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Life does not reach Syndic Mitth'ras'safis and Jedi Knight Lorana Jinzler's final resting spot.
The desolate, quiet remains of Outbound Flight stood solemn amongst the luminous golden atmosphere of the Redoubt. Lorana knows there are worse tombs to be stricken too. Master C'baoth once brought her to the pits of Coyerti, an anomaly within the world's molten core, that caused the planet to collapse inwards, swallowing everything in its path until nothing remained, not even after death.
The transition of slipping from life into oblivion was challenging. When Lorana rises from the smoky, bloodless ship, she feels lost, perhaps more than she ever has in life.
Lorana has never believed in ghosts; they hold little principle in the life of a Jedi. It shouldn't have been possible to idle in the moments between body and soul, to be cemented in senseless wandering. There is the living force, and beyond it, nothing more, nothing less.
She has become neither a survivor nor hero, merely a soulless silhouette, unable to move on, unable to return to her crumpled skeleton. As Outbound flight's passengers drift into the beyond, Lorana remains, powerless to join the splintered bones and broken weapons of her memories.
Lorana returns once to the interior of the doomed ship. She scarcely passes the main entrance before her legs turn to water and vision fractures, leaving her sightless as the air slips from her lungs. It is like dying all over again.
She does not enter the alloy-crusted carcass after that; it is cold, unwelcoming. She is sure Outbound Flight will consume her whole if she returns to its walls.
Perhaps it is the will of the force that she remains behind, unable to become one with the force, helpless to do all but roam the unscathed plains, waiting for something that lingered just beyond the peripheral of her vision.
Thrawn visits often, his portentous shadow residing just beyond her line of sight as he observes the ship.
It was easy for Lorana to turn her back on him. He does not belong here, not amongst his victim’s dust and sun-bleached bones.
Sometimes she merely studies him, letting the intensity of her gaze melt into his unfocused eyes. Often, she wonders how he died, had it been by a new foe? Or had he merely flown too close to the sun?
At first, Lorana feels only pungent anger towards the Chiss. He is responsible for the death of her people, Thrawn, who brought upon her turbulent demise.
Lorana hates him.
These are emotions beneath a Jedi Knight, but it matters little to Lorana, not when she will never return to the temple's timeless walls.
But even her boundless displeasure dries up – eternity is far too long to cling to such human emotions.
Despite being a master tactician in life, Thrawn has become predictable in death. Every new moon, his young, gossamer form drifts closer to Outbound flight, as if he were inspecting the ship's exterior for answers, trying to make meaning of death upon death.
Occasionally his pale hands graze the weathered steal; it makes Lorana shiver.
She can't be sure if Thrawn feels her presence; every now and then, his dim gaze flickers over her resting spot amongst the fuselage as if beckoning for her to appear.
Lorana wants to forget him, wants him to leave, yet not even she can resist the hunger of exile as she watches him.
No moon illuminates Thrawn's touch as his hand traces the forgotten alloy.
Lorana can't bring herself to ignore him tonight, can't afford to spend another moment rotting in the quiet boundless purgatory that has taken everything from her.
"Thrawn," her voice is hollow, not entirely different from their first encounter when she urged him to reconsider his plan of attack.
The former Senior Captain's hands jerk back. He vanishes.
Later, he returns.
"Thrawn," she says again.
He does not react, only stands, looking at his brother's tomb.
"Why do you linger?"
He says nothing. Does nothing. He cannot hear.
Thrawn visits more frequently, every day Lorana watches as he crumples before the metallic shell, aimlessly searching for a vantage point amid the impenetrable hull.
His grief is utter and desolate; this Lorana knows, its chill prickles beneath her skin.
She can't make him leave, but she can try to understand.
"You are not ready to depart."
Thrawn's face is like stone; he does not move or react. The days rise and fall.
Lorana has never gotten people to notice her or meet her eyes. In life, she was a figment, engulfed by the raging fury of C'baoth. She does not know much, but she understands guilt.
"He will be remembered for more than his sacrifice."
Lorana only knew Thrass for a handful of moments, yet his nature had been telling. He was a good man both in and out of life.
The former Jedi Knight wishes she could say the same.
"I did not say goodbye." Thrawn's voice is distant, saturated with exhaustion.
Lorana leaves the shadow of Outbound Flight and nears Thrawn's seated form. He is young, perhaps a year or two older than her, and yet his eyes hold age, carrying decades of recollections beyond her final breath.
"Goodbye's do not obscure memories. You did not have to tell him everything he already knew." Lorana extends her hand. "You are made of memories, remember Thrass as he should be."
Thrawn takes it without meeting her gaze.
The retellings dot the uneven terrain like sun blossoms amid an early spring. They do not contain words but wrap around Lorana and Thrawn like forgotten dreams.
Vurass is eight; his garb of thick wind-scotched furs makes him look older as Vurawn's small body clings to his back. Rentor's sun drips over the mountain like warm honey, bathing the glacial scene in gold.
Vurass is twelve and reads aloud, patiently stopping and answering every one of his brother's questions no matter their obscurity or relevance.
Thrass is fifteen and leaves Rentor. His arms are safe, and Vurawn would give anything for him to stay. As the land speeder drives off, Thrass's gaze lingers on Vurawn until he is nothing more than a speck in the distance.
Thrass is twenty and embraces Thrawn. It has been over five years since they've seen each other. They laugh and drink, and for a heartbeat, they are back on Rentor, and not a moment has slipped through their fingers.
