Chapter Text
“You’re like a million miles away, dude,” Ezra said.
Thrawn didn’t seem to hear him. He was bundled up in a thick winter coat and staring out the car window at the rural landscape rushing past. His clothes seemed too big for him — too new. Ezra had grown used to him in the tattered, blood-stained Grand Admiral’s uniform, still found it strange to see him in civvies. But then again, when he looked down at himself and his awkwardly-tailored Chiss tunic, he figured Thrawn probably thought he looked weird too.
“You ever been here before?” Ezra asked.
Absently, Thrawn shook his head. “It’s a small planet,” he said, his voice distant. “No military outposts.”
“So?” Ezra said. “What, you only go places if they’re military?”
“Essentially,” Thrawn said. Long blue fingers poked out from his winter coat and closed around the blackened old chain he’d been given by — what was his name? Ba’kif. Ezra could see the pointed ends of the medal sticking out between Thrawn’s fingers. He remembered the way Ba’kif greeted Thrawn when they left their shuttle — the way he clasped Thrawn’s forearm and then laid a palm on the back of Thrawn’s neck, tilting his head forward until their foreheads touched. Ezra leaned back in his seat with a sigh.
“So what’s the deal?” he asked.
Thrawn leaned a little closer to the window. In the glass, Ezra could see his reflection, including the long jagged scar on his cheek from their first post-crash encounter, when Ezra had come this close to killing him. The sight of it made his gut churn; he dealt with the guilt by kicking Thrawn squarely in the boot.
“Hey, I asked you a question,” he said.
“There,” said Thrawn. He let go of his honor chain for a moment to press his palm against the window.
“Where?” asked Ezra, crowding into Thrawn’s personal space. “What?”
Thrawn wiggled his elbow out from under Ezra’s arm and scooted back, giving Ezra plenty of room to press his nose against the window. There, just half a kilometer out, was a ranch house, its roof covered in snow. Packbulls trotted in the white fields nearby, a half-frozen lake glittering just beyond the house. Mountains and forests surrounded it on all sides, shielding it from view of the nearest town.
“Cohbo’rik’ardok,” Thrawn muttered.
“What?” said Ezra. He collapsed back in his seat so hard that the cushions bounced, jostling Thrawn a little. “That’s what it’s called? I’m never gonna be able to remember that.”
“No,” said Thrawn. “It’s called the Seekers’ Shadehouse. It’s a scholars’ retreat.”
Ezra studied Thrawn’s face, his eyes catching once again on the scar. “You look nervous,” he said.
“I’m not nervous,” said Thrawn evenly.
Ezra remembered how silent Thrawn had been in the shuttle before they landed on Naporar, and the brief, barely noticeable tremor in his hands after they met with Ba’kif.
“I don’t think you know when you’re nervous,” he said. Before Thrawn could argue, Ezra leaned forward and dug his half-eaten — well, 3/4ths-eaten — sandwich out of his bag. He unwrapped the plastic and waved it beneath Thrawn’s nose. “Here,” he said. “You haven’t eaten since we left Snowfall.”
Thrawn wrinkled his nose, either at the reek coming from Ezra’s sandwich or at the memory of the deserted planet they’d called home for so long. He peeled the plastic back a little further and peeked at the crust of bread and dressing-slathered lettuce inside.
“I’ll pass,” he said.
Ezra didn’t get the chance to argue with him. The car stopped just seconds later, and he had to hastily re-wrap his sandwich and clamber down the back steps with Thrawn at his side. Ezra jumped from the last step, sinking up to his calves in snow and nearly overbalancing. Thrawn didn’t seem to notice. He stood straight, a little thin and weary-looking, his eyes fixed on the ranch house.
The front door opened. A young Chiss woman stood on the doorstep, her eyebrows furrowed, taking in Ezra first (he straightened up and tried to resist the urge to scratch the back of his neck) and then shifting to Thrawn. Then the line between her eyebrows deepened.
“Vea vah?” she called.
“In Meese Caulf, please,” Thrawn called back. He gestured to Ezra. “My companion does not speak Cheunh.”
The Chiss woman shot Ezra a quick frown, but she obeyed.
“Hello,” she said, her accent clipped. Then, with a bluntness atypical even for a Chiss: “What are you doing here?”
Ezra glanced up at Thrawn, but he seemed dazed. He barely reacted when Ezra pushed him. Ezra pushed him again, harder this time, and Thrawn took a reluctant step forward, looking like he might throw up. Maybe it was a good thing he hadn’t eaten the rest of that sandwich. The young Chiss woman leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed, a distinctly unimpressed look on her face as Thrawn approached.
Then her eyes shifted over the scar on his cheek and her frown softened — and then her gaze drifted down to the honor chain around his neck and her eyes clouded up.
“Che’ri?” asked Thrawn.
