Chapter 19: Draw a line
Art is inextricably linked to both creation and destruction, even if most sentients prefer to shy away from the fact. To create art, one has to burn and destroy ordinary concepts and substitute them with new truths, profound and powerful enough to conquer hearts and minds. Creation without destruction is possible, yet it loses its edge, allowing safe patters to overshadow a true intention of an artist. Destruction, henceforth, is the first step towards creation, almost a cathartic experience that defies the past and creates a blank canvass for the future.
Looking at the fragile woman in front of him, he gets an unmistakable feeling that she is going through her own catharsis.
"So, the question is," he closes the distance between them, enough to see her eyelashes fluttering as she opens her eyes, breaking free from whatever inner turmoil she's been wrestling with. "What are you going to do next?"
"Do I have a choice? Really?"
Her tone speaks of determination and conviction, but also holds a touch of bitterness. Her choice is made, that much is clear, but it brings her no joy.
He wonders for one fleeting second if she is going to retreat, but it's not her pattern, not with the stakes so high.
"I won't challenge Mon, not unless I have to. But I'll run for the Chancellor if the time comes."
Leadership is a role and a task that should never be aspired to lightly, and the woman in front of him feels the full weight of it. She isn't blinded by the position, it's a means to an end for her, not an end in itself. That's what will make her the best alternative - her sense of duty rather than the lust for power that drove the late Emperor or so many others.
"When. You aren't content, though."
"The higher you are, the harder you fall."
He sees it in her gaze – the deep brown of Brylark tree – unwavering strength hidden beneath its warm rich color. She'll do what she has to, whatever it costs to her personally.
While destruction is inextricably linked to creation…. he'd hate to see her fall and shutter at the end, though.
"May I borrow your blaster for a moment?"
Resolve, spelled in a tense set of her shoulders, a slight tremor in her hand that reverberates through their touch when she takes his blaster, not pronounced enough for an outside observer to notice, but definitely enough for him to feel and pinpoint the real source – emotional strain of yet another step towards choosing a higher loyalty. Still, her hand is steady the moment she targets the hexagonal box on the floor, even if knuckles turn white with tension.
Not for the first time, he marvels at the paradox embodied by the woman in front of him. Deceptively fragile yet unbreakable, a small, harmless particle that can shake the world around with the power of an unstoppable wave.
Dark eyelashes flutter, as she closes her eyes at the very last minute.
Pity, she'll hit forty degrees to the left: her arm is bound to sway, given the blaster recoil, and she won't see it soon enough to correct her position. The shot will still cause damage - significant, true, yet not devastating.
She sways a bit, the silhouette shimmering with internal tension, like a coiled spring, filled with energy and ready go unravel at any moment.
Putting a hand on her forehead afterwards is meant to be a comforting gesture, nothing more than replicating a pattern employed by Caregiver Thalias on the bridge of Springhawk, whenever sky-walker Che'ri seemed overwhelmed. For all her unyielding determination, brilliance and strength that he has witnessed time and time again, here and now the woman leaning back against his chest is in a similar state of distress: emotional overload, dizziness, disorientation. Inherent slight difference in body temperatures will be more pronounced now, given her emotional state, so the cold can constrict blood vessels, help reduce the neurotransmission of pain to the brain, and act as a shock factor to ground her in present.
Underestimating the effect their closeness would have on him, however, is an error, a terribly human one at that.
Her body leaning into his, close enough to feel her warmth and a slight sigh of relief that slips past her lips. There is no hidden subtext here, apart from trust and comfort, yet… it binds them together, the flicker of solace that runs through both of them – damn the law of communicating vessels – and pulls them closer still, in a subconscious attempt to protect this small and fragile spark.
His mind promptly comes up with three excuses and plausible scenarios to explain the blaster shot to the company they're bound to have. Indulging himself in the least plausible one, the one that pulls them even closer, succumbing to that irrational yearning to prolong the comforting contact – well, Thrawn has to admit, even if only to himself, that this is a conscious mistake.
The worst thing: he doesn't regret it, not in the slightest.
Once everyone leaves, he detachedly surveys the damage done to his office: the wall will have to go, she hit right in the center of the Imperial crest. She has good aim, when she doesn't close her eyes at the very last minute, that is. Still, he can try to preserve the bottom part of the wall and fit a set of new repeater screens here to magnify artefacts and study artworks.
