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The robust and foreign grasp on his shoulder nearly made Jorj Car’das’s heart skip a beat. It wasn’t until he caught the briefest of glances at the man’s narrow eyes and sharp jaw did, he realize who was blindly guiding him; it was none other than Mitth’ras’safis.
“Where are we going?” Car’das managed to sputter out in broken Cheunh as Thrass’s firm hold steered him down a deserted hallway.
It was like the words hadn’t left Car’das’s lips at all, leaving only the prickling sensation of dread beneath his skin. It wasn’t that he disliked Thrass; more so, he was intimidated by him. Unlike Thrawn’s calm and curious demeanor, the senior Mitth brother held a sharp air of judgment; it had been more than present in their first interaction.
Car’das liked to believe that saving Thrawn’s life had slightly increased the Syndic’s opinion of him, but it was challenging to be sure of anything with the man.
Finally, the weight of Thrass’s hand vanished as they stopped outside a door. Wordlessly, Thrass unlocked the door with a fluidity that directly reflected Thrawn’s movements and ushered Car’das inside.
For a moment, Car’das remained in the doorway, distracted by the tasteful collection of artifacts and paintings that were purposefully strewn throughout the room.
“Did you believe Thrawn was the only one capable of appreciating the arts?” Thrass hummed in sy bisti as he poured two glasses of rose-colored liquid.
Car’das found himself at a loss for words as he neared one painting in particular. It was crafted out of oil, composed of hundreds, possibly thousands of intricate brush strokes, depicting a dilapidated stone house on looking a frozen ocean. Perhaps what was most entrancing was the choice of color, despite the gray, uncertain murkiness that blanketed the sea, the pink sky, and fading sun seemed to encompass the scene, whispering of an unspoken resilience. With every pass, his eyes took over the landscape, new details revealed themselves; towers of painted rocks framing the front of the house, sets of small footprints scattered in the snow, a homemade boat barely visible in the distance. Every speck of paint on the canvas murmured of something so personal and sacred; it made Car’das’s chest ache.
“Thrawn painted it for me, a gift.” Thrass’s voice was soft, almost gentle.
No matter how hard Car’das tried, he couldn’t force his eyes to abandon the peaceful scene before him. “What’s it called?”
Thrass was quiet for another moment before speaking. “Vamci.”
Car’das felt his brow furrow as he mentally searched his limited dictionary of Cheunh. He came up empty.
“Home.” Thrass said in sy bisti, an audible note of sadness evident in his accented words.
It felt wrong to repeat the phrase in Cheunh as if incorrectly pronouncing the word would damage the beauty of the memory that lay before him. Car’das remained silent as his eyes trailed to a handful of handwritten words hanging on a slip of paper, attached to the canvas by a piece of string. Cautiously he brought the note to his palm, admiring the elegant letters that kissed the flimsy card. He didn’t bother asking Thrass what the message said.
“I had no idea he was so talented.” Car’das finally murmured as he brought the sweet liquid to his lips.
Thrass softly snorted in response. “He painted this when he was seventeen if you can believe it.”
“Seventeen?” Car’das echoed, momentarily distracted as flashes of his own past danced before his eyes. It was at seventeen when he had joined Qennto and Maris, unwillingly embracing a life below the law, one that he wasn’t sure he would ever escape. It left a bitter taste in his mouth to consider that perhaps Thrawn didn’t necessarily have a choice either.
“He could have been the best artist the Ascendancy had ever seen.” Thrass’s eyes held a distant gaze as he spoke. “But I suppose he has always been stubborn about his purpose, fixated on protecting something that will never care for him in return.” His tone was dry as he pressed the glass to his lips.
Car’das mimicked his movements, taking a long sip before speaking. “I suppose so.” He said numbly.
He felt Thrass’s gaze linger on him for a moment as he let the tag slip from his hand.
“Be gentle with him.” Thrass said, his voice uncharacteristically tender. “He has been unwillingly placed upon a pedestal, too many eyes critique his every move whether he knows it or not. He is still so young, still just a man.”
They stood in silence for another moment as Car’das let the weight of Thrass’s words wash over him. Turning to face the Syndic, he allowed his head to tilt every-so-slightly upwards, meeting Thrass’s eyes. It struck him how young the man before him was, he couldn’t be more than three years older than Thrawn, yet the muted tension lines in his face spoke of experience, of having to grow up too quickly.
“I will. Ch'ah tsucarah.”
A soft smile touched Thrass’s lips. “Thank you, Jorj Car’das. I am glad Thrawn has somebody like you to rely on.”
Car’das felt the slightest flush touch his cheeks; he doubted it was from the alcohol. “I am gratified to even have the chance to know him.” He replied.
“As am I.” Thrass said, slightly raising his glass. “Now I suppose you’re curious if I have any embarrassing stories about Thrawn growing up?”
Car’das nearly choked on his drink. “I’m all ears.”
Thrass beamed in response. “Has he ever told you about the time he got locked out of the Mitth estate and had to create a grappling hook out of his clothing?”
Car’das vehemently shook his head.
“Fantastic.”