Her mouth dropped open, forming an ‘o.’ As Ezra watched, she seemed to turn into an entirely different person — not quite so confident, certainly not as bored. The way her arms were crossed seemed less defiant now and more like she was hugging herself.
“Senior Captain Thrawn?” she asked, her voice small.
“Just Thrawn,” he said. He touched the medal hanging from his neck, hesitated. “No military rank.”
Che’ri looked like she might question it, but in the end she only nodded. “And I’m Lacheri now,” she said.
Thrawn’s eyebrows rose a fraction. He held still as Lacheri’s eyes darted down to his honor chain again, and this time Ezra thought he saw a hint of self-consciousness, maybe embarrassment, in Thrawn’s face. A thousand expressions flitted over Lacheri’s face, and for a moment Ezra didn’t know if she was more likely to punch Thrawn or to hug him, but in the end she just schooled her features and stepped aside.
“Come in,” she said. “I’ll let Borika know you’re here.”
Thrawn’s step faltered at that, something in Lacheri’s sentence slowing him down. Ezra had to edge past him to get inside before the door swung shut. He glanced around at the rustic furniture — the firepit in the center of the room, the dining table big enough to seat a whole family, the comfortable couches spaced out here and there.
“Who’s Borika?” Ezra whispered.
Thrawn glanced his way. His lips parted, but he didn’t answer. Before he could, a woman entered the room, tall and severe-looking, closer to Thrawn’s age than to Lacheri’s. She stopped in the doorway, her eyes narrowing.
“Mitth’raw’nuruodo?” she said.
Thrawn studied her face. He seemed even more pale and brittle now than he had on the ride over. “Cohbo’rik’ardok,” he said. “Meese Caulf, please. My companion does not speak Cheunh.”
Borika’s lips thinned. There was a tension in the air that Ezra didn’t like. He opened himself up to the Force, saw the charric Borika kept hidden in her tunic — saw too that she didn’t plan to reach for it, which helped him relax a little. Her eyes flickered over to him and her expression changed, became less guarded.
“And you are?” she said.
“Ezra Bridger,” said Ezra. He stuck his hand out for a handshake, but Borika, like all the other Chiss he’d met so far, ignored it.
“A sky-walker?” asked Borika.
“No…” said Ezra, shooting Thrawn a look. “A Bridger.”
Some sort of language barrier, he decided, and this Borika evidently didn’t get it, because she just gave him a flat look and turned back to Thrawn. She looked him up and down, her eyebrows furrowing a little, a hint of concern worming its way onto her face.
“Food or rest?” she said, voice clipped.
Thrawn extricated his gloved hands from his pockets just to clasp them behind his back. He glanced at Ezra. “The boy needs to be examined,” he said, sounding strangely formal. “He has the Sight, including telekinesis, the ability to communicate with animals, rudimentary forms of Second Sight, expanded precognition—”
“Food. Or. Rest.”
Thrawn blinked. Ezra couldn’t help but smirk.
“He slept a little on the shuttle,” he said innocently. “But he hasn’t eaten since we were picked up, and that was yesterday.”
“Food, then,” said Borika flatly. She turned on her heel, striding into the kitchen, and after a moment where Ezra and Thrawn traded filthy glares, they followed her. Thrawn studied the kitchen, drifting over to the cabinets and peeking inside. He only made it through two of them before Borika slapped his hand and pushed him toward the table — and strangely, Thrawn didn’t seem to mind. He took a seat, stiff from weariness and half-healed wounds, and stretched his bad knee out beneath the table.
“You were a sky-walker yourself?” he asked.
“That’s a rude question,” said Borika.
“Wait, so is sky-walker a person or a thing?” asked Ezra.
Thrawn shot him a quelling look, but Borika paused in the middle of removing a roast from the icebox. “A sky-walker is a person,” she said. “If Mitth’raw’nuruodo here is telling the truth, you’re a sky-walker.”
“Cool,” said Ezra. He could see Thrawn thinking too hard, not totally paying attention to the conversation — it looked like he was trying to formulate another question. Ezra kicked him beneath the table. “Are you a sky-walker?” he asked.
“No,” said Thrawn. Then, to Borika, “Forgive my rudeness. I am curious. Were you born into the Cohbo?”
Borika shoved the roast into what looked like a tiny round oven and swept her fingers over the touchscreen. “You’re right,” she said. “That was rude.”
Ezra grinned at Thrawn, delighted — but then he saw the look on Thrawn’s face and the grin faded. Maybe he was too tired and hungry to be dealing with all this at once.
“I was a merit-adoptive myself,” said Thrawn hesitantly. “Although I no longer hold any rank in the Mitth family.”
“Good for you,” said Borika. Her eyes flicked to Ezra. “What about you, sky-walker? Are you hungry?”
“No, ma’am,” said Ezra primly.
