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It wasn't the kind of party that went late into the night. Hera had learned from her father how to manage it, to make gatherings seem spontaneous, to make them at once lively and even close to raucous, and then to neatly wind them down so that everyone got enough sleep and no one ended up sore or drunk or irritated with one another. It could be about letting off steam, relaxing, softening the tensions that built in your veins with every moment of waiting for the next hour that might kill you. But it couldn't be about distraction. If they needed to forget, there was no reason to be here in the first place.

They needed to remember.

And between Lieutenant Durron, and their friends, and the friends of those friends that spiral out among the crew, they had quite a bit of hidden musical talent. Box drums, a couple quetarras, easily packed flutes, a worn but sweet-sounding viol and a flatboard celesta. Among them all, they could produce Corellian shanties, Rodian rumba, and the Twi'lek anthems that the lieutenant eventually used to draw out Hera into keeping her promise to sing. Their rendition of Amtder Viulsen was appropriately fast-paced and joyful, with the chorus simple enough that even those who didn't know the Twi'leki words could roughly join in.

(Maybe the bigger coup was another Twi'lek officer successfully inviting Hera into a dance with her. But then, the draw was more likely the officer from New Alderaan, who had taken over playing the viol. A chance to hear old Alderaanian folk was still rare.)

But Hera spent most of those few hours sitting on a crate along the wall, near Thrawn. She moved around a few times, sometimes speaking quietly to those lingering by the sides. And then she always returned to the same place. She only glanced at Thrawn a few times, and didn't at any point try to speak to him. Maybe she did believe there was something he could learn from this. But Hera couldn't help but suspect she has made him sit there, through all of it, simply because she could.

She supposes there are crueler inclinations she could have.

And then, almost abruptly as it had started, the instruments were passed back to their owners, stuffed hastily back in bags. The crates used for seats were stacked back as they had been. Crew members fruitlessly protested the end, but then were quick to head for the hall to their quarters, or their stations. Hera waits, watching each of them, waving and saying goodbye to those who stopped by her, until the last of them has left. Still, at no point does she turn to Thrawn.

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His sudden smile is mirthless.

"Perhaps we ought to call it something to hope for, instead."

Hera doesn't smile.

"I'm not sure I expect it from myself."

And if she can't do that, she can hardly expect it from her crew.

"Why, if you did, General, then you would be a fool, ignoring all the information history has provided you."

Personal history, at that.

Edited 2017-10-22 22:16 (UTC)

"But here we are," she answers.

Whatever her feelings, she has to ignore that history a little, to walk this ship with him.

"There are probably worse destinies. Or rather, circumstances."

The galaxy and all its varying species are still here, for one.

"I know there are."

It's sharp. Hera presses her lips together, blinking to the side.

"But that's no excuse for not trying to improve things."

Ah, a somewhat unanticipated sore spot. There will be more of those to come, Thrawn knows.

"I endeavor to be out of the habit of making excuses."

It wastes time.

Hera pauses, as they reach the door to the bridge.

"Then I guess we'll have to improve."

"There is certainly a great deal of room for it."

On all their parts. Not in the same ways, of course. But still.