you’ll ever leave the Ascendancy?”
The Chiss does not answer as a sad smile touches the corner of his lip.
“It will be by force, against my own volition.”
Car’das inches closer to him, further illuminating Thrawn in the warmth of his body heat. “It doesn’t have to be like that.” He whispers into the nape of the Senior Captain’s neck.
Thrawn’s eyes slip shut as he leans into the Corellian’s touch. “It will always be like that.”
Neither of them speak as the Springhawk’s low rumble inches them closer to sleep.
“Stay.” Thrawn’s voice muffles against Car’das shoulder.
“You know I can’t.”
It was a truth Thrawn always understood; it was the loneliness that laves his skin, the unwilling solitude that lingers like a misplaced shadow, the sense of place and inevitable banishment.
“Stay,” he whispers again, not entirely sure who the command is directed at.
Thrawn is thirty-two and faces a blank wall.
The proceedings of exile are familiar to the former Senior Captain, an unavoidable event frozen in time.
He does not show emotion when his honor chains are removed nor when the ruling is passed.
The former Senior Captain does not see the mixture of confusion and horror that dot his colleague’s faces, just as he does not see the victory that touches others.
Letting his gaze melt into the far wall, Thrawn closes his eyes.
When they open, he is back in the body of his six-year-old self, standing alone on the other side of a forgotten fence.
Thrawn is 48 and works until his tongue tastes of iron and muscles burn with overuse.
His questis died hours ago, yet it’s still tight in former Grand Admiral grasp as he sits in his sister’s kitchen.
Borika doesn’t remember him, and yet she understands.
“Neither will take you back.” She says, pushing a mug of Spiceleaf in his direction.
It is not a question, but Thrawn responds anyways. “The Ascendancy is no longer my home.” The words are automatic, emotionless as if he were kneeling before the Emperor.
Borika raps her cold, slender fingers against the back of his palm. “Perhaps, but home doesn’t always have to be a place.”
Thrawn meets his sister’s eyes. It feels wrong to inquire about her past; he knows better than most the hardships Skywalkers endure, both during and after their service. “How did you make a life,” he pauses, unsure if the moment is right to touch on such a subject. “After your sight faded?”
For a heartbeat, Borika’s gaze shifts downwards as weathered distance coats her gaze.
“I healed, Thrawn.” Her voice is soft, and for a moment, the younger Chiss can almost feel the hum of a hyperdrive beneath his feet, the wide innocent eyes of a skywalker peering up at him like he knows everything. “You are more than an asset; there is a life beyond boundless war.”
And yet, as his lip’s part and throat itches with vibrations, no sound comes out. How can he mend the jagged, life-long wound that lurks just beyond sight when it continues to fester and ooze?
Thrawn does not conceal the sadness that coats his words as he leans into her touch. “Not for me.”
Borika shakes her head. “Stay.” She says in a dialect that no longer abides by her tongue.
Thrawn smiles as he meets his sister’s gaze. It is an odd sensation to live between inclusion and exile, but Thrawn’s not sure he has ever existed beyond such measures.
“Where else would I go?” He whispers as he tightly squeezes Borika’s hand.