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Rentor’s air was quiet yet pure against Car’das’s weathered lungs as he fell into place behind Admiral Ar’alani.
It had been over five decades since the former smuggler met the woman’s eyes, yet her silence was companionable, not friendly yet not hostile.
He had never been to Rentor before this moment, and yet the way Thrawn had spoken of the glacial planet, the softness in his voice when he described the golden slumber of sunrise made Car’das feel as if he too had grown up surrounded by the endless kiss of winter.
But Car’das was born of spring. He understood how the final gray sheets of snow melted, how a world once coated in the darkness would greet the aged flecks of warmth like an old friend.
On Corellia, it was believed that winter and spring were the most tragic of lovers, always within arm’s reach of each other, yet never able to love for more than a night.
Approaching the small plot of land, Car’das clenched his fists, clinging to the final shred of warmth, savoring the untouched landscape as the pastel sunrise crested above him.
“It is beautiful,” he said to Ar’alani in Cheunh as his gaze lingered on the pale, fading moon for a moment longer.
The Admiral nodded in response as she produced a weathered set of keys from her pocket.
The cemetery was small yet well kept. Thrawn had once told Car’das that it was an unspoken tradition for his village to maintain their burial ground. Thrawn’s father had taken a special appreciation to their local plot, teaching both brothers the significance of chipping ice from each stone, of speaking forgotten names back into the frost-bitten air.
“He saw the importance in caring for the dead.” Ar’alani’s voice was uncharacteristically soft against the still air.
Car’das’s mouth felt dry as they approached the shared grave.
Ar’alani’s call had been unexpected – in fact, Car’das was shocked she even remembered his existence, let alone wanted to speak with him, especially after the disaster that was his introduction to Thrawn.
But her message had been simple; it was the 10th anniversary of Thrawn’s death, the 40th of Thrass’s, and there was no one left to remember them.
“When he was under my command, I once asked him why he insisted on returning to the sites of battles and marking each grave.” A sad smile tugged at the corner of the Admiral’s lips like she was lost deep in memory. “He told me it was what his father taught him, how the names of the dead become ours to continuously speak back into the world, to honor and remember.”
Car’das could not bring himself to speak as his gloved hand brushed against the shared engravement.
His chest ached as if he were back in the single, excruciating moment when the news washed over him like cold, pelting rain; Thrawn was dead.
Despite learning the circumstances later of his deceitful bodyguard, Car’das still found himself dreaming of the fractured heartbeat, of how his oldest lover greeted death.
Car’das couldn’t help but wonder what his final moments were like? Did Thrawn know the inevitable was coming, had he purposefully not reached out to him? Or did he have it all wrong, had somebody finally bested Thrawn? Was it like a game of chess where the ferocity of his own gaze was ultimately reflected back at him for a moment too long as blame was doled and his queen taken?
Did he feel fear? Was it like treading on thinning ice caps where every step brought him closer to both victory and defeat? Perhaps relief, like uncovering the first flowers after winter’s shuddering howl where sunlight lingered for a moment longer. Maybe he perceived nothing except the undying caress of steel as his strength colored the fabric of his uniform.
It was a question Car’das could chase for hours until his throat felt tight, and hands shook with a tremor that had no connection to age. Thrawn was dead, and he would not return, not for Car’das nor Ar’alani.
“I wish I would have known,” Car’das’s lips felt numb as he met Ar’alani’s gaze.
“Nobody can predict the future,” Ar’alani said grimly as she knelt before the grave, adorning its front with handmade wire sculptures. “Not you,” the Admiral paused as something veiled touched her features. “Not Thrawn.”
They stood in silence as Car’das’s eyes drifted from the ice engraved stone to the seemingly endless plane just beyond.
“You strove with none, for none were worth your strife.” He whispered, watching his breath take shape in white tendrils of vaper. “Be at peace, both of you.”
Ar’alani whispered something inaudible as she knelt before the marker; Car’das didn’t bother deciphering the sharp, foreign dialect of Cheuhn that passed her lips; it was not his place to understand.
Neither one spoke as the slow, majestic colors of the sunrise spilled over the mountains, bathing the graveyard in its own singular patch of light.
Wherever Thrawn had slipped off too, Car’das knew that the bounds of exile had faded, that perhaps for the first time since he left the Ascendancy, he was not alone.