The Withering Bough, Part One

Posted on Fri May 30th, 2025 @ 9:01pm by Thane & Bruta Thort

1,971 words; about a 10 minute read

Chapter: Chapter VII: Uprooted
Location: Red Raptor, Strategy Room, Irrikut
Timeline: Two days after the incident on Öetrago

OLD

With no words left to exchange back, Bomoor grasped down and wrenched Tolmin's torso out from under the debris, leaving his lower half behind as though he was merely tearing off a sheet of drawing paper. He could see the agony in Voq's face, but he was blind to it. He saw only the unrepenting demon who had taken his Mother from him unjustly and needlessly. He held the man aloft between his great hands and, with a guttural cry of grief and anger, unlike anything he had uttered before, he ripped the metallic body in two and cast the pieces aside. Whether or not any life remained in the cultist or not, Bomoor cared nought, wanting to exact some kind of revenge, whatever tiny bit of justice he could control in this Galaxy upon the one who had wronged him. He looked down at the pieces and began compelling them to contract, crushing them under the power of the Force until there was little either Devaronian nor cyborg about them, save for the man's head with its one severed horn.

The Ithorian let out another exasperated cry, this time weaker and he felt the world begin to spin again. With no target to his rage, it all turned inwards and he felt every break, every bruise, every blister. He turned around, for a moment spying the silhouettes of the onlookers against the broken, fiery tree before darkness took him and he collapsed to the ground among the remains of Mumin's killer. As his eyes fluttered closed, a shadow loomed overhead and the sound of the Red Raptor's landing thrusters hummed him into a deep sleep.

NEW

The faint shimmer of the holoprojector pulsed across the dimmed strategy room, casting long, wavering shadows across the angular walls. Irrikut's dull light filtered in through the viewport slats—pale and cold, offering no warmth to the chamber’s spartan interior. The room had been cleared of the usual tactical overlays, leaving only the central emitter active, projecting the tall and flickering figure of Bruta Thort. His voice, deep and deliberate, was already in mid-flow as the conversation progressed—though Thane had barely moved in the last few minutes.

Standing alone before the projection, Thane maintained a rigid posture, his hands clasped behind his back and boots set shoulder-width apart, like a soldier at court. His outer robe still bore the faint scent of Öetrago’s burning trees, though most of the ash had long since been scrubbed away. Beneath the professional stillness, something sat heavier—unspoken and unaddressed, even now. But outwardly, he gave nothing.

He inclined his head slightly as Bruta’s image finished its latest remark. When he replied, his tone was even, formal—not cold, but with that natural economy of words that came when he chose discipline over emotion.

“Bomoor remains in the medbay,” he stated plainly. “Unconscious, but stable. The machine says his condition is well within recoverable bounds—no lasting internal trauma, no brain damage. Whatever toll the ordeal took, it was not on his body.” He allowed the words to settle, offering no embellishment. "We responded swiftly because it was his mother,” he continued. “And, Damask Hul warned us."

A faint flick of his eyes traced the edge of the holodisplay, the looping signal stuttering slightly at the joints in Bruta’s projection. Thane’s lip curled for the briefest of seconds—not at the Ithorian elder, but at the flickering machinery that distorted him. He had always found holograms unsatisfying. Conversations should not be filtered through static and algorithmic compression, especially not when lives had been lost. But necessity overruled disdain.

As the image flickered once more, Thane caught his reflection faintly in the darkened viewport glass beyond. The gold had not faded from his eyes. He had not bothered to suppress it. Perhaps he could have, with effort. But the truth was, he no longer saw much reason to pretend. What had once been a stain to conceal now felt closer to a mark of clarity. The Force had always demanded sacrifice. His only mistake, perhaps, had been pretending it had not.

“Our direction has not changed,” he said, voice steady. “The Republic’s fracture is not a distant concern to us. Speaker Hul's vision remains viable, and... We intend to see it reinforced. But we cannot lend strength to a cause while the Cult of Axion continues to poison the galaxy from within. That threat—our threat—is the priority. Bomoor understood that before Öetrago, and I believe he still will when he wakes.”

There was a pause—brief, precise, deliberate.

“We will remain here until he does. When we move, it will be with clarity.”

His voice did not waver, but behind the careful cadence, a weight lingered—one not shared aloud. He had felt the moment Bomoor fell. The anguish. The rage. The release. And he had done nothing to stop it, but that was not for now. Not for this conversation.

Bruta shifted uncomfortably, the unease evident even through the rippling holographic lines. His well-practiced echoic Basic voice, perhaps even more refined than Bomoor's own, resonated as he spoke: "I can see that you genuinely care for my son's well-being, Thane, yet I cannot help but selfishly wish to remove him from all of this. However, that is neither what Bomoor would want nor what Mumin would have desired. I understand now that our security lies not in hiding but in confronting the threats to our worlds. When I returned to the Elenca, I rediscovered the strength of our connections, of family. Had I learned that sooner, perhaps I would never have grown distant from Bomoor's mother and would have realized that my son's place was always with the Elenca and his family."