Thrass is twenty-six, and his eyes crease with exhaustion as he shakes his head. "Thrawn, you can't continue to push the lines this way," he says. "Peaceful watchfulness is the Chiss way, and the Nine Ruling Families won't stand by forever while you ignore basic military doctrine."
Thrass is standing alone as his gaze locks with Thrawn's. Neither Chiss speaks as a silent understanding blankets the compartment. It will always end this way.
Lorana listens, and she, too, remembers.
The force is breathless and warm against her skin as she wanders through the temple. Lorana does not know her blood family, but she is not afraid; she will become a Jedi, as bright as courageous.
C'baoth is cold yet brash. He teaches her as if she is a chore, not his responsibility.
Lorana works hard, she does not cut corners or give up, but C'baoth has become cruel. His palm bruises her cheek as salt blurs her vision. She will be nothing.
Lorana is eighteen and does not have a single friend. Lorana is twenty and wants a life beyond the Order. Lorana is twenty-two and holds no autonomy over her life or her death.
Dean Jinzler's eyes hold untamed fury as saliva dots the corners of his lips. "You Jedi think you're perfect," he says at last. "You think you know what's right for everyone and everything. Well, you're not, and you don't."
Death looms over the Jedi Knight like a cold shadow as her hands melt into Thrass's. Lorana's heart is heavy, but it is not for herself. As the atmosphere slips away, Lorana is certain that she would re-live this moment a thousand times over if it meant Thrass's memory lives on.
They watch the sunrise together every morning; sometimes, they exchange stories of the past; Thrawn speaks of those he once knew, Lorana with those she never got the chance to meet. Neither talks of war.
Other times they peer beyond the hazy shadow of death. Lorana watches Dean, her heart twinging with grief as he struggles to piece together both his life and misplaces anger. Thrawn keeps an eye on a man – Gilad Pellaeon, a relic of the past who he simply cannot entirely abandon yet.
When dusk's rich desolate light leaves them in the evenings, Lorana rests her head on Thrawn's shoulder, neither of them speak.
Friendship is an odd notion, but then again, Lorana is almost certain Thrawn is as much her first true friend as she is his.
It reminds her of Master Yoda's tales of Eiram's destruction and how chrysanthemum grew amid the planet's dry, uninhabitable soil, bathing its doomed exterior in a blanket of yellow as Jedi collapse to their knees, letting the blossom cradle their broken bodies as they became one with the force. Life at the end of all living things, Master Yoda, used to deem it.
Eiram's blossoms are ash, and the former Grand Jedi Master is most likely dead, but Lorana is glad to be with Thrawn, even after the end of all living things.
"Why do you not go to him?"
"I cannot." Despite his dulcet tone, Thrawn's pain is akin to a pitless wound, one that will never fully heal. "This is all that is left," he says, his eye resting on the smokeless remains of Outbound Flight.
Lorana's chest aches as her gaze slip past Thrawn into the sunless tomb before them. She does not believe in the underworld, but the former Jedi Knight is almost certain that whatever lurks within Outbound Flight's walls will consume them both.
She does not speak as she conjures images of Thrass, the warmth in his eyes, the reassurance of his touch, the firmness in a decision that did not have to be.
The memories are soft and lacy, similar to the first snowfall on Coruscant. Thrawn listens as his gaze melts further into the ship's exterior. For a heartbeat, they are all there, a Senior Captain, a Jedi Knight, and a Syndic who should have been lightyears away.
The sun is slipping from the cloudless sky, bathing the sliver of land in hues of orange and red. Thrawn is beside Lorana, his back slouched against Outbound Flight; his young face is unmarked, almost peaceful.
He hums softly, a Rentorian lullaby his mother used to sing when he was a child. Lorana isn't sure how much heart she has left to splinter for the both of them.
Nothing lingers between them, not anymore. Lorana has witnessed Thrawn's worst moments, his failures, his exile. Thrawn has seen her loss, her unwilling isolation at the hands of the Order.
"You would have been a proper Jedi."
Thrawn's smile is almost sad as he rests his fingers against the back of her palm. "I would hope to resemble but a shadow of you."
Lorana softly huffs as the sun descends into its western grave. "I'm glad to have known you and Thrass, if only for a moment."
Thrawn's lips softly turn upwards as he continues humming. "He is proud of us."
Lorana's throat tightens as she catches a stray glimpse of Outbound Flight's vacant hallway. She does not want to enter, but some fears must be overcome, if not for herself, then Thrawn.
The rust-coated alloy whispers to Lorana as her fingers brush against the hilt of her saber. She does not consider herself brave nor a hero as the blade hums in her grasp. In her endless years, all Lorana has wanted is to make a difference, one she could never fully grasp in life.
She feels Thrawn's gaze against her back as she carves an entrance large enough for the both of them.
Lorana's saber falls from her grasp as the metal caves inwards. She does not reach for it.
"I could not save your brother." Her voice is soft as she turns to Thrawn. "But I can get you to him."
The Chiss's eyes widen in a way Lorana has never seen as he studies the entrance. The momentary confusion leaves his features as he nears the tomb.
Neither of them knows what lingers at the end of the hallway.
To Lorana's surprise, Thrawn extends his hand, motioning for her to take it. "He waits for us."
Together they enter the bottomless inside, slipping past the heavy veil of dusk that has exiled them a thousand lifetimes over.
Sun spills through the darkness as a figure draped in burgundy robes embraces them both.