Their Lady Adyé [Star Wars]

Questions and Theories

Well, that had been...that had been something. Orran wasn't even entirely sure how to process it just at this moment. But one thing he was sure of?

His niece had survived where his sister had not.

And she was now in the custody of the Alliance. Indefinitely. Oh, it had been agreed that after she had fulfilled her end of the bargain that had been struck, she'd be set free, but even as absolutely stunned and dazed as he was over the revelation of the Dark Lady Obscura's true identity—she was Neva's daughter! Her daughter!—Orran Adyé knew better. Athara would be lucky to ever be freed. Even if she were to serve up the Emperor on a silver platter.

All because of a few of his comrades and their irrational conviction that her former affiliations made her irredeemably evil. If there was one thing Orran had come to learn in the long, hard years since the Empire had been formed, it was that no one was irredeemably evil just as no one was pristinely good.

Save perhaps the Emperor. And Tarkin, while he'd still been alive. They were likely wholly irredeemable.

And Darth Vader? Well, it wouldn't be politic to admit it, but given what he had heard back in the Council room? Orran couldn't help a tiny flicker of doubt.

But there were those, like General Draven, who had latched onto the idea that those in the Emperor's inner circles, including Athara thanks to her proximity to Vader—years ago, now, Orran realized with a jolt—were anything but redeemable.

Orran couldn't think like that. He was Nabooian. They believed in an inherent good in all. Save a select few who had proven themselves unworthy, of course...

His thoughts were interrupted then, and he was not at all pleased to recognize the voice calling out to get his attention.

"So. You and Obscura share a last name." Orran bristled at Draven's comment, turning back to the Intelligence Officer. The General stood with his arms crossed, staring intently, even accusingly, at the Nabooian Officer.

"I believe she made it clear that she doesn't like that name," Orran said calmly back, deflecting the question. He had no interest in sharing his family history with the man. What was Draven expecting him to say, anyway? Naturally, Draven ignored the comment.

"It is curious, isn't it," he said, his tone nearly theatrical even as it was patronizing. Orran took a step toward Draven, his temper beginning to rise. The General merely sneered. But Orran didn't back down, meeting the other man's resolved gaze head on.

"Do you have something to say, Draven?"

"I don't know. Do you?" A sneer of his own threatened at his colleague's tone, Orran's self-control quickly becoming strained.

"Gentlemen?" They both turned at the mild, knowing voice of their Leader. Mon Mothma looked between the two of them, her gaze thoughtful and measuring. "Is this really the appropriate place?" Orran's eyes dropped from the mildly admonishing gaze of hers. Draven too had the sense to look abashed, though his features had grown slightly pinched. With a graceful gesture, Mon Mothma motioned them on to the meeting room just on down the corridor. Reluctantly, on both their parts Orran noticed with a grim sort of amusement, both men complied. No sooner had the door slid shut behind them than Mon Mothma had fixed both of them with a penetrating look.

"Now," she said softly, her tone faintly hard with displeasure as she took a seat at the ovoid table, "would either of you care to explain to me why two of my high-ranking council members were at each other's throats?" Orran breathed in deeply, further reining back his temper even as he was carefully formulating what to say in response; old habits die hard. Draven, however held no such compunctions. He straightened, his expression bordering on defiant as he clasped his hands behind his back.