Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.
She could remember the feeling of the stones beneath her shoes, the perfect, unearthly smoothness that was somehow colder than the heart of space. Remember the sensation from the first time she had stepped into this courtyard near ten years passed. When she had been a frightened little girl, dressed in silks and ribbons in an effort to please the Shadow King, the man that she would one day choose to call Master. That choice would eventually lead to other decisions, other selections of opportunity that would lead her full circle to this exact point.
It felt like a lifetime ago, Irena mused as she wandered the immaculate garden. She was no longer the skinny slip of a girl whose wrists were too tiny for binders to hold. She was a woman now, a powerful and respected member of the Imperial Court. A servant that spread The Emperor's will far and wide.
She was his left hand. Mara Jade was his right hand. And Vader was his sword. A triumvirate of unlimited power, held in check by the will of the man that guided the known galaxy.
And yet she trembled this day, this woman who made moffs and senators quail at her presence. It was not a pleasant feeling. Rosebud lips, shaded the color of a gentle sunset, pulled down in a pout. She should not know this fear. It would displease her Master if he learned of its existence. But there it was, dredged up from her childhood and the day her planet was destroyed.
It was his fault. But the Master could not know that, either. Not if she wished him to survive this night.
There were no blemishes to those stones, she recalled, just as there was no end to the feeling of frozen inevitability that floated in the air, mingling with the scents of thousands of rare flowers. The sculptures of the Emperor's Audience hall had done little to alleviate the feeling of eternal stillness, as if the universe held its breath. They were just as perfect as the floor stones, so well carved as to look as if they drew breath on their own. Locked forever in their permanent dance, staring down at all with empty doll-like eyes.
Beauty and decay, death petrified in the midst of claiming the most cherished of things. Such was the art her Master liked best. The first thing he wanted her young eyes to view and understand. It was an advanced warning of things to come in her life. So many lessons she had learned since she had last seen him, so many things to remember as an attendant to her Master. Indeed, there was little reason to remember him at all, or so all her training had told her.
But she did. Each and every time she stood in this garden, she remembered. The feeling of blue-skinned fingers on her shoulders, the shared words in that private briefing room on his ship. The course of her life irrevocably changed by the things he had told her. Even the life she had taken in this very garden paled in comparison to those moments on the Storm's End.
Frozen memories in her head, like the frozen statues of the garden, and the frozen inevitability of this night. No matter how much she had hoped to avoid it, destiny was coming. Her world was balanced on the blade of a knife, and the next breath that passed her lips could tip her to one side or the other. The problem being that no matter to which way she tumbled, to the good or to the ill, she would be sliced by the blade of her future.
Yet remaining immobile forever was the cut offered only by death, slowly severing her in two on the razor's edge of stagnation. And how she felt that pain even now, the past tugging with the same lure as the future. He was facing his future at this very moment, exchanging the olive drab of antiquity for the white heat of opportunity yet to come. And she, the woman that oh so casually changed the face of the galaxy at her master's whim, took sanctuary in the past.
Hiding from him. From herself. From wants and needs that could not be hers.
The private ceremony would have been completed by now, Mara Jade, as the Emperor's chosen favorite, sliding the Admiral's tunic from his chest and replacing it with the white of the Grand Admiral. The Emperor, himself, pinning the new rank bars to that endless pristine white. Telling the newest of his Grand Admirals to "serve with distinction" and know his "favor beyond measure."
Irena knew the ceremony by heart, she and Mara fighting for the honor to stand at the Emperor's side when he christened a new one. Most of the time they both stood at his sides, to the left and right as was befitting their positions. One would come forward and remove the tunic—symbolically removing the past—and the other would help the new warlord into the new tunic, to symbolize his rebirth as a chosen of the Emperor. Cheers would erupt from the gala, from those favored by the Emperor to watch this sacred ceremony.
Then the feasting would begin. The gifts would be presented. The celebration carrying on to the wee hours of the morning.
Except this time, she was not present. Nor was there a gala to celebrate this promotion.
Nor was the Admiral in question human by any stretch of the imagination.
Thrawn would not be feasted and celebrated, his promotion ceremony begrudgingly granted because the Emperor had had no other choice. Vice Admiral Thrawn had saved his life, thwarted the attempted coup of Grand Admiral Zaarin, and by killing the traitor, claimed his right to all the man had possessed. Including his rank.
No, especially his rank. Zaarin had been the best, the most brilliant military strategist the known galaxy could produce. He had been perfect in so many ways. Tall, strong, regal. From a powerful Core world family. Human. Undefeated in battle after battle. With a drive to conquer in the name of the Empire that was unmatched. So much so that Irena had been promised to him, a bride to bind him and his family utterly to the Emperor. His genetic template fused with hers in the form of a child.
Her force talents. His military genius. And their offspring would undoubtedly become the future leaders of the Imperial armada.
Irena glanced down at her left hand, at the curiously empty space on her left ring finger. Once occupied by the most rare of fire rubies on a deceptively delicate band. No, her absence at this farce of a promotion would not have been out of sorts. Let the galaxy assume she was furious with this alien for killing her betrothed. Let them believe she was in mourning. Let the truth that she had no more cared a wit about Zaarin than he had for her die in obscurity.
