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Thrawn’s ears ring and he blinks to regain his vision after the blinding light of the explosion. Eli. Where is Eli? Thrawn had heard the detonation—had tried to push them behind cover before the shrapnel was set loose.
He looks down, assessing his own injuries, finds only a minor laceration on his right bicep.
Eli. He was right here. Where is Eli?
Thrawn looks around the destruction; bodies lay strewn about. Fire laps at the supply crates that this particular rebel cell had targeted. There, on his back, is a small form, one that he has memorized long ago. One he could recognize in the dark, in a stupor—
One he could recognize now even when covered in blood.
"No," he breathes and scrambles, knees dragging across the busted glass, to his friend. "Eli."
Eli is laying on his back, clutching uselessly at shredded abdomen. Blood has saturated his shredded olive green tunic, covering his hands completely. The rank plate, his pride and joy after receiving his first promotion, is missing, lost in the explosion. His dark brown eyes stare straight ahead and his throat works against what Thrawn can only assume are cries of pain.
There is so much blood. He doesn't even know where to start.
Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, Eli turns his head. "Thrawn." He sounds relieved and how wrong is that? That he is grateful to see the man who killed him.
"Don't speak," Thrawn advises and fumbles for his commlink. "This is Admiral Thrawn. I am in need of immediate medical evac. Patient is a twenty-nine year old male, multiple shrapnel wounds to the abdomen, type A-B positive blood."
He shrugs off his own tunic and presses it to Eli’s stomach, hoping without any reason that the pressure will stop the countless bleeds. Blood immediately seeps through the weave of the fabric, hot and thick. Red coats his fingers, pooling in the wells of his cuticles, staining them purple.
Eli’s hand fumbles for his own, the lack of dexterity just another sign of how much blood he has lost. "Thrawn."
"Save your strength."
Eli rests his hand over Thrawn’s. "I'm not gonna…" he trails off.
Thrawn hushes him. "Just a little longer. Help is coming."
"I love you," he sputters, blood spilling out the side of his mouth, catching in the stubble from this morning’s shave.
The words nearly pass him by, lost in the chaos of his best friend dying. But their impact feels like shrapnel shredding his own chest. He presses harder onto Eli’s. This cannot be the end.
"I’m sorry to tell you now," he mumbles, the words slurring together. “But—But, I—” His body goes slack under his palms.
"No," Thrawn gasps. He presses on Eli's chest, realizes he has quit breathing and straddles him to begin chest compressions. "Eli, stay with me." He pushes on his chest, feels his ribs crack under the force of the pressure. "Stay with me." His hair falls into his face, but he doesn't care. His friend is dying. Thrawn’s only hope is trying to keep blood circulating to the brain. It's a useless notion.
He doesn't even hear the shuttle arrive. A medic pulls him off of Eli and starts administering care. Thrawn follows them listlessly onto the shuttle and as they rise up above the destruction he can only think one thing:
What glory to the Empire leaves their men covered in their own blood?