As he passes the other wall, his feet almost crush the remnants of burned wood and durasteel. He bends down to inspect the fragments. Nearly nothing left, few charred wooden pieces mixed with blown-up carcass and melted mirrored splinters. She missed the mechanism a bit, though, forty degrees to the left, just like he predicted. He takes one damaged chip from the rubble, careful to leave the semi-melted cage of the mechanism on the floor.
Judging by the amount of shimmering melted splinters in his palm, it used to be a part of the mirrored lid on her music box.
Useless by now, just a faded, burned-out echo of the past that can never live up to its original function. Yet, a hundred splinters of the shuttered mirror catch the light in a peculiar and transfixing way: not reflecting, not anymore, but amplifying, colouring it in shades unseen. Destruction and creation - two sides of the same coin, indeed.
On instinct, he puts the charred piece in his pocket before standing up and taking a precautionary step away from the rest of rubble.
One more shot, and last remnants of the dangerous truth perish in burning hot plasma.
Mathematically, the whole is equal to the sum of its parts, neither more nor less. Possibly, that's why he has always preferred art to exact sciences, even if he had to master both.
There are a few basic principles of art. Depending on a context and provenance of an artist, they change their value, meaning and expression. The most fascinating aspect of studying species through art is in noting how each culture shapes and reinterprets these these basic principles. The most useful aspect of studying a war strategy through art is in predicting and thwarting your enemy's moves based on that.
But what of allies? Especially, quite an eclectic mix of allies?
In his experience, the best strategy is to create conditions for disparate backgrounds to become an advantage rather than a liability, so that the sum can be exponentially bigger than individual parts. Impossible mathematically. Easily done in reality. He intends to prove it today.
"Why this system?" They meet on the bridge the next day, while General Skywalker is navigating Chimaera through final parsecs to a rendezvous point. Instead of a flash of pure white, she's wearing a mixture of reds and white today.
A maroon suit, semi-hidden by an ivory cape, adorned with traditional Alderaanian embroidery. Intricate stitches in gold, crimson and burgundy. Thin, yet unmissable against the ivory fabric, they form an elaborate ornament depicting sun and its rays descending on a surface, as the pattern spreads and grows wider at the hem. Once again, a testament toAlderaanian preference for covert planning rather than acting out of emotions, as long as the end result is worth it.
It suits her. Not just in the conventional sense, although, he would be blind to miss it, but it's the allusion Thrawn finds the most fascinating – she's a shimmering flame cloaked by a thick layer of the Alderaanian royal upbringing.
"It's a four-star system." He gestures to the viewport. "Hence, a perfect place for two ships to rendezvous if they seek privacy."
"And plausible deniability, I imagine."
"Of course."
Now that she steps closer, it's obvious. She didn't sleep last night: the lines of exhaustion and shadows beneath her eyes give it away, even if the facade is perfect. The splash of color is distracting enough to draw the attention of a casual observer away from her face. A perfect contrast and her own little diversion: she's wearing an amalgamation of contrasting shades, each made even brighter by the presence of another. For the second time in a span of few weeks, a ridiculous through crosses his mind: she reminds him of a Csilla sunset at the Mitth homestead.
"Do you know why sunsets are always predominantly red?"
"No, but I will in a minute, I guess." She cannot suppress a chuckle, even if mildly confused by his sudden question.
"During the day, sunlight is purely white because it is a combination of all colors, but at the time of sunset, sunlight must travel through the maximum amount of atmosphere to reach the observer's eyes. Out of all colors, red is the one that travels the farthest..."
"Your point being?"
"You didn't sleep, but the attempt to hide it is impressive."
She stiffens. For a moment Thrawn suspects that his attempt to show concern and appreciation for her tactical diversion came out completely wrong. But then, she rolls her eyes and huffs.
"Normal people would've just said that the colour looks good on me, and turned a blind eye on why I chose it, just so you know."
"Flattery is a way to manipulate the insecure and the ordinary. You're anything but." He pauses but then adds, for him it's obvious, but if she wants to hear it, "It does look good on you, by the way."
They arrive to their destination before she can formulate a retort.
Movement.
"Councilor Organa, General Skywalker, allow me to introduce Admiral Ar'alani and Lieutenant Commander Eli Vanto's of the Chiss Expansionary Defence Fleet."
And that's the last phrase he utters in Basic. Unexpectedly, finding the lowest common denominator proves to be a challenge. General Skywalker speaks Sy Bisti, yet Councilor Organa does not, and leaving her out of the conversation is not an option. She's passable at Meese Caulf (just like her birth parents, even if she has no way of knowing it), but her brother and Eli Vanto don't speak the language. Four of them speak Basic, however, that would leave out Ar'alani, which is obviously out of the question.