Let the truth that she feared him as much as she craved a glimpse of him likewise die in the depths of her heart. The Empire had a new military genius to tout about, one that had beaten the great Zaarin. And in mockery, in hidden secrecy as if it were a great shame to name him such, the Emperor crowned his new Warlord away from the prying eyes of the people that Warlord could be forced to give his life in order to protect.
She spun away from the statue she had been studying, hands folded politely before her. The image of utter calm while inside she raged. It was uncalled for, unfair. It was…
… it was him.
For the first time ever, she understood the power of the seductive tricks she had been taught. Thrawn walked through the garden, taking his time. Moonlight and shadows playing tricks with her eyes, making him glow like something holy when passed through a bright spot. Making him sinister and frightening when standing in the darkness, those eyes a scarlet radiance that made him all the more unreal.
She froze, not daring to breathe. Wondering if Zaarin had found her in such a state when she had come to him in this garden. Then it had been she that walked the paths of moonlight and shadow, pausing at the perfect moment to glow like a precious gem, or to smolder in the shadows like a dark desire made flesh. Did Thrawn do this on purpose? Did he know she was even there?
"You were not at the ceremony," he said by way of greeting, eyes resting on the nearby statue as if memorizing the undying beauty of it. "Your presence was missed by all."
Her heart hammered in her chest, and suddenly she was that little girl begging for her life at the feet of the Lord Vader. It took all her strength not to look down at her fingers, to see if the nails were torn and caked in dirt as they had been that day. Which was foolishness. She was not a child anymore. She was the Lady Irena, favored of Palpatine. She was a Hand to the Emperor.
And he was… he was him.
"It was not to my liking," she replied coolly, as if bored. Turning her back on him as if he were just another servant, another flunky, another courtesan come to beg favor from her Master.
He was silent a moment. "You did not approve."
"On the contrary, I approved greatly—of your promotion."
"But not of the way the promotion was carried out."
She shrugged a shoulder, sparing him the smallest of glances. Pausing in her own pool of moonlight. She knew the effect such things had on men. The Emperor did not surround himself with ugly things. She was beautiful and she knew it. And when she applied all that her tutors had taught to her, she could stop a man's heart with a glance. More than one Moff had fallen to her in such a way. Never touching her, and yet babbling their deceit and treachery against her Master for only the hope of possessing one of the Emperor's private living treasures.
In this one thing, she was better than Mara. This one thing. How that galled!
And yet she could not tell if he stared at her indulgingly, or if she had truly captivated him. It was impossible to tell what went through his mind, his expression as carefully controlled as her own, his mind iron-clad against her sensing of emotions. And those eyes… they haunted her dreams. And most nights those dreams were not unpleasant.
"No," she said simply, turning back to the statue.
He gave ground first, crossing the distance between them. Which was all well and good, for she could not bring herself to cross the space to him. Not when the closer he came, the weaker she felt.
"The Emperor was not pleased with your absence."
She graced him with another glance, lips drawn down in her trademark pout. "Did he send you to fetch me? I would think that beneath your station now, Grand Admiral."
He shrugged a shoulder, meeting her gaze. "We are both servants of his will, Lady Irena Morgan. Whether commanding from the bridge of a ship or serving a summons, we will perform our tasks."
Was that a reminder of the conversation between them a decade ago? Or was she reading too much into a simple declaration of truthful servitude? Burn him, she thought viciously. He should not have this power of her. She should not feel like the uneducated child in his presence. And still her hands fought to slide behind her back, to fidget there.
"Then let us go," she snapped, turning her uncertainty into anger. "Our Master is not to be kept waiting."
He reached out a hand, caught her bare arm. "I did not say that the Emperor sent me."
Inwardly she winced. No, he hadn't said that. He'd latched onto her words, and let her believe what she wished. Foolish. Idiotic. A novice mistake. When this night was over, she would go to Mara, herself, and beg the other woman to beat her bloody. Let the other woman exult that once again Irena was the weaker and Mara the stronger. Only she knew that in this, her would-be sister turned rival would not seek satisfaction. She would not withhold the painful blows with the training swords, but she would cry when Irena cried, and in the end the two would hold each other.
They were rivals in everything. But only with each other. And defeats from an outside source unattached to their assignments or rivalries were defeats they shared together.
Her eyes grew cold, arrogant. Pointedly glancing at the hand on her arm and back at him. "Have a care, Grand Admiral," she whispered, the smile that curved her lips promising wicked pain. "Men in your position and above have died from touching the Emperor's treasures without his permission."
"A strong lesson indeed for those without such permission," he countered. "Considering I have laid hands to you before under His Majesty's orders, I do not believe I will suffer that fate."
"You mean under Lord Vader's orders."
He had the gall to shrug again, hand remaining as immovable as before. "Are not the actions the three of you take but extensions of his will? Therefore the Lord Vader's orders to me were the will of the Emperor, himself. It matters little if those orders were given a decade ago or a moment past."