“I was born into the Kivu clan,” said Thrawn.
Borika’s eyes snapped back to his face. “Never heard of them,” she said flatly.
A shadow passed over Thrawn’s face. He didn’t ask anymore questions. He settled back in his chair, looking drained, his eyes fixed on the table. Just looking at him made Ezra uneasy. He glanced beneath the table and saw Thrawn’s bad leg jumping, a jittery tremor that always happened when he didn’t get enough sleep.
“Do you have any pain medication?” Ezra asked, straightening up again.
Borika’s glare flickered a little. She looked Ezra up and down, giving Thrawn a brief reprieve. “Are you injured?” she asked.
“I’m not,” said Ezra. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and looked at Thrawn, who was biting the inside of his cheeks. “He is, though.”
Borika looked back at Thrawn, her gaze sharpening. “I have heard you are a smart man,” she said a little coldly. “A smart man would have told me he needed medical attention when I asked if he needed food or rest.”
“I don’t need medical attention,” said Thrawn softly. Behind Borika, the little round oven beeped.
“You can get your own food,” she said, voice brusque. She strode out of the room without a backward glance, and Ezra could hear her in the distance, rummaging through the bathroom cupboard. He snuck a glance at Thrawn, weary and diminished, and decided to grab the food himself. He poked at it with a fork as he brought it back to the table — dry meat, overcooked vegetables, definitely not five-star material, but at this point, Thrawn probably didn’t care. Ezra had just set it in front of him and pushed the fork into his hands when Borika came back clutching a bottle of pills.
“You like grillig juice?” she said, opening the icebox again.
Thrawn hesitated. “Water is fine.”
Borika glanced over her shoulder at him. “Everybody likes grillig juice,” she said, oddly hostile.
“I’ve never had it,” said Thrawn, looking like an animal caught in a trap.
“Every child grows up drinking grillig juice,” Borika insisted. She yanked a jug of watery orange liquid out of the icebox and poured Thrawn a glass.
“I grew up on Rentor,” said Thrawn, oddly flustered as he accepted the glass. “We don’t have grilligs there.”
“And you don’t import?” asked Borika with a click of the tongue.
Thrawn stared at his reflection in the juice. He dragged his eyes up to Borika and studied her face, his lips parted.
“You’ve never been?” he asked, strangely hesitant.
“No,” said Borika. She crossed her arms. “Last I heard, it’s not exactly a thriving tourist location.”
Thrawn said nothing. He accepted the pills she handed him — Ezra couldn’t help but notice that she counted them out for him like he was a child, and even more than that, he couldn’t help but notice that Thrawn let her, that he didn’t even seem to think it was strange. He downed them in one swallow and chased the bitterness away with a drink of grillig juice.
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Borika. She gave Ezra a sharp look, but she didn’t say anything else; she just left, and now Ezra and Thrawn were alone. Thrawn poked at his food, listless and unappetized.
“What the hell did you do to her?” Ezra whispered.
Thrawn dug the tines of his fork into the roast and twisted, tearing little holes into the meat. “Nothing,” he murmured. “We’ve never met.”
“Seriously?” asked Ezra. He checked over his shoulder. “So she just hates you for no reason?”
“Evidently,” said Thrawn, his voice tight.
“Dude, I hate to break this to you,” said Ezra, “but if everybody you meet hates you, that’s a you problem.”
Thrawn set his fork down with a clink of metal on glass. He stared at the plate, his cheeks hollow and his eyebrows drawn low. But instead of arguing like Ezra expected him to, he just chewed the inside of his cheeks and picked up his fork again, this time spearing one of the sad-looking vegetables Borika had heated up for him.
Ezra watched him eat and felt his sense of humor cool and die. Maybe a year ago, before the Battle of Lothal, he would have found real delight in this, but not now. Not after Thrawn rescued him from the wreckage and tended to his injuries; not after they buried the Chimaera’s dead together. Not after the last twelve months listening to Thrawn pace at night, unable to sleep more than two hours at a time.
With a sigh, Ezra settled back in his seat. “I’ll tell her you don’t like meat,” he said softly.
Thrawn froze, a root vegetable rolling back and forth beneath his fork. “It’s fine,” he said, matching Ezra’s tone. “She doesn’t need to know.”
“But you don’t—”
“I can eat it,” said Thrawn, his voice mild. He tore off a piece of meat to prove it, and Ezra saw the way his lips twisted, his cheeks drawn tight. Thrawn’s jaw moved mechanically as he chewed — far too long, until all the moisture and flavor must have dried up and it became difficult to swallow. But he didn’t gag like he had before — like he had every time they were forced to eat meat since the Chimaera burned.
“I’ll tell her anyway,” Ezra decided, and he gave Thrawn an awkward pat on the shoulder as he stood.
Time to find Borika.