Tragically Defined...(vignette)...Palpatine grills Thrawn on his etiquette while under the care of one of the Emperor's favored courtesans/trained as an advanced practice medic...
(Part of a wider AU canon crossover with StarWars/Firefly-Serenity/and the Keltiad--wherein, the Keltiad is considered a part of the 'Verse Fringe/Independent Systems...)
The holoprojector flickered to life with a sound like snapping wires, casting the Emperor's jaundiced smile in spectral blue. Thrawn stood at perfect attention, the Chiss's crimson eyes unblinking, though his fingers nearly betrayed him, wanting to rub at the still tender flesh puckered beneath his uniform’s sleeve. The scar she had sealed with battlefield efficiency, whispered reassurances in the dark. He clutched his hands together, in front.
"You hesitate," Palpatine observed, not unkindly. His voice rolled between them. "A rare thing for you, Grand Admiral. Or is it merely that you’ve grown unaccustomed to gifts that do not come wrapped in strategy?"
Thrawn’s gaze flickered to his wrist, the phantom weight of Yhana’s touch still there, pressing, urgent. He remembered the way her lips had parted when she realized the wound was festering, how her brow had creased, not in fear, but clinical assessment.
"Gifts," Thrawn echoed, his voice measured, "are often merely obligations disguised as generosity." He let the words linger, watching the Emperor’s mouth form into a twisted smile.
Palpatine leaned forward, elbows resting on the table in deliberate mimicry of scholarly contemplation. "And yet, you accepted my last gift, those Sith holocrons from Korriban, with such enthusiasm." With a rasping chuckle, he prodded, "Tell me, did Medic Yhana share your fascination with their contents?'
Thrawn's jaw ached, fighting to keep his expression placid. The holocrons had whispered things to him—things about her. Things he had not shared. "Her expertise," he said carefully, "lies in mending flesh, not deciphering relics."
Palpatine's smile widened, revealing teeth like old ivory. "Ah, flesh, like relics harbor memories beneath their scars. Do they not? Did she ask about the older wounds you've never explained? The ones you'd sustained since your exile?"
Thrawn's mind raced. Yhana had noticed. Of course she had. That night in the cave, when fever had stripped him of control, her fingers had strayed over the old gashes engraved across his inner thigh. Her silence afterward had been louder than any question.
"I've provided the finest tutors attending to her education over the years," Palpatine murmured, as if reading the memory. "Too well, perhaps. She knows when to hold her tongue. Surely, you've wondered as to why I assigned her to you?"
The holoprojector's light deepened the shadows of Thrawn's command suite. He had wondered, often. Yhana had appeared in his medbay after the Battle of Eotan, with clearance codes even the ISB couldn't question. "You implied she was…insurance," he said carefully.
Palpatine's laugh was the sound of dry leaves scattering. "Insurance pays out upon death."
The silence stretched between them. Thrawn could still smell the cave—the singe from blaster burns, the sickly-sweet rot of necrotic tissue as Yhana debrided the plasma-scorched wounds across his abdomen. She'd murmured something then, a half-remembered nursery rhyme from her homeworld, perhaps. But he'd been too feverish to catch the words. Only the cadence remained, looping in his skull like an unsolved equation.
Palpatine drummed his fingers twice against the armrest, dispelling the memory. "She was never just insurance," he said, voice dripping with mock offense. "Think of her as a collector's piece. One I polished for years before placing her in your care." His smile turned ingratiating. "When she knelt beside you in that cave, did you ever consider breaking your famed discipline?"
Thrawn's shoulders tensed imperceptibly. He remembered the exact moment. Yhana's braid slipping over her shoulder as she leaned in to change the dressing applied to his ribs, the way she froze when his hand snapped up to grip her wrist. Not to stop her. Just to feel the warmth of her skin. "Irrelevant," he said flatly.
Palpatine's chuckle dissolved into a wet cough. "Oh, but we both know that's a lie." The holoprojector fizzed, distorting his face into something grotesque.
Yhana's pulse under his fingers—Thrawn could still feel it. The way her wrist had gone still, not pulling away, not advancing. Just waiting. Like a blade balanced on its edge. He'd released her. Of course he had. But the memory of that suspended moment, the lingering, unspoken question in her eyes.
Taboo. You know, any exchange of physical intimacy is forbidden. She'd said it clinically, as if reciting protocol. But her voice had wavered.
Thrawn drew in a quiet breath, dismissing the recollection. "Accounting for her lack of practical field experience under such circumstances," he said, the words crisp as a military report, "Medic Yhana performed with commendable initiative." His gloved hand flexed, just once, recalling the way she'd torn her own sleeve to staunch his bleeding when the insurgents' blaster-fire had shattered their med-pack. "And under the requisite stress of maintaining our survival," he continued, watching Palpatine's yellowed nails tap against the armrest, "her conduct proved crucial to the orchestration of our rescue."
His mind working to decipher Palpatine’s intentions, the Emperor's amusement was too pointed, too deliberate. Thrawn had seen the same tactic employed when Palpatine toyed with councilors, offering poisoned bait wrapped in silken innuendo, watching for the slightest hesitation in response. Was this about loyalty? Control? Or--
His gaze flickered to the holocron case gleaming on the far shelf. Or something far older, buried in the Sith's endless games of legacy and succession?
"Cease, Mith’raw’nuruodo." Palpatine's voice sliced through his thoughts like a vibroblade, the hollow chuckle doing nothing to ease the strain coiling up Thrawn's back. "Rest assured, I would not sully my favor toward you by offering her like she was some common cantina harlot."
The Emperor leaned back, lacing his fingers, posturing benevolence. "Though," he mused, "it might reassure certain concerned parties on the council if you demonstrated even a hint of base desire beneath that famed discipline." His yellowed teeth flashed. "Even Vader indulges his appetites. Though, his tastes run colder than yours, I suspect."
"You'll come to see what I mean, calling her your greatest treasure amid all your other possessions." Palpatine’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I chose her from amongst her peers of the Inner Sanctum. Curated her education, so that she's cultivated all the accomplishments I have wished of her repertoire. A favorite, as I’ve often favored you." The holoprojector’s static distorted his face into a grotesque leer as he leaned closer. "And so, saved her for you, as well."
Like a miasma, the Emperor’s words coiled through Thrawn's mind, dredging up memories he'd carefully buried. Yhana’s hands steadying his own when the fever made them shake, the electric charge when he’d caught her wrist in the dark. "Has she consented to this arrangement?" he asked, the words escaping before he could stop them.
Palpatine’s laughter crackled through the holoprojector’s static, his fingers steepling in that familiar, predatory gesture. "She will understand her role," he purred.
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