He straightened up, his gaze having drifted away as he allowed himself a moment of speculation but now firmly locked with Thane's golden eyes, "Nevertheless, I will do all I can to make up for my shortcomings and give you and your team my full support, whether you go up against this cult or against GalactaWerks. The rebels on Öetrago will need time to recover, but my reach is different to theirs; I may as well make use of the connections I have forged all these years, particularly now I have a direct line to the Vice Chancellor."

There was no response. The soft whirr of the holoprojector lingered in the background, underscored by the occasional flicker in Bruta’s holographic outline. Thane’s expression remained still, carved from that familiar blend of discipline and inward pressure.

His gaze drifted, not toward the Ithorian projection, but to the viewport. The mottled haze of Irrikut’s jungles lingered just beyond in dim starlight. Its presence had become familiar over the past day, and not unwelcome. This world was more than merely a stop. A sanctuary, and perhaps even a staging ground, although the ancient Jedi enclave nearby gave him brief pause for thought.

We thought we belonged among the Jedi once.
That conviction had seemed unshakeable in its time. A shared vision of order, discipline, and moral clarity. For years, it had tethered him and Bomoor both to a purpose larger than themselves. Peacekeepers. Philosophers. Guardians. That was the lie. Or rather, the half-truth. Because in the end, when true chaos had come to threaten galaxy, the Jedi had withdrawn, or worse, become complicit. And he had not.

And when we no longer belonged there, he mused further, we inevitably must wonder if we belong back home.

Caanus. That name still carried weight—still lived somewhere in his bones. He had glimpsed it again from orbit during their passage to Vaa, had looked upon its storm-swept skies and pale terrain. It had stirred something. Not longing exactly, but gravity. A pull. There were answers buried on that world still—questions of legacy, of blood, of what it meant to leave and not return. He would have to go back one day, he has begun to conclude. But not now. Not while the galaxy burned from the corruption of those who believed themselves beyond judgment.

Thane's attention returned to the conversation, and his stance subtly shifted—firmer, as though the steel behind his words had finally caught up with the thoughts that forged it.

“You have my respect, Bruta,” Thane said at last, voice low but measured. “And you have my commitment. You are Bomoor’s father—and in every way that matters, that makes you as good as kin to me.”

There was a brief pause, not of hesitation, but of weight. "But, I will not offer you platitudes. This is not the first life lost, and it will not be the last... But the murder of Mumin will not pass unanswered.”

His tone darkened, not with rage, but with something far colder.

“GalactaWerks believed they could hide behind profit margins and puppet regimes. That their contracts would shield them from consequence. That blood spilled on distant soil would never reach them. And the Cult—rabid, deluded scum that they are—found in them a willing partner. A financier of madness. The fact they could work together so comfortably tells us everything we need to know about both.”

They sold their morality for convenience. For efficiency. For access to flesh and minds and infrastructure.

It turned his stomach.

“We will tear out their roots,” Thane vowed, “burn away their illusions of safety. There will be no quarter for those who strike at families and call it strategy. No forgiveness for what they enabled.” He drew a slow breath and inclined his head again, this time in genuine respect. "I commit this to you, Diplomat Thort—not as a soldier or strategist, but as your son’s friend. We will see this done. Together.”

Bruta raised his neck up slightly and eyed the young man, sizing him up from whatever angle or scale Thane's projection appeared on his end. Thane's words seemed to have satisfied him, not overly-sympathetic nor entirely detached from the tragedy that had befallen their family. It was practical, grounded support from a seemingly capable Human.

"Then I take you at your word, Thane of Caanus," he allowed his head to fall again into a respectful nod, "I very much hope we may someday soon all sit together, so I can learn about your lives these many years past."

He relaxed his stance, raising a hand out to the invisible control panel before him, "But, for now, keep safe and contact me again when Bomoor feels ready, whenever that may be. Until then, know that you have allies on Öetrago and in the senate who will rise up when you have need of us."

"Miscä uyjoo He slipped suddenly into Ithorian, before translating, "Fare thee well."

With a press on the senior Thort's end, the connection fizzled and shrunk back into the holoprojector and the luminosity automatically increased slightly in response.

Thane remained still for several moments after the holocomm connection faded, the residual glow of the projector retreating into its housing with a soft chime. The lights rose automatically in response, but he did not move. He stood in the now-empty chamber, staring into the space where Bruta's image had been—his thoughts unmoving, yet far from still.

There was something final about the old Ithorian’s words. A torch passed, a mantle acknowledged. Thane of Caanus, he had called him. Spoken not in jest, nor in suspicion, but with respect. That was not a small thing.

And yet, the promise Thane had made—to Bruta, to himself—still rang hollow without the clarity of truth. He turned on his heel and left the room.

TBC

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