"You assume much."
"Perhaps."
The warmth of his hand sank into her skin, and against her will small goose bumps rose across her arm. Her heart started to beat faster, her breath just noticeably increased. But she knew he would notice it. Would he think it a trick, a deception of seduction? Would he take it for sincerity? Did she even know herself?
She wanted him to let go. She wanted him to hold on forever.
Blast it, Andryl had been right. This was dangerous. He was dangerous. And listening to the kindly old man had done nothing to save her from this moment. She stared up into his eyes, searching. Watching the plans she had made behind that latticework screen play out.
One of the "gifts" always given to a man that achieved his rank was a lovely woman from the Emperor's own private harem. A virgin trained in the arts of pleasure and yet having never tasted them. Knowing how to please, and yet with that innocence that would allow this newly minted Warlord to conquer and claim. To bathe his new title in blood that very night.
And if the woman in question conceived that night… well, the Emperor then had a great genetic template from which to draw upon as needed. The child taken from the woman and the woman killed if she resisted, the babe raised to be a royal guard. Conditioned from birth to have pure loyalty to the Emperor alone.
The Emperor's gifts always cut both ways. Always on the razored edge of a knife.
Like destiny.
Like this moment.
It had been her intention to show up to the ceremony that created Thrawn as a Grand Admiral. Her gown of scarlet silk silhouetting her curves in all the right ways, a grand bustle and train behind it softening the erotic shape. She had chosen red because Mara would still be in her whore's gown of white, thinking herself clever to contrast against the blackness of the Emperor's robes. To look like a beacon of purity in the sea of darkness.
But Irena would have shown above even that, her red making Mara's white look clichéd and outdated. She would have commanded every eye in the room. If there had been eyes to command, that was.
And then she would have taken the place of that woman the Emperor had put in Thrawn's bed…
Except that she couldn't. Not with Andryl's warnings ringing in her head. Not with the… the something that echoed through the Force, telling her it was the wrong time and place. The wrong way to approach this man. The wrong way to get what she wanted. That selfsame feeling had led her to the gardens, to meditate and wonder.
Only to lead her here. To this moment, with his hand on her arm burning like fire and her heart trying to leap out of her chest.
"You should not be here," she hissed.
"Neither should you," he countered.
"The palace is my home. I may go where I wish when I wish."
His lips quirked in a slight smile. "Ah, the spoiled princess ignoring her father's wishes, to pout alone in the gardens. I would have thought more of you, my Lady."
"And I would have thought you smart enough not to ignore your Emperor's gifts. One awaits you in your suite, my honoured Grand Admiral. Do not keep it waiting."
"You refer to the woman," he shrugged again, the action meaning everything and nothing. "She will keep for now. I know well her purpose for both myself and His Majesty. It is of no consequence."
"Yes, no consequence. Much like this conversation," she quipped, and tried to take another step away. Tried, being the operative word. She sighed with what she hoped was annoyed dramatics. "I do hope for your sake that you have something important to tell me, otherwise I think I grow tired of being manhandled by you. In case it has escaped your notice, I am no longer that child kneeling on your bridge."
"That, above all else, has not escaped my notice."
His hand tugged once, the motion nearly lifting her off her feet and supplanting her on the path before him. So close that she could smell the freshness of that brand new tunic, could see the sharp crease lines of fabric. Her hand landed against his chest, bracing there. Which had been a mistake, as it invited his other arm to wrap around her waist.
Her breath caught. And she had to close her eyes to steady herself. Dangerous. So very, very dangerous. The Emperor would not approve. And what he did not approve of rarely continued to exist for long. So why was her heart thundering and her hand wanting to reach for those clasps on his tunic?
"I am not for you," she heard herself say, surprised that her voice did not tremble. Certainly everything else inside her was! "Your gift has been chosen for you. Go to it. Enjoy it. And leave me to my solitude."
"Then step away from me."
She tried, she really did. He was as immovable as a mountain.
Both eyebrows lifted. "Really, Emperor's Hand, is that the best you can do? Is this what makes the universe tremble in His Majesty's name?"
He was mocking her? Trying to rile her? Did he wish her to use the Force and obliterate him? It was in her power to do. She could add his face to the fog of her victims, keep him forevermore as hers alone that way. Collect him. Except…
"You are a Grand Admiral," she replied, this time her tone shaking. "I could burn you to ash here and now, but that would not please our Emperor. Disobedience carries a price."
She had meant it as a warning, a threat. She had not intended to transport herself back to that damnable bridge, to the feeling of his arm around her shoulders as they discussed her failure and her future, the swirling in his eyes that she now recognized as plans within plans within plans. And still she could not help the way her breath caught when he tipped his head to the side. Her feet poised to rise up on tip-toes, to feel his lips against hers. Indeed his head was lowering towards her upturned face—
He paused inches from her lips. "Indeed it does. But so does choice," he whispered, echoing back those lines from the depths of nightmare. "What will you choose next?"
She closed the distance between them, and it was her virgin's blood that baptized him as a Warlord.