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Thrawn dreams of Thrass, it is always winter.
Sometimes they are boys, huddling beneath wind scotched furs as the pallid ice moon rises amid the cloudless sky.
Vurass's lashes are white with frost as he squints in Vurawn's direction. The youngest boy knows only five years separate his brother's past from his own future.
Vurawn squeezes Vurass's hand as they walk towards the cold light. He does not want to wake up and return to the moonless haze of his quarters.
They stand amid the blue hour; Vurawn's hand feels warm against Vurass's. Childhood was not simple for either brother, yet they could both look ahead towards the dusk of a nameless prospect.
Other times they are adults; it is always winter.
Thrass wears robes of burgundy, and Thrawn can't help but smile as he thinks of his brother looking more regal than the Patriarch.
The elder Mitth’s laugh is gentle as they sit on the terrace; neither speaks. Undisturbed flakes of snowmelt against their skin as silvery luminescence color them both in dusk.
Thrass's future and Thrawn's past are akin to melting ice caps; perpetual, momentary, predetermined.
Thrawn looks to Thrass, to his future. Perhaps he is the past then, five years, half a decade; what would his brother have done with the extra years?
It does not matter; time cradles them together; it is always winter in Thrawn's dreams.
The eldest Mitth's eyes crinkle with warmth as his hand meets the senior captain's shoulder. Thrawn doesn't move, savoring the heat, the presence of Thrass's hand in his own.
There are rare moments when the scene splinters, depositing both brothers in a lonely hallway. Thrawn cannot tell if it is winter and does not feel the warmth of Thrass’s hand.
It is challenging to decern if Thrass is truly standing beneath the alien ship's fluorescent lighting or unfiltered moonlight. Both forms of clarity paint his brother as a man flooded with youth.
Did he always look so young? Thrawn could never be sure.
He studies his brother, Thrawn's own lashes heavy with the weight of the future, the one that is standing inches away from him.
Was it his own stubborn heart that burned too bright? Or did Thrass's beat the same?
Thrawn wants Thrass to take his hand and guide him in the moon's trajectory, the direction home.
But neither man can look ahead, not when their gazes are locked on each other.
Time holds them together, but even that has an end date.
Thrass does not take Thrawn's hand, and Thrawn cannot stay. As his neck turns away, his future disintegrates like dust, leaving no trace or reminder that it had ever existed at all.
Thrawn knows his brother was here; perhaps he is the only one.
They are both boys again, except Thrawn is alone. It is not winter, and there is no moon.
Sunlight frames his tiny body in a singular shadow as he turns his back, walking away from home.