WARNING: major character death
Perhaps it was foolish to think themselves safe. The admiral was always going on about how easy, how dangerous, it was to become lulled into a false sense of security. Yet it had been almost a decade since the Empire finally won the long war against the rebellion. Ten long years of peace and a safe galaxy.
Pellaeon can do nothing but watch as all that time gets flushed down the drain. As he kneels on the hard floor of the open stage and holds Thrawn as blood from his chest wound soaks his through uniform. He wants to scream and plead at the universe at the same time. He wants to ask why now, when everything had been going so well?
And a part of him is so disgusted that out of all the possibilities, a public assassination seems the like most obvious thing the shriveled corpse of the New Republic would attempt. How could they have missed it? How could they have made the one mistake needed for this to happen?
Movement pulls him from his thoughts – Thrawn has lifted a hand up towards Pellaeon and it trembles in the air. Pellaeon grabs it before it can fall back down and he pulls it to his cheek, turns his head so he can press his lips to Thrawn's palm and mouth Please against his skin as tears roll down his face.
"It's yours now."
Pellaeon doesn't want it. The galaxy can burn for all he cares in that moment.
He wants to tell Thrawn that but can't get the words past his own constricted throat. A quiet sob comes forth instead and Thrawn makes a wheezing, sympathetic noise in response.
"You'll make me proud."
It's sickening – this man is dying and he's the one trying to offer comfort. Pellaeon makes himself open his eyes and blink away his tears, desperate to clear his vision so he can see the admiral clearly.
Thrawn is smiling at him. A small, genuine smile – but he cannot keep his head from weakly lolling to the side and his skin is already turning an unhealthy, ashy shade of blue.
"You've always made me proud."
He puts such force into his voice that Pellaeon almost tells him to save his energy – but the medics won't get here in time for it to make a difference.
The glow of Thrawn's eyes seems to flicker, just for a second, and his head falls back, unable to hold it up any longer.
Pellaeon lets the hand he is holding drop and rearranges himself as best he can without hurting the admiral further so he can hold his head up – so he can die comfortably.
Thrawn's features smooth out gratefully. Pellaeon knows he's close given how he does not speak. How he struggles to even breathe. How a thin trail of blood drips from the corner of his mouth.
His eyes are so dim it's frightening, but Pellaeon does not dare look away, does not so much as blink.
And he watches as that strange light fades from the admiral's eyes and his body goes unnaturally slack in Pellaeon's arms.
He watches as a man who had won the support and hearts of his people, who had worked tirelessly towards a truly unified galaxy, dies.
The sound Pellaeon makes is inhuman.
He sobs openly now, whole body shaking as he slowly, carefully, leans forwards and presses his forehead to Thrawn's.
He doesn't notice the chaos as a trooper finally forces the assassin to the ground and puts a bolt in her head.
He doesn't acknowledge the frantic hand of an officer grasping his shoulder as he tries to get Pellaeon to move, to get to safety.
Pellaeon does not even acknowledge his own anguished screaming as the cold hands of reality pick up his heart and begin ripping it into tiny, inconsolable pieces.