Eventually, they settle on Sy Bisti, while one of the two droids General Skywalker insisted on bringing with them - the familiar gold protocol one - aids in translating for Councilor Organa.
Contrast.
The first hour of their rendezvous proves that working out a plan in theory is definitely easier than doing so in reality.
"You're taking a terrible risk, Mitth'raw'nuruodo," Ar'alani's voice is laced with warning and disapproval. Whether due to essence of his proposal itself, or her underlying distrust to all things Empire and the New Republic, remains to be seen. "The odds are…"
"Unfavourable, but not impossible," General Skywalker cuts in.
"I trust Grand Admiral Thrawn to control the response of the Imperial forces," Councilor Organa speaks up, and waits for the droid to finish translating before continuing, "while I will push the New Republic to follow suit."
What a difference a day makes, as if she didn't doubt her ability to lead the New Republic just yesterday night. Her conviction and determination – unyielding and matter-of-fact - need no interpreter. He choose right, that much is certain.
"And you intend to keep it secret?" Eli Vanto seems equal part curious and intrigued.
Emphasis.
"Knowledge only means complicity in guilt," Councilor Organa answers in Basic, looking him straight in the eye, while the droid is translating for the others, "while ignorance offers a certain dignity. Given the choice, guess what most sentients in the galaxy would opt for." She pauses for a moment and adds in a pensive, quieter tone. "We don't have the luxury of ignorance, let's give it to the others, though."
Thrawn wonders for a moment if his old friend can see that he saw in her: a peculiar mixture of resilience and vulnerability that many will find compelling, especially in the contrast with the late Emperor. Judging by a strange expression in his eyes – he does.
Pattern.
"We need to find a better way to keep in touch and coordinate," Ar'alani remarks while looking at the map of the galaxy. "It's getting increasingly difficult to avoid the scrutiny of Syndicure."
"We suspect it's been infiltrated." Leave it to Eli Vanto to voice out loud what Ar'alani has only alluded to. "I thought about rerouting messages through the HoloNet, given that they're most likely monitoring just the AscendancyNet, but it obviously doesn't work in the system…"
"For now. I can set up a state tender for…" Councilor Organa frowns, deep in thought, and then her lips tilt up in a shadow of a smile, as if to a private joke, "a goodwill outreach, extending HoloNet access to remote territories can be one of conditions. Send me the frequencies we need to each, will you?"
"Appreciate the goodwill gesture, Councilor." Thrawn cannot help mirroring her tone, their private reference all too clear to him now. "However, it sorts out only part of the problem. Never assume any message is secure, especially when others can translate it."
They are interrupted by a trill of beeps and whistles coming out of the familiar shabby-looking white-blue astromech droid.
"That is, unless we don't use a common language," General Skywalker brightens up at the suggestion, "thank you R2D2."
"While Binary can be easily translated…" Eli Vanto hurries up to add. "I can work out a numerical coding system, but then we need to find another way to send the code, it's gonna be long."
He probably shouldn't, there is no logical reason to do it, not now, and yet…
"I believe Councilor Organa can help you here, she's an expert in sending hidden coded messages."
Raised eyebrows, confusion written all over her face.
"Or have I misinterpreted a true value of the infamous Killik Twilight for Shadowcast?"
Her lips part in surprise, as soon as it dawns on her: he knows about a Rebel Shadowcast keycode. Of course he does, he simply hasn't had a chance to mention it, but now that he sees her bewildered expression, and a subsequent kaleidoscope of emotions that, as always, are an enthralling sight to behold, Thrawn realises that it was worth the wait.
"Sometimes you can be absolutely insufferable, just so you know." She hisses up in Basic, trying and failing to keep her voice low. "Threepio, don't you dare to translate it."
"Duly noted. But it may be worth for you to share basic principles of Shadowcast with Lieutenant Commander Vanto for inspiration."
Balance.
While the others focus on discussing how to secure a channel of communication, he gets a chance to talk to Ar'alani privately, as both move to the other side of the room. He needs her insight into military movements - a stress test for his plan, if you will. Her builds and suggestions are as sharp as ever, not that he expected anything less. Her tactics, though, skews more and more towards practiced Chiss patterns. Still, they fall into a rhythm, and between them work out a few useful adjustments to his original plan.
"Why did you insist on bringing in these two?" Ar'alani asks in Cheunh, voice low, but scepticism in it as loud as a blaster shot. "Is it another experiment?"
"It's an insurance," he remarks calmly, "if my misfortune disappearance has thought me anything, we always need a plan B."
"Meaning?"
"Should something happen to me, the Ascendancy will still have powerful allies in the ruling hierarchy of the New Republic, who will honor their end of the deal."
"You trust them that much?"
Just as he looks up from the map he's been studying, Thrawn catches the sight of her. She's across the room, talking to Lieutenant Commander Vanto about something. Yet, she turns around, as if sensing his gaze this very moment.
He answers to Ar'alani, never turning away from the deep brown eyes that call to him across the room.
"I do."
Unity.
Mathematically, the whole is equal to the sum of its parts, neither more nor less. By the end of the day, once they agree on a clear plan and part ways, Thrawn inwardly congratulates himself on proving once again that the sum can be exponentially bigger than individual parts.
When does a fact become a problem?
In human terms, whenever it's perceived as such, meaning on a whim, most of the time. For him, however, a fact usually becomes a problem once it starts threatening the Chiss Ascendancy and his ultimate mission. He's used to dealing with such problems in a swift, efficient manner. So, it makes even less sense that, while making notes on his questis in his private quarters later that night, he ponders a peculiar paradox. While his mind is working in overdrive, Thrawn is not following what his hands are doing, it's a habit, really, usually happens when he needs to think over a particularly complicated puzzle.
Fact.Leia Organa is intelligent, determined and intriguing.
Problem. He finds her fascinating.
Fact.She can be considered attractive by human standards.
Problem. He is attracted to her. A shift in emphasis, a change in perspective from an outside observer to a subject makes all the difference.
Fact.She's a valuable, powerful ally.
Problem. There is no predicting how a potential shift in dynamics between them, should it occur, will affect his plans. He is not prone to impulsive decisions, but she is.
Fact.Had Lord Vader survived to see the day, he would've surely killed Thrawn, given that the woman in question is his daughter.
Problem. Well, while the said fact no longer presents an imminent problem, or, rather, a threat of being strangled on the spot, it is still a problem. Conceptual, mathematical, perceptional, political, tactical – too many aspects to count.
Thrawn places the questis on the desk, and puts his hands to the nape of his neck to knead invisible knots of tension under his skin.
Unsettling. Disturbing. Untimely.
He isn't sure if he's referring to this clear sign of tension and fatigue catching up with him, or to his current predicament. Possibly both.
He stands up and takes a few steps towards the viewport. Faraway stars form a loosely-knit labyrinth of glimmering whites and icy blues. Ironic, but the view from planet-side would always be infinitely more colourful and captivating than from deep space itself: reflection of lights by an atmosphere usually makes all the difference, reviving and brightening up the sky, like paints applied to a sketch. Thrawn has learned to appreciate both, through. The latter for an invaluable insight into how species will see and interpret the universe, depending on a view that greets them each night; the former… for honesty. Like drawing, looking at stars from deep space makes you see things clearer, and clearer and clearer still, until your eyes ache.
When he comes back, his hand, reaching for the questis, freezes mid-motion, as he takes in the image he drew on the screen. The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance, for art is nothing but a line around your thoughts.
The abyss stares back at him.
It has Leia Organa's eyes: determined, inquisitive, fascinating. It wears her slight smile, mocks him by the stubborn set of her jaw, the enthralling line of her delicate clavicle, the sensitive juncture of her neck and shoulder, where heat would flash at his whisper.
He knows his own usual patterns: practiced, measured line control, preferred weight, texture, fluidity… and what he sees now is an abyss, the one that sneaked up on him, slipped past his rational mind, messed-up his preferred patterns with a mixture of implied, tempting organic lines shimmering with tension.
Press delete.
Wipe out memory logs over the last month for added precaution. It's enough what he knows his weakness, no one should know it too.
Fact. He knows it's her as soon a light knock shutters the silence of his private quarters.
He wants it to be her. And that's the problem.
Author's note.
Leia's outfit at Bespin (sans Han!) as the reference for their meeting on the bridge of Chimaera that morning, that's it, that's the tweet.
Basic principles of art in no particular order: movement/rhythm, contrast, emphasis, pattern, balance, unity. Thrawn is mentally going over them during their meeting with Eli and Ar'alani.
Quoting Gustav Klimt and Aristotle and not feeling guilty about it ;)
PS. Happy Labor day weekend!